Rebirth Protocol: The Return of Earth's Guardian and the Sword-Magus Supreme [A Sci Fi Thriller Progression]

The arena settled into a steady rhythm of footsteps as the final survivors converged toward the center, each step echoing against stone that had witnessed a dozen eliminations in as many minutes.

Eli jogged confidently toward where Nick and Jordan stood, his orange flag still secured to his back. The Storm Weaver's face carried the particular relief of someone who'd navigated chaos and emerged intact—unaware that the chaos wasn't quite finished with him.

"Looks like we made it," Eli called out as he approached, slowing to a walk with obvious satisfaction.

Behind him, Greyson moved like spilled ink, each step perfectly timed to match the ambient noise of other students shifting position. The Shadow's timing was flawless—Eli focused entirely on reaching his apparent allies, blind to the predator whose hand was already extending toward his back.

One fluid motion. No warning. No sound.

Greyson's fingers plucked the orange flag from Eli's uniform like picking fruit from a tree, the cloth coming free with barely a whisper of fabric.

Eli stumbled to a halt as his combat suit blazed red twice, confusion flooding his features before understanding crashed over him. "Eliminated: Elijah Carter," the arena announced with mechanical indifference.

"What—" He spun around to find Greyson already ten steps away, the orange flag tied casually around his wrist alongside two others claimed during the melee.

Nick and Jordan exchanged knowing glances, sharing the dark amusement of a prediction fulfilled.

"Told you it'd be Eli," Nick murmured, watching their would-be ally process his elimination with the stunned expression of prey realizing it had been hunted.

Eli stood frozen for a heartbeat, then laughed—short and sharp, carrying more admiration than bitterness. "Well played," he called to Greyson, who acknowledged the compliment with the slightest nod before melting back into the group of survivors.

Eight remained. The real competition could finally begin.

Professor Rhyst appeared at the arena's edge, his voice cutting sharp and clear through the silent battlefield.

"Finalists will now enter a two-hour isolation period," he announced, eyes sweeping the eight remaining students. "No communication with faculty, students, or external parties. Any breach will result in immediate disqualification—of the violator, their team, and any accomplices. This is your final warning."

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air. No one dared speak.

Without ceremony, four uniformed aides stepped forward and guided the eight finalists—Nick, Jordan, Zora, Carmen, Greyson, Liam, Faith, and Aiden—away from the arena's center. They descended a narrow staircase tucked beneath the viewing platform, the crowd's murmurs fading as the doors sealed behind them.

Beneath the stadium lay a series of reinforced rooms, each isolated from the others. No windows. No interfaces. Just private spaces with padded floors, protein-rich rations, cold electrolyte packs, and silence.

Nick stepped into his assigned chamber. The door slid shut with a hydraulic hiss.

He rolled his shoulders, tension finally settling into his muscles now that the adrenaline had faded. At least he hadn't worked up much of a sweat.

Looking around the room, he spotted a table with several types of sandwiches and bottles of juice and water. Against the back wall, a long cot sat ready, already made up for him to rest. As tempting as that looked, he couldn't relax right now—he was too keyed up about the final part of the midterm.

He'd watched each of the other combatants fight during their class sessions, and of course, he and Jordan had never gone all out when they'd sparred with classmates. Now he was excited to test himself and his training against what they had learned.

Moving away from the entrance, he grabbed a water bottle. A quick sweep of his mana over the bottle showed it hadn't been tampered with. He wouldn't put it past Kai and the others to bribe a TA to mess with his food and water.

After a couple tentative sips, he finished the bottle in a few gulps, not realizing how thirsty he'd been. Grabbing another bottle and what looked like a turkey and avocado sandwich, Nick sat down on the cot.

After checking to make sure neither had been tampered with, he began eating.

Sophia?

[Yes Host, I am here.]

Good. How are things looking with Maggie?

[She's currently in the student cafeteria eating lunch, and Elijah Carter is making his way toward her.]

Could you keep an eye on her, please? If possible, have a live feed on her with Marcus and Val just in case she finds something.

[Understood.]

He was tempted to ask Sophia to help him analyze his fellow classmates' combat prowess, but that was just his nervousness talking—he knew he was ready.

After finishing the sandwich and half the bottle of water, he settled on the cot to meditate and prepare for the upcoming matches.

Seven breaths. Hold for four, exhale for eight.

Seven breaths. Hold for four, exhale for eight.

Seven breaths. Hold for four, exhale for eight.

Nick felt his mind settle, then rose smoothly and began working through the body stretches Val had taught him at the compound—movements designed to align breath, balance, and muscle control. Each stretch quieted the last traces of adrenaline in his system.

Then he shifted into his combat stances, flowing from one martial movement to another. His body moved with fluid precision while his mind cataloged his competition.

Jordan would be the easiest since they trained together. Neither would hold back if they faced each other, but he doubted Professor Rhyst would pit them against each other immediately. Zora and Aiden would be the ones whose martial arts most closely resembled Jordan's original style, though probably more advanced. Carmen and Greyson would be the hardest opponents. Still, Nick felt confident about matching Greyson's swift footwork and countering Carmen's sleight of hand. He began working through his plan of action.

Maggie wasn't as sad as she'd seemed when leaving Nick and Kai in the arena. Kai had picked a fight with a third year, and in true Kai fashion, the fight had escalated into an official duel scheduled for right after the tournament. The best part? She was the one who'd planted the rumors that lit the fuse. Watching it all unfold exactly as planned was deeply satisfying.

But she had other work to do first.

After grabbing a Buddha Bowl with karaage chicken and a glass of pineapple juice, she slid into a corner table at the back of the cafeteria. As she ate, her multi-screen interface unfurled in front of her—layered holographic screens fanning out in a tight semicircle, visible only to her.

One set of screens tracked different faculty connected to Vellian, as well as Vellian himself. Professors Hagen, Vanderpool and Finch taught first years; Professors Olsen and Larsen handled the second years, along with a couple other professors for the third and fourth years. As she'd researched these professors over the past week, a clear pattern had emerged: none of them taught the Alpha classes. They all taught the beta, gamma, and delta students. Yet for some reason, students who were previously in Alpha class for their first two years would mysteriously end up in Vellian's class during their third year. Vellian taught Beta third years—and that's when these students would vanish.

She pulled up the surveillance from earlier that morning on another set of screens, watching as Vellian and the first and second year professors observed the elimination round. As the footage played, she caught something disturbing—Vellian had been evaluating each student, making hand signals to Professor Olson, who would then record whoever Vellian was watching.

[Ms. Zhang, Elijah Carter is approaching your location]

Thanks Sophia

"Mind if I sit?"

Looking up, Maggie found Eli standing next to her table, his tray carrying a Buddha bowl with smoked salmon instead of karaage chicken like hers. His eyes looked tired, shoulders sagging under some invisible weight.

"Sure. How are you? Greyson got you there in the end."

Eli slid into the seat across from her, ignoring her question entirely. "I wanted to apologize about Lucia," he murmured.

"It was an individual exam. Everyone for themselves." Maggie shrugged, popping a piece of chicken into her mouth. "I'd probably have done the same in her shoes. Doesn't mean I won't get her back for it—but I get it." She took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Though she shouldn't have gone after Nick. That was a mistake."

Eli gave her a half smile and nodded, then leaned forward and dropped his voice. "I've been thinking about what we discussed last week. Some of the professors on that list? They were there today."

She'd just watched the recording that showed exactly that. "Who did you see?"

"Finch and Hagen. They were near my section of the arena, observing each of us closely, especially Nick..." Eli paused, his voice dropping even further. "And you."

Maggie went completely still.

Me? Well, shit. Maybe ducking out early was the smartest move after all.

She hadn't spotted that detail in her recordings yet.

Mental note: Review all Finch and Hagen recordings.

"I just came by to warn you to be careful. If they're watching you and Nick that closely, they must really want you both," Eli said, picking up his tray, his food still untouched.

"We'll take care of ourselves. But you do the same. They probably have even more eyes on you since you finished just short of the last eight," Maggie replied. Eli nodded and walked away toward another table.

Maggie watched him leave, then sent the video recordings she had of the match to Marcus and Val with a note that she'd be looking into the different professors who'd been watching their match that morning.

I wonder if I can tap into Olsen's recording device. Maggie filed that away on her to-do list—right under investigating the faculty offices of Vellian and the other professors, and of course, watching Kai get publicly wrecked.

With most classes finished for the day, the arena stands were packed with students, faculty, and even civilians of all ages, all drawn by the chance to watch the best the second years had to offer.

A raised square platform stood at the center of the arena with Professor Rhyst positioned on top. At exactly 1pm, Professor Rhyst clapped his hands. The sound, like a gong, was magnified by a device in his grip and brought the arena's crowds to a simmering hush.

"The quarterfinal round will now begin," he announced, his voice carrying across the arena. "The rules remain the same: only martial combat is allowed. No mana, no system enhancements, or external aids, or you'll be disqualified along with your team. Victory comes by submission, knockout, or yielding."

Two combatants entered the arena from opposing sides, moving toward the platform's edge where they waited like predators sizing each other up.

"First match: Zora Hayes versus Faith Adeloye."

Professor Rhyst stepped back to referee the match.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

"Begin!"

From the opening moment, Nick knew how the match would end. Zora moved like a weapon—sharp, clean, efficient. No wasted movements.

Faith was all rhythm and flow, her stance loose and reactive from years of dance layered with boxing—an intuitive fighter used to adapting on the fly.

They'd sparred often in class when Faith wasn't sparring with Liam. Good friends outside of class, in the arena they became fierce combatants. Faith always chasing, but Zora always one move ahead.

The opening exchange was fast and brutal. Faith moved first—a tight jab, cross, low feint, then a pivot high for a hook that would have dropped most students in the Alpha class.

Zora had seen it coming.

She shifted her weight and pivoted on her back foot. The jab whiffed. The cross sailed past.

Zora's knee came up, whistling toward Faith's chin, but Faith slipped just beneath it, her instincts pulling her clear with only a slight graze. She hadn't seen the strike, but she knew Zora. She'd yanked her hook back at the last second, her body sensing the trap and disengaging fast enough to avoid getting caught.

The crowd stilled. Every breath held as the two fighters locked eyes for a moment.

Then they began to circle.

A feint here, a slight adjustment there—the two tested each other, probing for openings that would catch their opponent off guard.

Then Faith exploded forward, faking low before launching a sharp elbow at Zora's jaw. Anyone else would have been forced to flinch.

Zora didn't flinch. She stepped in.

Two strikes: a tight elbow to the sternum, a clipped knee to the quad. Both hit Faith with surgical precision. One to disrupt, the other to damage. Then they were trading blow for blow. Knees, elbows, short punches from inside the pocket—closer than most fighters dared to engage. With every exchange, Zora's strikes landed faster and harder. Faith matched her pace for several brutal minutes, but each exchange chipped away at her strength, fatigue creeping up her arms and legs, settling into her lungs.

Faith broke away, chest heaving. Her hands were bloodied, bruises blooming along her cheeks, neck, and wrists—the only parts of her body visible beneath her training suit. She gulped air, fighting to regain control.

In contrast, Zora showed no injuries. Her breathing remained steady, her expression unreadable.

Ten minutes had passed since their duel began.

She's not going to last much longer, Nick thought as he watched Faith disengage.

He and Jordan sat in the waiting area beneath the arena with the other competitors and the four aides who had escorted them down. A hanging television broadcast the fight above.

All eight of them had already passed the midterm. But Professor Rhyst had promised something more: a reward for the finalists and, specifically, a favor for the champion—redeemable anytime, so long as it remained within the power of the Tier 3 Guardian Sentinel. Nick hoped to use that favor to get Professor Rhyst on their side, whether to solve the mystery of the missing students, gather information about Elias Zhang, or maybe even rescue him from wherever he was being held. First, though, he needed to win.

The fighters resumed their match, but this time Zora charged in first, forcing Faith into a more aggressive stance. Faith switched up her angles and shifted her fighting style—anything to regain momentum. But Zora showed no mercy.

When Faith launched one final spinning hook kick, Zora stepped through it and caught her leg mid-spin, shifted her stance, and brought Faith crashing to the ground in a takedown that drew a sharp gasp from the crowd.

In an instant, Zora transitioned into a submission hold, her arm locking around Faith's neck like a vice, her knee pinning Faith's shoulder to the mat. Two quick taps followed.

"I yield," Faith gasped, blood dripping from her broken nose and split lip.

Zora released her immediately and offered Faith a hand up.

Professor Rhyst's voice boomed through the arena: "Victory: Hayes."

Zora walked toward the underground gate leading to the recovery chamber. Faith headed toward the arena's exit, her head high and shoulders straight despite the defeat.

"Second match: Carmen Santiago versus Jordan Keyes."

Nick's attention sharpened as his friend stepped onto the platform opposite Carmen "The Illusionist." She was the worst possible matchup for Jordan. Even without her mana, Carmen moved with an unpredictability that made her lethal—misdirection wasn't just her power; it was woven into every aspect of how she fought.

Jordan's stance was textbook perfect, his APEX and Guardian training evident in his posture, footwork, and strikes. But Carmen was chaos in motion. She was never where Jordan expected, attacking in one moment, then pivoting mid-strike to hit from an impossible angle. It was frustrating, beautiful, and utterly devastating.

It was a good fight. Nick felt proud that his friend had lasted so long—even longer than Faith had managed against Zora.

The decisive moment came when Jordan committed to what looked like a perfect takedown opportunity. Carmen seemed to stumble, leaving herself vulnerable for exactly the kind of grappling exchange where Jordan's training shined.

But it was a trap.

As Jordan moved to capitalize on Carmen's apparent misstep, she flowed around his grasping fingers like water. Her three quick jabs struck his throat, ribs, and sternum from the angle he least expected, while she simultaneously kicked one of his legs inward, sending Jordan crashing to the platform floor. As she moved in for another strike, Jordan lifted his hands in surrender, his breath not yet returned enough for him to speak the words. He had lost.

Stepping between them, Professor Rhyst called out, "Victory: Santiago."

After a moment, Jordan finally caught his breath. Carmen had already started walking back to the waiting area, leaving Jordan alone on the platform with Professor Rhyst. The professor helped him up and checked to make sure he was okay before allowing him to walk down the platform's stairs and exit the arena.

As he headed for the arena's exit, Nick felt sorrow mix with pride for his friend. Though he'd lost in a brutal matchup, he'd made it into the final eight and now knew exactly where his weaknesses lay for next time.

"Third match: Greyson Dubois versus Aiden Park."

Greyson moved onto the platform like his nickname suggested—The Shadow fought with a fluidity that made his presence seem to shift between dimensions. Aiden brought conventional power: kickboxing combinations and aggressive striking that had overwhelmed weaker opponents through sheer force.

Conventional tactics proved utterly useless against someone who existed partially outside normal space.

The match was brutal and mercifully brief. Aiden's power was undeniable—each strike thrown with enough force to drop most fighters. But Greyson flowed around attacks like water around stones, always positioned perfectly for devastating counters that seemed to come from impossible angles.

When the end came, Aiden was unconscious before his body hit the ground.

"Victory: Dubois."

"Final quarterfinal: Nicholas Valiente versus Liam Macdonald."

Nick stepped onto the platform feeling hundreds of eyes weighing his every movement. Liam was built like a human fortress—stocky, powerful, with boxing technique that could end fights with single punches. His Iron Guard training emphasized overwhelming force applied with mechanical precision.

This is what Val prepared me for, Nick thought, settling into his stance. Not the magic, not the systems—this. Pure combat against someone who wants to break me.

The opening exchange revealed the fundamental dynamic at play. Liam's combinations were textbook perfect, each punch thrown with enough power to drop most opponents. But Nick had trained with someone who'd survived dimensional warfare, and Val's methods had prepared him for opponents who hit far harder than any Academy student could imagine.

It was clockwork against current, rigid discipline meeting fluid instinct.

Where Liam relied on raw power, Nick wielded surgical precision. Where Liam bulldozed forward, Nick danced aside. The Iron Guard fighter possessed more raw strength, but Nick moved faster, bent easier, and had sparred against opponents who struck like sledgehammers made of concentrated violence.

The match unfolded as a masterclass in contrasts—Liam's mechanical perfection clashing against Nick's liquid adaptation. Every technique Nick deployed drew from months of punishing training, combinations that Val had drilled into him until they flowed like breathing.

The finish came when Liam threw everything behind what should have been a knockout combination—perfect form, devastating power, textbook execution. Nick slipped around the assault like water finding cracks in stone and responded with a submission hold that turned Liam's own momentum against him.

"Yield," Liam choked out, and Nick released the pressure instantly.

"Victory: Valiente," Professor Rhyst declared as Nick helped his opponent to his feet.

As Nick stepped off the platform, something settled inside him—not arrogance, but understanding. Each victory wasn't just about defeating opponents; it was about proving that the foundation Val had built in him could support whatever weight the Academy placed on it.

"Semifinal round," Professor Rhyst announced as crews reset the platform. "First match: Zora Hayes versus Carmen Santiago."

This was the fight Nick had been waiting to witness. Military steel against artistic smoke, relentless pressure versus flowing evasion. Both women had demonstrated skills that made normal Academy training look like child's play.

The opening exchange revealed each fighter's core challenge with perfect clarity. Zora's strikes packed lethal force when they landed, but Carmen's misdirection made solid contact nearly impossible. Carmen's counters flowed like violent poetry, yet Zora's conditioning let her absorb punishment that would have dropped most fighters instantly.

For ten minutes of controlled brutality, they danced around each other in a display of combat artistry that held the entire arena breathless. Zora would unleash combinations that should have ended everything, only to find herself striking shadows as Carmen slipped away from danger. Carmen would craft perfect killing blows through pure deception, only to discover that Zora had already adapted to her patterns.

The shift came when exhaustion began its relentless creep. Zora's combinations lost their razor precision while Carmen's illusions demanded more energy to maintain their deadly effectiveness.

Carmen rolled the dice on her final gambit—an intricate web of feints designed to create the perfect killing strike. But Zora had been studying her opponent's patterns with military precision, and battlefield training meant adapting under the most lethal pressure.

Rather than chase Carmen's feints, Zora ignored them completely and struck where her opponent had to be if the misdirection was just elaborate setup. Her timing was flawless, her technique pristine, and her commitment absolute.

Carmen yielded before the submission hold could cause permanent damage, nodding with respect that went beyond mere sportsmanship.

"Victory: Hayes," Professor Rhyst announced to thunderous appreciation.

"Final semifinal: Greyson Dubois versus Nicholas Valiente."

Nick stepped onto the platform knowing this would test everything Val had taught him. Greyson fought like a shadow given murderous form—silent, fluid, and utterly unpredictable. His techniques emerged from impossible angles with timing so perfect it made seasoned fighters question their own eyes.

The match began with Greyson simply vanishing.

Not literally—Nick's enhanced awareness could still track him—but The Shadow moved in ways that shattered conventional defensive positioning. He'd begin an attack from one direction, seem to teleport to another position, then strike from a third angle while his opponent was still processing the impossible transition.

Nick found himself diving deeper into techniques Val had drilled into him, drawing on not just physical training but the mental discipline that came with surviving opponents who rewrote combat's rules. Greyson moved like ink spilled in water, every strike a shifting shadow Nick struggled to follow.

But I've sparred with shadows before, Nick realized, settling into a rhythm he'd learned against foes that existed partially outside normal reality. Read the cadence behind the chaos—everyone has rhythm, even shadows.

The breakthrough came when Nick stopped trying to predict Greyson's individual strikes and started feeling the patterns beneath his opponent's movement. One heartbeat. Another. On the third, Nick lunged into the darkness, trusting instinct over sight.

When Nick finally synced with Greyson's timing, the submission came swift and decisive. The Shadow yielded with grace that hinted at genuine surprise at being outmaneuvered.

"Victory: Valiente," Professor Rhyst announced as the arena erupted in appreciation for violence elevated to art.

"Championship final: Zora Hayes versus Nicholas Valiente."

Nick faced Zora across the platform, both bearing the accumulated marks of battling through multiple elite opponents. But they also carried the sharp focus of warriors who had found their rhythm in violence.

"This should be interesting," Zora said quietly, her voice carrying the respect due to a worthy adversary.

"May the best fighter win," Nick replied, meaning every word.

The final match opened with mutual respect and escalated into something that transcended mere competition. This was warfare distilled to its purest essence—two warriors testing every lesson they'd ever learned against an opponent who refused to break.

Zora brought everything—military training honed on real battlefields, enhanced conditioning that bordered on superhuman, years of experience against opponents who fought to kill rather than score points. Her combinations were masterpieces of controlled lethality, each strike placed with surgical precision.

Nick responded with the sum total of his transformation—Val's merciless conditioning, Arlize's strategic insights filtering through without magical enhancement, and the fluid adaptability that came from preparing for threats no curriculum could anticipate.

For fifteen minutes, they fought with an intensity that brought the entire arena to its feet. The platform became their world, and in that world there was only movement and counter-movement, strike and response, two minds locked in violent communion.

Zora's combinations flowed like symphonies of destruction. Nick's responses moved like water finding its way around immovable stone. Every technique either fighter deployed represented the absolute pinnacle of their respective disciplines.

The end came not through overwhelming force or flashy technique, but through the kind of patient calculation that separated good fighters from legends. Nick had been reading Zora's patterns throughout their exchange, cataloguing the subtle ways her military conditioning created predictable responses to specific triggers.

When he finally struck, it was with a sequence that turned Zora's own tactical precision against her—using her training's greatest strength as the key to her defeat. The submission that followed was clean, respectful, and utterly decisive.

"I yield," Zora said, her voice carrying a warrior's respect for superior skill when it counted most.

The arena erupted as Professor Rhyst raised Nick's hand in victory. "Champion: Nicholas Valiente!"

He'd done it. He'd actually done it.

[Congratulations Host. There was never any doubt that Host would prevail.]

Good job. There's still plenty of work ahead—you and your friends are still rough around the edges—but you've come a long way these past few months, Arlize said from his subconscious.

I was wondering when you'd surface. Nick thought wryly to the second consciousness within him. You've been quiet lately. Thought you'd found someone else to haunt.

You were in the middle of serious examinations and I did not wish to disturb, Nick heard Arlize say primly before disappearing back into his consciousness.

Chuckling at Arlize's prissy tone, Nick stepped off the platform and followed Zora toward the exit.

Then a piercing, unnatural siren sliced through the arena, silencing the crowd instantly. Students, faculty, and staff froze mid-motion.

Communication devices blazed to life across the stands, bathing faces in stark, unsettling glows. Expressions shifted rapidly from confusion to shock to raw terror.

Nick felt dread spike through his chest. Without his own communicator, he was flying blind. He quickly closed the gap with Zora, who had stopped dead to scan the arena, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Her expression darkened as she watched panic ripple through the crowd.

"What is it?" he asked sharply.

She didn't answer. Instead, she bolted toward the exit, and Nick took off after her.

But before they could reach it, a deep crimson barrier erupted upward, sealing every exit and rising like blood-red glass from the arena floor.

A series of thunderous explosions erupted in the distance, shaking the mountain and sending tremors through the ground beneath their feet. The blasts all came from the same direction: Mt. Cook City.

Sophia, talk to me! What's happening?

[Host, emergency reports indicate a Veil tear has opened in Mt. Cook City. Faculty channels are completely overwhelmed.]

A tear in the Veil? Nick's pulse hammered. Here? How the hell—

Sophia cut him off, their voice carrying an edge of urgency he'd never heard before.

[Host, there's something else. I've completely lost connection to Maggie Zhang.]