The gates of the Academy loomed like a verdict.
Hari stood beneath them in silence, one hand hooked in his pocket, the other brushing the bead at his wrist. From a distance, the structure looked like something carved out of an ancient mountain, all sharp angles, floating runes, and impossible symmetry. But up close, it was worse. Too clean. Too deliberate. Not built for people like him.
A glyph etched into the archway shimmered as he stepped forward. His body tensed automatically as a habit but nothing struck him. Just a soft scan of Nous brushing his skin, searching for some record, some intent.
The bead warmed faintly under his wrist. He stepped through.
Inside, the world changed.
Spells hovered midair like sleeping insects glowing letters stacked in thin rings above instructor kiosks. Pathways bent in directions they shouldn't have. One student walked into a door and vanished entirely. Another summoned a broom with a hand snap and rode it, not for speed, but for style. Everyone looked like they belonged in long coats, ornate glyphs, confidence.
Hari kept walking.
Etis nobles with lapel crests whispered as he passed. Sika kids gathered in tight clumps, their posture already defensive. A few Nouson tiny construct-creatures zipped overhead, darting between crystalline data pylons that glowed with updates and class maps.
He found his name on a floating schedule board near the main quad:
COHORT 0 – REPORT TO ARENA VERITAS AT 9TH BELL.
INSTRUCTOR: JOHN TAKAHARA
No other names. No instructions. Just the arena. Hari frowned.
A boy nearby chuckled under his breath, clearly reading over his shoulder. "Cohort Zero, huh? Guess we found the charity cases."
Hari didn't respond. He kept walking.
From a second-floor balcony, spellcrafters in ink-stained robes discussed theory as casually as street gossip. One girl rearranged a floating chalkboard midair using her fingers like puppet strings. Another made tea with a whisper, the kettle boiling instantly from her breath.
It was all so… soft. Detached. Too clean. Not built for anything real.
He passed a training yard where two students sparred in circles of active Nous glowing rings that responded to their moves, amplifying force or disrupting form. One got knocked out clean by a spell-augmented elbow and didn't get up.
No one rushed to help.
Hari stared for a moment, then turned and kept walking.
As the main courtyard narrowed toward the central tower, the sounds grew distant. More bells rang. More spells hummed. More students passed by without looking at him.
But he didn't need their eyes.
He knew who he was.
And soon, they would too.
A low bell tolled across the quad not metal, but some deeper sound, like stone vibrating in a cave. Students began funneling toward the center courtyard where a floating platform hovered just above a marble dais. Spells rippled in concentric circles beneath it, anchoring it to the air. A woman in white Enforcer robes stood atop the platform, arms behind her back, eyes hidden behind Nous-tinted lenses.
Hari merged with the crowd. Dozens of students pressed in, some eager, some bored, some already judging everyone in reach.
The woman didn't speak right away. The silence stretched long enough to feel intentional. Then her voice boomed outward, projected by Nous amplification.
"You stand here because someone believes you are worth betting on."
She let that sit.
"That someone might be a parent. A commander. A god. Or no one at all. Some of you were chosen for skill. Some, for lineage. Some of you paid more than you could afford."
Hari's jaw twitched.
"This Academy does not care."
"Here, you will become what Liv needs: soldiers, thinkers, protectors, punishments. Not all of you will make it. That is not a threat. It is arithmetic. If you wish to live soft lives, leave now. No record will be kept of your failure."
No one moved. But a few swallowed visibly.
"Those who remain will be shaped. Those who resist will be reshaped."
"Welcome to the beginning of your end. Orientation is complete."
Just like that, the platform drifted down. No applause. No introduction. Just a hush as the crowd began to scatter.
Hari turned away from the dispersing students.
"You believe that speech? Sounded like it was written by a Nouson who failed poetry class."
The voice came from behind him warm, cocky, and unmistakably loud.
He turned to find a boy just barely his height, wearing a frayed academy coat two sizes too large and a grin too wide for his face. His skin was a warm bronze, hair a windswept mess, and his eyes sparkled with some delusion that Hari couldn't yet name.
"Andre Cruz," the boy said, holding out a hand like they were old friends. "Future legend. Savior of Liv. Cohort Zero, just like you, Gentle Giant. I heard about your heroics in the slums."
Hari looked at the hand.
Andre wiggled his fingers.
Hari didn't take it.
Andre's grin didn't falter. "No handshake? That's fine. I'll win you over. Happens all the time."
"You talk too much," Hari muttered.
"And you don't talk enough. Good balance," Andre said, falling into step beside him like it had been decided. "So. What's your gimmick? Secret bloodline? Forbidden spell? You got the look of a guy who murdered his way in."
Hari kept walking.
Andre tapped his own chest. "Me? I got picked by a sword. Long story. Probably destiny. Or a clerical error. Either way, I'm here, baby."
"You think this is a game?"
Andre's smile flickered just for a second. "I think we're all gonna die if we take it too seriously."
Hari stopped walking.
Andre did too.
The quiet settled again.
Hari stared at him, gauging something. Then he turned and kept walking.
Andre grinned like he'd won something.
"See?" he called, trailing after him. "Told you we'd be friends."
The Academy's eastern courtyard was quieter than the others, less a training ground and more a forgotten garden hemmed in by crumbling statues and gnarled Nous trees. Students weren't scheduled here until later in the term, but Hari found himself walking in its direction anyway, trailing the edge of the main buildings to avoid the noise. Andre followed, humming a tune that didn't seem to exist outside his head.
Hari stopped at the edge of a cracked stone path that split the garden in half.
Someone was already there.
A boy stood in the shade of one of the statues tall, lean, coiled like a spring that had never been allowed to rest. His hair was thick and nappy, tied back into a short puff that refused to be tamed. His skin was deep bronze, almost black, and a single horn curled from the right side of his forehead, gleaming faintly under the sunlight. A slender tail wrapped once around his ankle like a snake before slowly unwinding.
He was practicing alone.
Slow, precise movements, half martial form, half spellcraft. A shimmering glyph trailed from one hand to the next as he moved, forming incomplete symbols that fizzled the moment they began to stabilize.
Then he stopped.
Without looking, he said, "You're loud."
Andre raised his hands, mock-wounded. "And here I was, just trying to compliment your form. Fluid. Intense. Very… stoic monster prince."
The horned boy finally turned, one eye narrowed.
"You're Andre Cruz."
"Guilty," Andre beamed, then pointed to Hari. "This one's moody, but he's got heart."
Hari said nothing.
The boy's gaze lingered on them both. "Amari Abara."
Hari's eyes narrowed slightly at the name. It wasn't just a name, it was a weight. The Abaras were whispered about in Liv the way curses were. Prestige mixed with obsession. A family that bred heirs like they were building gods.
Andre clearly didn't get the memo. "Nice to meet you, Amari. What's your story? Secret prince? Exiled heir? Actually a god and here to slum it with us mortals?"
Amari didn't smile. "I'm here because I was told to be."
Hari studied the boy's stance the way his hands hovered just near his side, how his tail remained still even as he spoke. Ready for violence, but not seeking it. Familiar.
Amari's eyes flicked to Hari. "And you?"
Hari didn't answer right away.
Andre stepped in. "He saved a girl during a riot. Carried her through fire and vanished before anyone could say thank you."
Amari raised a brow. "That true?"
Hari shrugged. "Did what I had to."
Silence again. But not the cold kind. The measuring kind. Three strangers tied together not by choice, but by some looming weight they couldn't yet see.
Amari finally nodded once. "Then maybe this won't be a complete waste of time."
Andre pumped a fist. "See? We're already building rapport."
Hari rolled his eyes and walked past both of them toward the garden's center, where the moss grew thick and soft beneath crumbling tiles.
Amari followed after a beat. Andre trailed last, still talking.
"Cohort Zero, huh? Sounds ominous. Or cool. Depends on the font."
The three of them stood side by side for the first time: an orphan from the slums, a delusional swordsman, and a boy born from a family that worshipped ambition like religion.
They didn't know it yet, but this would be the last time they stood together without scars.
The hallway leading to the Cohort Zero classroom wasn't listed on any map.
It was carved into the older part of the Academy stone corridors with high ceilings and iron sconces instead of glowlamps. The air smelled faintly of dust and ozone, as if something powerful had been sealed here and only recently unlatched. A single door waited at the end. Unlabeled. Closed.
Andre pushed it open first. "Maybe this is where they hide the elite lunchroom."
The room beyond was nearly empty.
No rows of desks. No chalkboard. Just a sunken circular floor, like an arena without audience seats. Above it, on a slightly raised dais, stood a man in a long black coat laced with shimmering Nous tags and pale gold etchings that looked like scars.
John Takahara.
He didn't speak at first. Just watched them enter.
Hari felt it immediately, the weight. The stillness that pressed down without violence. Like the silence before a storm knew exactly what it was.
Amari froze mid-step. Even Andre blinked, suddenly unsure.
Then John said, voice low and perfectly even:
"Cohort Zero."
Hari's jaw tightened.
John looked at them one by one. "Three students. No rank. No precedent. You were not chosen for skill. You were not chosen for promise. You were chosen because one person believes you matter."
He stepped down onto the sunken floor. No noise. No wasted motion.
"The Queen herself formed this cohort. She believes you represent something new. Or necessary." His gaze lingered on Hari. "I do not share that belief."
Andre opened his mouth, but John lifted one hand. The air rippled just slightly and Andre shut it again.
"You will train apart from the other cohorts. Your schedule will not follow theirs. You will be tested harder, sooner, and often without warning. Most instructors think this is a waste of resources."
Amari's tail flicked behind him.
John continued. "I am here because I owe her a favor. Nothing more. I do not expect all of you to reach Year Two."
The words were plain. Not cruel. Just… delivered.
Hari didn't flinch. But he felt Andre shift beside him, already tightening his jaw into a grin.
John finally turned his back on them and walked toward the far wall, where glyphs were etched in spiraling patterns. He touched the center. The entire wall lit up with Nous classroom maps, spell structures, schedules layered like battle plans.
"This is your life now. If you want to survive, you will listen. You will work. You will bleed, quietly and with purpose."
He faced them again.
"If you want to be more than pieces, prove it."
Silence.
Hari looked to his left. Amari stood like stone, unreadable. To his right, Andre cracked his neck.
"Dibs on not dying first," Andre muttered.
John didn't respond.
Behind him, the wall dimmed. The glyphs faded. The room returned to stillness.
And with that, the first class of Cohort Zero began.