The heavy, rhythmic thud of iron-capped boots echoed down the freezing stone corridor of the first-year dormitory.
Inside Room 17, the temperature seemed to plummet by ten degrees. Jack Shadow dropped silently from the high wooden rafters, his pale grey eyes wide with urgent warning. He didn't make a sound as his boots touched the floorboards, but he raised three fingers, followed by a sharp, sweeping motion across his throat.
Three of them. Priest Hunters.
Cassian Ashford's blood turned to ice. He was sitting on the edge of his narrow bed, his left hand gripping the hilt of his practice sword, his withered right arm hanging thin and pale in its support wrap. Grand Inquisitor Matthias's deep-cover agents had finally bypassed Highmere's outer security. They were conducting a dorm-to-dorm sweep.
"They're checking identification ledgers," Jack whispered, his voice barely audible over the approaching footsteps outside. "They have a parchment manifest. They are looking for specific names."
"They're looking for him," Marcus Cole said grimly.
Marcus pushed himself off his cot, gritting his teeth as his broken ribs ground together. The broad-shouldered, red-haired trainee moved to the center of the room, blocking the direct line of sight to Cassian's bed.
"Frank," Marcus ordered quietly. "Lock the door. Not the deadbolt. Just the latch mechanism."
Frank River didn't ask questions. The patient, defensive Water God Slayer Art trainee knelt by the heavy oak door. He pressed his palm against the iron locking mechanism. A tiny, concentrated bead of water seeped from his skin, working its way into the internal gears of the latch. With a subtle pulse of his God Slayer energy, Frank froze the water, temporarily jamming the tumblers.
"Done," Frank whispered. "It won't hold a battering ram, but it will stick."
"Good. Cassian, get against the wall in the shadow," Marcus commanded. "Keep your head down. Let me do the talking. I've been dealing with academy bureaucracy for two years. They expect me to be bitter."
Cassian slid backward into the deep shadows near the window, pulling his academy cloak up around his collar to obscure the lower half of his face. He hated hiding. He hated relying on others to shield him. But if he fought back now, he would expose Room 17, and they would all hang for heresy.
The Seventh Root, he reminded himself. Trust.
The footsteps stopped directly outside their door.
A fist pounded against the oak wood, the impact rattling the hinges. "Holy Inspection! By order of the Grand Inquisitor. Open the door!"
Marcus gestured for Frank to step back. The red-haired trainee waited exactly three seconds—just long enough to convey annoyance rather than panic—and then stepped forward, wrenching the handle hard. The frozen water inside the latch cracked, making the door stick stubbornly before it ripped open.
Three men stood in the corridor. They did not wear the standard white-and-gold armor of the God Slayers. They wore deep charcoal cloaks trimmed in silver, their faces obscured by the shadows of their heavy cowls. Pinned to their chests was the four-part circular seal of the Religious Leaders: One Mind, One Body, One Soul, One Spirit.
The lead Priest Hunter, a tall, gaunt man with hollow cheeks and dead, emotionless eyes, looked down at Marcus.
"You are slow to answer, trainee," the hunter said, his voice a dry rasp that sounded like two stones grinding together.
"The latch sticks because the academy refuses to pay for maintenance in the first-year wing," Marcus replied bluntly, crossing his arms over his bandaged chest. He projected the perfect aura of a frustrated, demoted student. "What do you want? We have Field Hunts in the morning, and Healer Esran will have me expelled if I miss my pain medication cycle."
The Priest Hunter's eyes swept the room. They lingered on Frank, who was sitting casually on his bed sharpening a water-blue blade. They moved to Jack, who was reading a book in the dim light, appearing bored out of his mind.
Finally, the hunter's eyes landed on the shadowed corner where Cassian sat.
"Names," the hunter demanded, pulling a rolled parchment from his cloak.
"Marcus Cole," Marcus said loudly, deliberately drawing the man's attention back to him. "Former second-year, currently demoted. That's Frank River, Water Art. That's Jack Shadow. And the one sulking in the dark is Kaelen. He shattered his arm in Silverbrook Forest and hasn't spoken three words since. He's probably going to wash out before mid-terms."
The Priest Hunter unrolled his parchment, scanning a long list of names. Cassian held his breath, burying his atrophied right arm deeper into his cloak. He let his father's second lesson hold him still. If he flinched, if his breathing hitched, the hunter would sense the deception.
The gaunt man's eyes flicked from the parchment back to Cassian. "Let me see his face."
"He's heavily sedated on Esran's alchemical drafts," Frank interjected smoothly, not looking up from his blade. "Unless you want him vomiting all over your boots, I'd leave him be. Terror keeps you sharp, but nausea just makes a mess."
The Priest Hunter glared at Frank, then at Marcus. He looked back at his parchment. The name Kaelen wasn't a priority target. The name Cassian Ashford was the only objective that mattered to Grand Inquisitor Matthias.
"If you see a boy with blond hair and unusual combat instincts operating outside the academy's bounds," the Priest Hunter said, rolling the parchment back up, "you are to report him to the local temple immediately. Failure to comply is treason against the Mortal Realm."
"We'll keep an eye out," Marcus said flatly.
The Priest Hunter turned, gesturing for the other two men to follow. They marched down the corridor, their boots fading into the distance.
Marcus slowly closed the oak door, sliding the deadbolt into place. He leaned his forehead against the wood, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. Frank let his shoulders drop, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. Jack set his book down, his hands trembling slightly in the dark.
Cassian stepped out of the shadows, his chest heaving. "Thank you."
"Don't thank us yet," Marcus groaned, rubbing his ribs. "The Inquisition is hunting you inside our own fucking walls. If we don't get out of Highmere soon, they are going to find you."
The next morning, Instructor Seris provided their escape.
Instead of marching the first-year cohorts to the standard training yards, Seris led the trainees deep into the subterranean levels of Highmere Academy. The air grew dense and warm, vibrating with a low, humming frequency that made the hair on Cassian's arms stand up.
They arrived at a set of blast-reinforced iron doors three stories tall. Six elite God Slayer guards stood at attention, holding golden spears. As Seris approached, the guards engaged a complex series of locking mechanisms. The iron doors groaned, separating and pulling back to reveal a chamber that defied logic.
It was the World Gate Hall.
The cavernous room was dominated by three towering, circular rings forged from a pale metal that Cassian did not recognize. Swirling inside the center ring was a vortex of spatial energy—a churning sea of silver and violet light that bent the air around it. It wasn't a portal through time. It was a bridge through the vast expanse of space, connecting the Mortal Realm to distant planets.
No one living knew who had built the World Gates. The Slayer Corps had found them buried beneath their fortresses centuries ago and had guarded them ever since. The Inquisition had its Chrono Gates to read the flow of time. It had never been given these.
"Listen closely, first-years," Instructor Seris commanded, her voice cutting through the roar of the spatial vortex. "The Mid-Term Academy Trials begin today. You will not be testing your skills in the safety of Dawnmere. We are deploying you off-world to the celestial-quarantined planet of Aethelgard."
A ripple of awe and fear passed through the trainees. Third-year upperclassman Lysan Vex stepped forward from the shadows, carrying a golden spear. He was the same squad leader who had dragged Room 17 out of the Silverbrook ambush, and his presence signaled that this mission was going to be brutally difficult.
"You are not just going to Aethelgard to survive," Seris continued, pacing before the swirling Gate. "You are going there to harvest. The God Slayer armor you wear and the weapons you carry are not forged from ordinary steel. Ordinary steel shatters when channeled with divine energy. Our weapons are forged using Aethel-Crystals."
Seris drew her own greatsword. Running along the fuller of the blade was a faint, glowing white crystal embedded directly into the metal.
"Aethel-Crystals grow inside the hearts of celestial-corrupted beasts," Seris explained. "The older and more dangerous the beast, the purer the crystal core. The Forge-Masters of Highmere require these crystals to forge your custom armors and channel-swords. If you want gear that can withstand the full output of your God Slayer Arts, you must hunt a beast, kill it, and extract its core yourself. Cassian Ashford, step forward."
Cassian blinked in surprise, but quickly moved to the front of the formation.
Seris looked pointedly at his withered right arm in its support wrap, and the weighted wooden practice sword hanging from his left hip.
"Your dominant arm is useless," Seris stated bluntly in front of the entire cohort. "And standard steel will not channel your Universe Art without breaking. If you want a weapon light enough for your left hand, but strong enough to channel your Forms, you need a high-density Aethel-Crystal. Your trial is to hunt a corrupted beast and carve the crystal from its chest. Fail, and you fight with wood for the rest of the year."
Cassian stared into the swirling silver vortex of the World Gate. He had to fight an alien beast left-handed, with a wooden sword, and harvest its heart. It was impossible.
Which meant he was going to have to do it.
"Squads, form up!" Lysan Vex ordered, raising the golden spear. "We step through together. Brace yourselves for the atmospheric shift!"
Marcus, Frank, and Jack fell in line around Cassian. They didn't speak, but their formation was tight. They stepped into the roaring silver light of the World Gate, leaving Highmere—and the Priest Hunters—behind them.
Across the collapsed mountains, on the jagged mountain trails surrounding the Demon Slayer Compound, there was no silver light. There was only mud, freezing rain, and physical agony.
Kairo Ashford's lungs burned as if he were breathing broken glass. He was covered in freezing mud, his boots slipping on the treacherous incline. Strapped to his back was an iron-wood frame carrying eighty pounds of solid granite.
"Keep your knees bent! Don't lock your joints on the incline!"
Zeke Morrison was running slightly ahead of him. The twelve-year-old Vampire Slayer trainee was sweating profusely, carrying his own weighted pack. To Kairo's left, Malik Frost was gritting her teeth, her light-blue hair plastered to her skull as she forced herself up the mountain. Behind them, Ruben Veil was watching their flanks, his sharp brown eyes narrowed against the freezing rain.
Master Draven had kept his word. Kairo had been stripped of his sword. He was forbidden from using his Cosmic Demon Slayer Art. For the last three days, Draven had subjected Room 9 to brutal, non-magical physical conditioning. Draven was intentionally breaking Kairo down, forcing him to realize that without a strong physical vessel, his Abyssal power was nothing but a rapid path to suicide.
"I can't… feel my fucking legs," Kairo gasped, his right boot slipping in the mud. He stumbled, the eighty-pound weight threatening to drag him backward down the mountain.
Malik grabbed the strap of his harness, digging her heels into the dirt to stop his slide. "Don't stop, Ashford. If you stop, you freeze."
"Drop the rocks, Room 9," a deep voice echoed through the rain.
Standing on an outcropping above them was Torren Ash. The broad-shouldered second-year, who commanded Room 9's off-world rotations the way Renna commanded its night hunts, held his war hammer resting casually over one shoulder. Beside him stood Renna Kade, her twin crescent swords sheathed, her white hair dripping with rain.
Kairo unbuckled the harness, letting the granite crash into the mud. He collapsed onto his hands and knees, gasping for air.
"Master Draven has approved your squad for off-world deployment," Torren announced, his strategic mind already calculating their formation. "We are reporting to the Vanguard Gate Hall immediately."
Zeke wiped the freezing rain from his pale face, his red eyes widening. "Off-world? We haven't even finished basic physicals."
"The rules just changed," Renna said, her cocky smirk returning despite the brutal weather. "The quartermasters are running low on forging materials. If we want Demon Slayer armor that won't melt when we channel Abyssal power, we have to harvest the materials ourselves."
Ten minutes later, Kairo and Room 9 stood in the deepest, most heavily guarded cavern beneath the Demon Slayer Compound. Unlike the bright, silver vortex of Highmere's World Gate, the Demon Slayer portal was a ragged tear in space. It bled dark purple and black energy, smelling of ozone and sulfur.
Torren Ash stood before the swirling dark portal, addressing the exhausted trainees.
"We are traveling to the twilight planet of Morvath," Torren explained, his voice echoing off the cavern walls. "It is overrun by natural demons that have adapted to the harsh environment. We are not there to clear the planet. We are there to hunt specific Alpha-class demons and extract their Abyssal-Cores."
Renna drew one of her crescent swords. Embedded in the dark metal near the hilt was a jagged, dark-purple crystal that pulsed with a faint heartbeat of Abyssal energy.
"Standard iron shatters when you pump too much demonic essence into it," Renna said. "These crystals absorb and regulate the flow of your Arts. The Forge-Masters use them to build our armor and weave our blades. The stronger the crystal, the more power you can channel without burning your own veins out."
She pointed her blade directly at Kairo. He was standing there shivering, covered in mud, with no weapon on his belt.
"Draven took your sword, Ashford," Renna said bluntly. "He told the Forge-Masters not to issue you another one until you prove your physical vessel can handle it. If you want a weapon capable of holding your Cosmic Art without killing you, you have to kill a Morvath demon with your bare hands, a wooden stake, or whatever trap you can improvise. You have to carve the crystal out of its chest yourself."
Kairo stared into the swirling purple energy of the Vanguard World Gate. He had no sword. His body was exhausted from hauling granite. He was about to step onto an alien planet swarming with adapted demons, and he was expected to kill an Alpha-class demon.
He looked at Zeke, Malik, and Ruben. They were battered, freezing, and exhausted. But none of them backed away from the Gate. They were Room 9. They survived together.
The Eighth Root, Kairo thought, remembering Kane's voice. Sacrifice. A true sacrifice must accomplish something meaningful.
He wasn't going to die on Morvath. He was going to rip an Abyssal-Crystal from a demon's chest, forge a blade that could handle his cosmic power, and find his brother.
"Formation," Torren ordered, hefting his war hammer.
Kairo stepped forward, unarmed and determined. "Let's go hunting."
Together, the Demon Slayer squad stepped into the purple tear in space, vanishing from the Mortal Realm.