The snow had settled again, as if the Wilderness were trying to pretend none of it happened. But the cracks ran deep—through frost, through soil, through the hearts of those who survived.
Most students had gone back to their trials, driven by the same desires that had brought them here: power, enlightenment, legacy. Even among the wounded, only a few turned back. Fewer still stayed to fight.
But of those few, one name rippled quietly across the cliffs.
Reynard Ashford.
---
He lounged atop a fallen monolith, legs swinging casually, a reed in his mouth and a coat three sizes too large draped over his shoulders like a cape. The sky darkened above, pinpricked by stars, and the corpses of cultists lay scattered around the field.
"Cultists worshipping beings from the cosmos," he muttered, flicking a stone into the fire. "They really do exist, huh?"
A low groan came from one of the cultists still breathing.
Reynard didn't look at him. He was already asleep.
Or so it seemed.
When Dawn, Gary, and Ingrid stumbled into his camp, it was Gary who spotted him first.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Ingrid's eyes narrowed. "Who is that?"
Reynard opened one eye, grinning. "Morning, team."
"It's night," Gary muttered.
"Exactly. Time for work."
---
Reynard Ashford was the kind of student who frustrated the instructors as much as he terrified the ranking boards. He came from a mid-tier house, no noble crest to his name—but no one cared. The first time he joined a mock battle, he took down three upperclassmen while yawning and asking where the cafeteria was.
By the time others reached the second step of the Way of Prime, he'd already bonded with a Drifter. The third step. Most hadn't even gotten their Celestial Mark.
Still, he'd never bothered with titles. He never claimed to be a prodigy. And if anyone asked what his secret was, he'd just say:
"I don't like being bored."
---
"Wait, you're actually helping?" Gary asked, eyeing the perimeter, where six more students sat recovering. Most had been wounded. Two were from the Doctrine of Grit, one from the Covenant of Design, and the rest from the Tidebound Circle. They looked at Reynard like a storm given form.
Reynard gave a lazy salute. "Surprise. I care. Weird, right?"
Ingrid studied the group. "You saved all of them?"
"I intervened. They did the living part themselves."
Dawn didn't say anything. But there was something about Reynard that pulled at memory. That loose, easy strength. That subtle aura that hummed with celestial resonance. It reminded him of someone he'd once seen—long ago, before everything twisted.
"More cultists will come," Ingrid said.
"They already have." Reynard pointed at a distant ridge. "Set up camp there yesterday. Didn't last long."
"You fought alone?"
"No, no," Reynard said, shaking his head. "I had help. The Wilderness likes me."
"Because you're a good person?" Gary asked skeptically.
"Because I don't ask for anything. I just move. That counts for something."
Dawn stepped forward. "We're looking for others. We think some were taken."
Reynard stood, dusting off snow and cracking his neck. "Then let's go find them."
"You're joining us?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
---
They moved as a unit now. Reynard up front, not leading but… orbiting. His presence was like gravity—pulling others into motion.
Survivors joined them along the way. A pair of artificers from the Covenant, one with broken fingers still trying to activate a fractured design. A Tidebound girl who fought with sheer will. A Doctrine bruiser who didn't talk unless punching.
Each had survived by inches. Each had lost someone.
And still the cultists came.
They weren't like other threats. They didn't crave victory. They needed something—something unseen. They struck when desire flared. Not to kill. To twist.
Reynard's voice cut through the wind. " Do you feel it?"
Dawn glanced at him. "Feel what?"
"The stare. The one from above. Like the stars aren't just watching. They're waiting."
Dawn didn't reply.
Because he had.
---
They found the next camp of prisoners at the edge of a gorge where trees curved like claws and the snow turned black beneath the moonlight. Cultists surrounded them—eight this time, each marked by glyphs not carved, but grown. Fleshy, pulsing things pressed against skin like tumors.
Gary swore under his breath. "Damn these cultists!."
Dawn tensed. He didn't look away from one cultist in particular. That glyph… it was similar. Not the same, but twisted in a way that made his gut crawl. Like an echo of that childhood memory he never voiced.
Reynard stepped forward and stretched.
"Alright. Anyone mind if I go first?"
"Be my guest," Ingrid said coolly, already casting patterns with a brush of her fingertips.
Reynard vanished.
Not with speed, but stillness.
One cultist blinked—and found a hand pressed gently to his chest. The next moment, he was airborne, crashing through a dead tree. Another raised a blade, only to find it missing. Reynard had struck it away before the Cultists could react.
Gary barreled through a glyph user mid-chant, fists glowing.
Dawn stepped forward last, his movements measured, strikes precise. The strength was quiet. Controlled. Full of Intent.
The battle ended in less than a minute.
But the memory of it lingered.
---
They freed the students. A few were comatose, others barely coherent. Each bore faint traces of glyph residue. Some would recover.
Others, maybe not.
As the fire crackled that night, Ingrid sat beside one rescued girl, checking her pulse. Gary kept watch with the others, weapons close. Reynard laid back again, this time staring at the stars.
"Not bored anymore?" Dawn asked, sitting beside him.
Reynard smirked. "Not even close."
"You're strong."
"Strong enough not to die," Reynard replied. "Not strong enough to stop this."
He turned his head slightly.
"What about you? What do you think?"
Dawn didn't reply.
The flames danced.
Above them, stars pulsed—quietly. Eagerly.
And the Wilderness waited.
Tomorrow would come.
But tonight, they held the line.