Chapter 553: Hundred Castles(Edited! Long - !)

When the last robe settled onto the last pair of shoulders, the room quieted.

Arlen let the silence hold for a heartbeat before he spoke again.

"Good. All of you—listen." His gaze swept the rows of candidates.

"During your waiting here, more students were brought in. That’s why our number has swelled. As of this moment, there are two hundred of you."

Arlen’s tone didn’t shift. "Understand this clearly. This academy has no slots. Out of these two hundred Awakeners, fifty may enter—or none, or all. If two hundred of you rise to the level demanded, two hundred will pass. If only ten of you prove worthy, then ten will pass. If none..." He let the sentence trail off, his eyes flat and steady.

The whispering stilled. Every candidate understood.

Arlen clasped his hands behind his back. "Of course if you can pass the exam objective, it’s more or less a guaranteed entry so don’t focus too much on performance even if it’s just as important."

Arlen let that sink in, then pivoted sharply toward the wall. His palm pressed against the smooth surface, and it rippled outward like disturbed water.

"Follow me," he said simply.

Two hundred pairs of feet shuffled into motion. Michael walked near the front.

Everyone marched in silence.

Soon, they reached their destination.

Floating just beyond them were ten portals.

Arlen turned to face them. For the first time, his expression softened, if only slightly.

"I don’t know what you’ll face in there," he said. "What I do know is every one of you will be tested. That’s enough. The rest is up to you."

A ripple of unease spread through the crowd, but Arlen’s voice cut through it clean.

"Good luck."

He stepped aside, arm sweeping toward the portals.

The candidates didn’t need more prompting. The air thickened with tension as groups began dividing themselves. Twenty per portal—an unspoken agreement as people counted and adjusted, slipping into place.

Michael’s gaze lingered on the nearest portal.

Then, as if on some silent cue, the first wave of students surged forward.

Michael adjusted his sleeves, calm as ever. When his turn came, he stepped forward without hesitation, the blue light spilling across his features.

And then he was gone.

Darkness wrapped Michael like velvet—no floor, no sky, only a cool, depthless void. For a heartbeat he thought the portal had failed. Then a familiar ripple stirred against his ribs.

Master

, Jester murmured from the pocket he occupied.

Relief brushed Michael’s spine—and snapped taut a breath later when a voice slid into his mind.

"Candidates," a woman said. "In one minute, the Unified Examination for First-Rank academies will begin."

Michael’s eyes narrowed. The timbre was unmistakable: the same pressure he’d felt in the black waters, the same austere poise.

Did this voice belong to Vice Principal Gagye?

"This round is called the Isle of Hundred Keeps," the voice continued. "There are two thousand of you, from First-Rank academies across the Federation. The site is an island. Upon it stand one hundred castles."

"Each castle hosts from one to forty candidates. Your objective is simple: protect your keep—and raze an enemy’s."

"Enemy" sharpened like a blade in the air.

"An enemy keep is any castle than your own. Destroying one enemy keep is sufficient to pass your academy’s admissions threshold. The examination ends when fifty castles remain standing."

The voice faded, leaving only the hush of the void and Michael’s own breathing.

Two thousand candidates. Ten academies. If his academy fielded two hundred, odds were the others had matched the number.

Michael counted in his head—five, six, seven—wondering how long a "minute" would be when darkness shattered like glass.

Air roared past his ears. He was suddenly high above a vast island, clouds tearing around him. Below sprawled ridgelines and forest, and—scattered like chess pieces—stone keeps and crenellated walls. One keep in particular burned with a steady auric glow, a beacon even at this altitude.

All around him, silhouettes tumbled out of the sky—candidates blinking into existence, hanging for a heartbeat like tossed coal before catching themselves.

To the naked eye they were like ants.

However, as Rank 2 Awakeners, every one of them could fly.

Soon, many found their target and dashed towards them.

Michael didn’t hesitate. Mana surged through him and his weightlessness shifted into a razor-straight vector.

He kicked.

The sky cracked with a dry boom as he cut a line toward the luminous keep. Candidates nearby flinched at the sound and the blur that made it—robes snapping in his wake as he blew past them, overtaking three, then five, then a whole knot of flyers who’d thought they were fast until just now.

Gasps chased him, small and incredulous, already falling away behind the thunder of his acceleration.

Stone rushed up to meet him—then steadied under his boots.

Michael alighted atop the inner curtain of the glowing keep.

The instant his soles touched stone, a translucent pane bloomed before his eyes.

He stilled.

For a heartbeat he wondered if the academies had found a way to splice into the Awakener system itself. The thought died as he read the header.

A quest.

His mouth twitched. Of all things, he hadn’t expected this exam to trigger one of those rare prompts.

The pane sharpened, lines of light etching into legible script.

Quest: Keeper’s Mandate

Role

: Protector

Primary Objective:

Prevent the destruction of Castle 37.

Pass Condition:

Raze ≥ 1 enemy castle .

Roster —

Protectors:

Michael

Michael’s brows lifted a fraction.

Only him?

What sort of bad luck is this?

Michael frowned, the corner of his mouth tightening as he read the panel again.

So it really was only him.

"Of course," he muttered under his breath. "Even here, my bad luck follows."

The tension knotted in his chest for a moment before he exhaled. He forced his frown to ease, his face returning to calm. Complaining was pointless.

It is what it is.

He closed the panel with a thought. Fortunately, Michael was no ordinary Awakener. If there was one thing he didn’t lack, it was numbers.

His mind brushed the

Damaged Coffin of the Forgotten

inside his soul space. With a thought, the artifact manifested before him.

"Come," Michael whispered.

The coffin lid groaned open, and shadows spilled out like smoke given flesh.

One after another, figures crawled free.

Twenty in total—each a Rank 2 undead.

They were not his prized companions like Lucky or Gale. These were the rank-and-file minions, faceless and unremarkable compared to his elites.

But to anyone else, even one such creature was an opponent.

Michael’s expression didn’t shift, though a flicker of grim amusement brushed his thoughts. He hadn’t expected to show his hand so soon, but the examination had made its choice.

Michael let his eyes linger on the undead arrayed around him.

He folded his arms, weighing his options.

Should he leave now? Go hunting for an enemy keep?

His lips pressed into a thin line. Tempting as it was, rushing out blindly didn’t seem to be wise now. There were a hundred castles scattered across this island, and even with two thousand participants, fifty had to fall before the trial ended. That wouldn’t happen in minutes. This was going to surely take a while.

"Not worth burning energy early," he murmured, almost to himself.

Michael studied the horizon, watching for streaks of light that might betray incoming opponents, and in the meantime, let his thoughts drift.

How vast was this place, really? The island stretched far beyond the visible line, forests and ridges sprawling like an entire territory unto itself. Was it a real place in the Land of Origin, hidden and repurposed for the exam? Or was it conjured from nothing, spun into being by powers high above him?

Michael tilted his chin upward. Clouds drifted slow and heavy, their undersides lit faintly by the glow of the keeps scattered below. Everything

felt

real—the stone beneath his boots, the wind tugging at his robes, even the scent of damp sea-salt in the air.

Michael narrowed his eyes. "Conjured or not," he said quietly, "it doesn’t matter. A castle’s still a castle. And anyone who comes for mine..."

The twenty undead shifted again, scraping faintly as they tightened formation.

"...will break against it."

What Michael didn’t know—though he suspected—was the participants were being watched.

However, it wasn’t by the principals, whose attention was reserved for the very end, but by the teachers. Rank 3 at minimum.

In a certain location, a man in deep navy robes leaned forward. His eyes, sharp as blades, tracked Michael’s lone figure standing on the keep’s battlements surrounded by undead.

A soft exhale slipped past his lips. "Unfortunate."

He shook his head slowly.

To be alone in this round wasn’t just difficult—it was cruel. Most castles had groups to share the burden of defense. But Castle 37 had drawn only one name. One unlucky soul.

"That lad won’t last long," the teacher muttered, though his gaze lingered longer than he intended.

And fortunately he did because the next sight made him raise his eyebrow.