‎

‎Chakar, Nazim, and Mahal formed a loose triangle. Yarjan’s eyes, sharp as blades, swept over them. Every subtle twitch, every microexpression, was noted.

‎

‎Yarjan (voice calm, cutting):

‎“Introduce yourselves. Now.”

‎

‎Mahal stepped forward, calm and precise.

‎

‎Mahal:

‎“My name is Mahal Kanar. My goal… is to become a Shang.”

‎

‎Yarjan (tilting his head slightly, approving):

‎“Bold. Worth pursuing.”

‎

‎The wind whipped, tugging at Chakar’s hair, yet his gaze remained locked on Mahal for only a fraction before flicking to Nazim. He noted the other boy’s calm stance—too calm.

‎

‎Yarjan (to Chakar, voice sharp):

‎“And you, Chakar?”

‎

‎Chakar (flat, clipped, deadly calm, gaze like ice):

‎“I don’t introduce myself. You already know who I am.”

‎

‎Nazim’s gaze flickered—not with emotion, but with precision. Every micro-shift in Chakar’s posture was cataloged, analyzed. His voice was quiet, smooth, devoid of unnecessary pride, but cold as steel:

‎

‎Nazim (measured, calm, almost detached):

‎“You are not unique. Your strength… superficial. You survive by instinct, not strategy.”

‎

‎Chakar’s jaw tightened. He stepped forward, matching the calm, deadly weight of Nazim’s gaze.

‎

‎Chakar:

‎“Neither are you.”

‎

‎The wind swirled violently, carrying dust across their boots. The rooftop seemed suspended in silence, a world apart.

‎

‎Nazim (voice precise, neutral, scanning Chakar like a chessboard):

‎“My name is Nazim Nervan. My goal… is mastery. Not fame. Not recognition. Strength sufficient to surpass all who stand in my path… including you.”

‎

‎Yarjan’s gaze flicked between the two boys, a faint approval in his eyes.

‎

‎Yarjan:

‎“Nervan blood… and yet your focus surpasses mere ambition. Strength without clarity is wasted. You… have clarity.”

‎

‎Chakar’s fists flexed, but his expression remained neutral. Nazim’s posture was perfect, movements economical, calm, dangerous—a predator who did not need to show teeth to be lethal.

‎

‎Yarjan (to Chakar, voice firm, cutting):

‎“Now, Chakar. Name and goal. No excuses.”

‎

‎Chakar’s eyes narrowed. The wind tugged at him, but he inhaled slowly, measured.

‎

‎Chakar:

‎“My name… is Chakar.”

‎

‎Mahal (slightly frowning):

‎“Didn’t you say you were a Zarvani?”

‎

‎Yarjan (voice calm, approving):

‎“Chakar… deceit, restraint, survival. The last to endure death itself. That is worth more than words can express.”

‎

‎Chakar (jaw tight, voice clipped):

‎“Don’t… speak of it.”

‎

‎The rooftop balcony seemed to hold its breath. Nazim’s gaze, neutral but cutting, did not waver from Chakar. Every microexpression, every shift in stance was cataloged. Mahal remained steady, the calm anchor in the storm. The wind howled, carrying the unspoken tension like a living entity.

‎

‎Yarjan (voice low, slicing the wind):

‎“Very well. Let us see if your strength matches the precision in your eyes.”

‎

‎Chakar’s pulse thrummed like a war drum. Nazim’s gaze, cold and precise, scanned him from head to toe. Mahal’s eyes flicked between the two, silent but calculating. The rooftop balcony stretched above the academy, a battlefield of unspoken rivalry, strategy, and latent power. Here, every glance was a test. Every word, a challenge.

‎

‎The wind tore sharper now, carrying grit and dust like shards of glass. Every inhaled breath was metallic, charged. Chakar’s fists twitched at his sides, subtle, precise. Nazim’s gaze didn’t waver, scanning him like a predator circling its prey. Mahal remained the calm eye in the storm, silent, calculating.

‎

‎Then, from above, a whisper of movement—almost imperceptible. A paper, etched with the seal of Hanzil Shang, flapped violently in the wind, sliding across the balcony toward them. Chakar caught it with a single hand, eyes narrowing.

‎

‎Chakar (flat, voice clipped):

‎“A mission. Hanzil Shang.”

‎

‎Nazim’s lips curved faintly, the hint of a smirk. His eyes gleamed coldly.

‎

‎Nazim (quiet, precise):

‎“Interesting. The academy’s most… decisive.”

‎

‎Mahal tilted his head, reading the edges of the paper as if it were a weapon.

‎

‎Mahal:

‎“Mission orders from Shang… it’s urgent. Whoever planned this… wants more than strength. Strategy.”

‎

‎The wind carried their words into silence, as if the rooftop itself was holding its breath. Yarjan’s gaze swept over the trio, approving.

‎

‎Yarjan (low, cutting, almost whispering into the wind):

‎“Your challenge has arrived… not just in each other, but beyond this roof. That paper is not just a call—it is a test. You will survive it, or it will teach you in blood.”

‎

‎Chakar’s pulse thrummed like a war drum. He flicked the paper open, scanning quickly. The mission was dangerous, requiring the three of them to work together—and survive. Nazim’s eyes lingered on him for a fraction longer than necessary, calculating, cold as ice.

‎

‎Nazim (soft, deadly calm):

‎“Seems even the Shang know this… rooftop games won’t decide everything. Survival will.”

‎

‎The rooftop swayed under the gusts, dust dancing around their boots like sparks of some unspoken war. Chakar’s jaw tightened, eyes flicking between Nazim and Mahal. The tension hadn’t eased—it had multiplied, layered with the stakes of an urgent mission.

‎

‎The wind screamed in their ears, carrying the unspoken truth: whatever happened next, rooftop rivalries and deadly precision would collide with the wider, lethal world outside the academy.

‎

‎And somewhere, above it all, Hanzil Shang’s silent order lingered in the air, as chilling as the gust that could toss them off the edge in a heartbeat.

‎

‎

‎The wind had barely settled when Chakar, Nazim, and Mahal stepped off the rooftop. Dust clung to their boots, their robes whipping behind them like shadows. The academy halls were quiet, almost too quiet, as if the walls themselves held their breath.

‎

‎They moved in tight formation, silent except for the soft scrape of boots on stone. Even Mahal’s calm steps carried weight, deliberate, precise. Chakar’s eyes flicked around, scanning every corner, every shadow. Nazim’s gaze was a predator’s, tracking, calculating, always one step ahead.

‎

‎Finally, they arrived at the Shang Sanctum. Massive doors, carved from dark stone and etched with swirling sigils, loomed before them. A faint golden light seeped through the cracks, casting long, distorted shadows across the hall. The air shifted—heavier now, charged with authority.

‎

‎A single step inside, and the sanctum swallowed them. Vaulted ceilings stretched above, lined with banners of the Shang lineage. The scent of incense and iron mingled with the faint tang of magic. A wide staircase led up to a raised dais, where Hanzil Shang stood, cloaked in white and gold, eyes sharp as blades. Her presence alone made the air tremble.

‎

‎Hanzil Shang (voice calm, commanding, carrying through the hall):

‎“You’ve arrived. I trust the rooftop... prepared you.”

‎

‎Chakar’s jaw tightened. Nazim’s eyes flicked toward the floor, but his posture remained perfect, unyielding. Mahal remained steady, calm as ever, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed awareness—this wasn’t just a briefing. This was a test.

‎

‎Hanzil Shang (stepping down from the dais, each step echoing like a drumbeat):

‎“There is a mission… urgent. Failure is not an option. You will face enemies who anticipate your every move. Strategy, strength, and survival will be tested—not just individually, but as a team.”

‎

‎The words hung in the air like steel. Chakar’s pulse throbbed, a war drum beneath his ribs. Nazim’s smirk was faint, almost imperceptible, but sharp, calculated. Mahal’s calm exterior didn’t waver, but his eyes scanned the room, already forming plans in microseconds.

‎

‎Hanzil Shang (raising a hand, the light glinting off her sigils):

‎“This is not a mission of glory. It is a mission of survival. You leave at dawn. Prepare yourselves. The enemy knows nothing… but they will see everything.”

‎

‎The wind outside howled as if echoing her words. The Shang Sanctum was no longer just a hall—it was a crucible. And Team Yarjan would either walk out alive… or not at all.

‎