Chapter 50: Preparations

The last full day before the dungeon opened began with noise.

Arthur stepped out of the Dawn dormitory into a campus that had abandoned any pretense of normalcy. Training platforms that were usually half-empty at sunrise were already packed.

Students drilled in tight groups, shouted timing counts, and compared hastily drawn maps of previous dungeon fragments that older students had sold for ridiculous prices.

The air smelled of disturbed dust, and too much unrefined mana being forced through unready pathways.

Milo met him at the base of the dorm bridge with two steaming cups of bitter root tea. He handed one over without ceremony.

"Half the second-years are forming ten-man parties," Milo said. "They think numbers will get them through the early branches faster. The third-years are mostly going in pairs or alone. And the first-years... well." He glanced at Arthur. "Most of the ones who registered are trying to attach themselves to someone stronger."

Arthur took a drink and started walking toward the Dawn training grounds. "Anyone approach you?"

"Two different groups. I said no. I’m not ready for this one." Milo matched his pace. "You still going alone?"

"Yes."

They reached the platform. Nearly thirty students were already waiting — more than usual. Word had spread that Arthur’s morning sessions produced results. Julian was present as well, running a separate, harsher drill for a smaller group of Dawn students who could keep up with him. The two groups shared the space without mixing.

Arthur did not waste time with speeches. He split the students by primary affinity and started moving between them.

The earth users worked on creating instantaneous footholds and low barriers that could be abandoned without regret. The wind users practiced short, violent bursts instead of sustained flow.

A girl with a glass-thread Grimoire learned to string filament traps at ankle height while moving. A boy whose book produced soft, silencing fog was forced to practice using it in short, controlled pulses rather than wasting everything on one large cloud.

Arthur corrected, demonstrated, and adjusted. When a student asked whether these techniques would matter inside a dream-realm fragment, he answered honestly.

"The dungeon will try to make you panic. Panic makes people waste mana on big, impressive attacks. The ones who clear it will be the ones who spend the least mana per kill and never stop moving."

Iris arrived twenty minutes late. She took a place at the edge of the platform and began her own quiet practice, flipping through recorded dreams and applying micro-effects to a set of training dummies.

Up close, the fatigue around her eyes was impossible to miss. Arthur watched her for a moment between corrections. The Grimoire in her hands felt heavier than it had the week before, as if the pages themselves were overstuffed.

Mimi’s voice muttered inside his head.

"She’s still stacking. I can feel the pressure from here. If she keeps going she’s going to crack that book open at the worst possible time."

Arthur finished the current round of drills, called a short break, and walked over to her.

"You’re pushing too hard," he said quietly.

Iris did not look up from the page she was examining. "Everyone is pushing hard today."

"Not like that. Your Grimoire is strained."

Her fingers tightened on the cover. For a moment he thought she would deny it. Instead she closed the book and met his eyes.

"I need the advantage," she said. "I am a first-year. The upper-years already believe the five of us are decorations on the registration list. If I enter with only what I had last week, I will be eliminated before the middle branches."

"And if the book destabilizes inside, you may not come out at all."

Iris’s expression remained calm, but something stubborn moved behind her violet eyes. "Then I will make sure it lasts long enough."

She stepped past him and rejoined the training. Arthur watched her go, jaw tight, then forced his attention back to the rest of the group.

The morning session ran long. By the time he dismissed them, most of the students were trembling with exhaustion and residual mana burn.

Julian ended his own drills at roughly the same time. The two of them exchanged a single look across the platform — acknowledgment without friendship — before Julian led his group away.

Afternoon classes were poorly attended. Many instructors simply converted the periods into supervised preparation time.

Arthur used the hours to refine the interaction between Frost Sovereign and his Mana Skin, practicing the exact moment when a thin freezing layer could steal enough momentum from an incoming strike to create an opening.

Heavenfall Cyclone remained in reserve; the temporary print still had duration left, but he refused to spend it before the dungeon.

When evening practicals ended, Selene was waiting near the exit of the combat platform.

She did not speak in public. She simply met his eyes and tilted her head toward the private training wing. Arthur finished giving a final piece of advice to a struggling first-year, then followed her.

The private chamber was already sealed when he arrived. Selene had removed her instructor coat and stood in the simple close-fitting training clothes she used for serious work. The temperature in the room was lower than corridor standard.

"Show me your current limit with directed frost needles," she said without preamble.

Arthur formed them. Ten needles, then fifteen, then twenty, each one dense enough to pierce reinforced training hide. Selene walked through the array, studying density and stability, then began correcting angles and mana expenditure with sharp, precise words.

She forced him to create the needles while moving, while maintaining Mana Skin, while recovering from deliberate disruption of his footing. The work was exacting and relentless.

After nearly an hour she called a halt.

"Your control has improved," she said. "You are wasting less mana on unnecessary density. That will matter inside."

Arthur dismissed the last needle and rolled his shoulders. "How much residual frostbite is left?"

Selene’s gaze flickered. "Less than before. Not none."

"Then we should continue."

She studied him for a long second, then gave a single nod.

They moved to the reinforced section of the chamber. Clothes were set aside with the same practical efficiency they had developed over the previous nights.

The dual cultivation that followed was focused rather than frantic. Selene directed the flow of Eros mana with increasing precision, guiding it toward the last stubborn knots of frozen damage in her pathways.

Arthur matched her rhythm, pouring steady current into the bond while Frost Sovereign drank the purified affinity that returned to him. Mastery ticked upward in increments too small to see but impossible not to feel.

When they finished, Selene lay against his chest, breathing evenly, the cold of her body now clean and responsive rather than poisoned. Arthur’s fingers traced idle patterns along her spine.

"You’re still entering alone," she said after a while.

"Yes."

"I think Iris Blackthorn is going to become a problem inside that fragment. I can feel the instability from here whenever she uses her book. If her Grimoire ruptures near you, it will not care that you are trying to help her."

Arthur looked down at the top of her head. "I’m not planning to abandon her if something goes wrong."

Selene was quiet for a moment. Then she pushed herself up, gathered her clothing, and began to dress.

"I know," she said. "That is what worries me."

She left first. Arthur remained until his own breathing fully settled, then dressed and returned to the Dawn dormitory under a sky full of academy lights.

One day remained.

Tomorrow the fragment would open, and the first forty names would begin to separate themselves from everyone else.

Arthur sat on the edge of his bed, opened the Eros Codex, and reviewed every page he had. Frost Sovereign. Heavenfall Cyclone. Two empty slots that still needed filling. And somewhere on the other side of the campus, a princess who was stacking nightmares like weapons and pretending the cost would not come due.

Mimi appeared at the foot of the bed, unusually serious.