In an instant, the ground—the real ground—was beneath them once more. They landed with a forceful crash, Rai's body skidding against the icy surface until he came to a halt, right at Giro's feet. The shock of the landing rattled through him, his breath coming in quick gasps as he tried to steady himself.
Rai's eyes snapped upward, the briefest flicker of confusion passing through him. For a moment, there was Zane—no, it wasn't Zane. It was Giro, but in that fleeting instant, Giro's smirk mirrored Zane's perfectly, like a shadow of something darker.
Rai shook the disorientation from his mind, forcing himself back into the present. He and Kaizen pushed themselves to their feet, the sharp scrape of their boots against the cold ground echoing in the stillness. They stood in the very place they had descended from, the scene around them eerily familiar. The bridge stretched ahead, just as they had left it, unaltered and waiting. The air was thick with the remnants of their ascent, the sensation of height still lingering in the pit of Rai's stomach.
They had made it. And now, the real test awaited.
The instructor led them through the frozen town, a landscape carved from ice and silence. Rai's gaze lingered on the modest house they'd once called shelter, its icy walls shimmering faintly in the cold light. Giro, walking beside him, glanced up as they passed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he remembered the fan spinning lazily in the corner.
They pressed on, their boots crunching softly on the frosted ground. The ice house came into view, the place where steaming mugs of coffee had briefly warmed their hands. Kaizen's pace quickened as they approached, his fists clenching unconsciously, a shadow crossing his face as memories of that moment seemed to harden him further.
They moved past it all—the fleeting fragments of what had been—and into a wide clearing. There stood a stage, stark and empty, carved entirely from ice. Its steps were sharply defined, etched with precision along the sides. Suspended in the center of the stage was a pillar, hanging impossibly from another, unmoving despite the wind's subtle currents.
The instructor's voice cut through the stillness, direct and unyielding. He raised a hand toward the hanging pillar.
"Attack it," he said, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.
Jaxor stepped forward with a quiet confidence, his movements deliberate and measured. He stood before the pillar, his body still as a statue, save for one hand. Slowly, he raised it, his index finger poised as though ready to strike a carrom striker across a board.
With a flick of precision, he struck. The impact was almost imperceptible, but the result was immediate—a number appeared, glowing faintly against the icy pillar: 101.
Jaxor's lips curled into a knowing grin as he turned toward the instructor. Without a word, he extended his hand, palm up. The instructor, equally silent, placed a golden card onto his waiting fingers. The card was plain, unadorned, but heavy with significance. Jaxor studied it briefly, then brought it to his mouth and ate it, as if the gesture were as natural as breathing.
"Thank you," he said, his tone edged with smug satisfaction. With a final smirk, Jaxor stepped back, the pillar now behind him, and disappeared into the ranks with the same air of quiet dominance.
"He's just 101?" Raze muttered, his disbelief breaking the hushed silence.
"That's barely passing," Giro added, frowning, the numbers not adding up in his mind.
"We don't know if 101 is high or low," Rai cut in, his tone calm but cautious. "Let's wait and see."
Kaizen glanced at the pillar, then at the gathering crowd. "Let's go," he said, stepping forward, his voice a quiet command.
The group stood at the edges of the ice stage, watching as candidates moved forward one by one. Each struck the pillar, and their numbers flashed—a mix of pride and relief evident as they claimed their licenses. No one else ate theirs.
"That guy... Jaxor," Hydrorina said, her voice cutting through the murmurs. "No one else is like him. Everyone's getting veil levels near 200, and no one's eating their license. He's fooled everyone, hasn't he?"
Giro seized on her words, his energy bubbling over. "Yes, yes! The guy who slashed through those sharks? There's no way he's that weak! You're brilliant, Rina!" He grinned wide, his voice echoing across the ice.
"Let's see what his score is," Rai said, his eyes fixed on Kaizen as he approached the stage.
Kaizen moved with his usual calm, his hand reaching for the pillar. The moment his fingers touched it, a strange energy rippled outward, the surface fuming as though it might melt under his touch. For a tense moment, nothing happened. Then, the number flashed—210.
A murmur passed through the crowd, subdued but palpable. Kaizen stepped back, his expression unreadable as he accepted the license handed to him. He glanced at it briefly, then turned, his eyes meeting Rai's.
"I'll be waiting ahead," he said simply, his tone steady, almost indifferent. With that, he walked off the stage, leaving the others to their thoughts, his figure disappearing into the cold expanse beyond.
Rai stepped forward, steadying himself as he extended both hands toward the pillar. His beam, sharp and blinding, struck it cleanly. The number 187 flared into view, stark against the icy surface. He let out a slow breath, collected his license, and stepped back without a word.
Next came Raze. He approached the pillar with a quiet intensity, his veil glowing faintly, a deep orange hue reminiscent of a late sunset. He focused, unleashing his strike. The number 209 appeared, bright and clear.
Raze's jaw tightened. He snatched his license with a clenched fist, muttering under his breath, "Damn it! I didn't beat Kaizen!" He stormed off, gripping the card as though it might shatter under the weight of his frustration, his steps heavy and deliberate against the frost-covered ground.
Giro floated forward on his veil, the soft hum of energy beneath him barely audible in the frozen stillness. His gaze fixed on the pillar, which swayed faintly like a pendulum, still vibrating from Raze's powerful strike moments before. But then, from the opposite direction, another figure emerged, gliding with the same quiet confidence. Zane.
The two stood facing each other, their silhouettes stark against the frost-bitten backdrop, each poised, the tension crackling between them. They mirrored one another, as if caught in some unspoken synchronicity, their timing eerily exact. For a moment, the air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then, a third figure burst onto the stage, breaking the stillness with a score that flashed to life—110. It was Hydrorina, stepping forward with an understated defiance, her veil dissipating as she claimed her place. The contrast between her sharp, efficient movement and the silent tension between Giro and Zane was almost jarring. Yet, she seemed unconcerned, brushing past the standoff as though unaware of the storm brewing between the two.
"Hey, we'll be waiting on the other side. Come quickly!" Hydrorina's voice carried a teasing lilt as she looked pointedly at Zane, a deliberate jab aimed at mocking Giro.
"Hey! I'm here! I'm Giro! It's not me!" Giro's voice rang out, confusion thick in his tone. He gestured wildly, as if trying to untangle himself from the insinuation, his words lost in the rising tension.
The score began to materialize on the pillar, slow but deliberate. 501. The digits hung in the icy air, a stark testament to Zane's power as his dark veil dissipated. He took the license with an almost casual air, casting a single glance at Giro—a glance loaded with meaning. It was more than a look; it was a promise. A smirk tugged at Zane's lips, a silent declaration that this was merely the prelude. Then, he turned and walked away, leaving an invisible ripple in his wake.
Giro, still reeling, turned back to the pillar. He summoned his veil with resolve, channeling it to wipe away the lingering remnants of Zane's darkness. The pillar glowed bright under his energy, cleansed. The score flashed: 143. The same as Rai. Giro accepted his license, the weight of his inadequacy pressing heavier than the cold air around him.
As he stepped down with Hydrorina, the silence behind him shattered. One by one, the scores rang out in quick succession. 480. 486. 491. The numbers echoed like hammer strikes, each one a proclamation of the power wielded by Zane's men. They didn't just follow him; they validated him. Together, they moved with an unspoken authority, leaving the stage behind as the audience watched, their own ambitions momentarily overshadowed by the display of raw strength.
The instructor clapped his hands once, the sound sharp and final, cutting through the frosty air. "Congratulations," he announced, his tone brisk, almost dismissive. "Everyone now has their license."
They stood in the vast, empty space, the weight of the moment settling in, when a faint sound broke the stillness—footsteps. Slow and deliberate.