I Copy the Authorities of the Four Calamities-Chapter 163: The Dreamer’s Threshold

The violet light died.

Instructor Thorne killed the power to the arrays. The geometric grooves in the basalt floor went dark, and the crushing, parasitic weight that had filled the room vanished.

The atmosphere decompressed instantly.

Vane exhaled. A plume of white mist escaped his lips, dissipating into the chilled air. His mana, which had been cycling in a tight, defensive loop for two hours, settled back into his core. It hummed with the quiet efficiency of a cooling engine.

Beside him, the squad recovered.

Ashe leaned against a pillar. She wiped a streak of grime from her forehead. Her breathing was fast, ragged. Her mana flickered around her skin like a dying candle, unstable and agitated.

Valerica stood with her hands clasped behind her back. Her posture was rigid. A faint shimmer of solar plasma distorted the air around her shoulders before winking out. She looked composed, but the knuckles of her clasped hands were white.

Thorne stood in the center of the ring.

He watched them. His flinty eyes swept over the survivors, stripping away their fatigue and judging the quality of their endurance. He was a Rank 6 Expert. He had survived the frontiers. He carried his scars like medals.

To the other students, Thorne was a titan. To Vane, he was simply a hazard.

Vane had stood in the shadow of Headmistress Evangeline. He had felt the absolute zero of Isaac’s mother. Those were Rank 9 entities—gods walking in mortal skin. Compared to the crushing weight of the singularity, Thorne was a localized storm. Dangerous, yes. But he had a ceiling.

"The baseline is established," Thorne said.

His voice was a rasp. It grated against the silence.

"The ones standing have earned their place. For this week. The ones on the floor will report to the generalist blocks. We do not waste high-density energy on vessels that crack under pressure."

He didn’t offer praise. He didn’t offer advice. He turned on his heel. His heavy combat boots struck the stone, a final, resonant punctuation mark.

The heavy doors slammed shut behind him.

Ashe slid down the pillar until she hit the floor. She groaned.

"I prefer the Iron Groves," she muttered. She rubbed her chest, grimacing. "The trees tried to kill me, sure. But they didn’t try to eat my core from the inside out. My mana channels feel like they’ve been scrubbed with steel wool."

"It was a test of leakage," Valerica said. Her voice was level, though tight. She looked at Vane. Her expression softened for a microsecond—a crack in the noble mask—before sealing up again. "Thorne doesn’t care about output. He cares about retention. We are Sentinels now. Leakage is death."

Vane adjusted his cuffs.

He hadn’t broken a sweat.

[Authority Active: Silver Fang]

The silver mana didn’t just flow; it obeyed. It circulated through his veins with the cold precision of a clockwork mechanism. It didn’t leak. It didn’t create friction. While the others fought the parasitic floor, Vane had simply tightened his loop until he was a closed system.

"We need to move," Vane said.

He turned toward the far end of the wing. Massive obsidian doors loomed in the distance, etched with containment wards.

"The training block is over," he continued. "The cultivation window for the Void Chambers opens in ten minutes. If we want spots in the primary rings, we have to beat the Second Years."

They left the hall.

In the corridor, Isole waited.

She leaned against the wall, looking like a porcelain doll that had been cracked and glued back together. Her skin was translucent. Her mismatched eyes—one emerald, one a swirling, chaotic scarlet—glowed with residual power.

The Scarlet Eye took its toll. The Arcanic Lattice Calculus required to process the future burned calories and mana like a furnace.

She pushed off the wall as they approached. She didn’t speak. She just fell into step beside Ashe.

The formation locked in.

Vane. Valerica. Ashe. Isole.

They walked down the central spine of the Zenith Academy.

The halls had changed.

Before the purge, the corridors were a chaotic sea of noise, filled with the nervous energy of thousands of students. Now, the air was thin. Cold. The crowds were gone.

The corridors were occupied by small, focused packs of elites. Rank 3s and 4s.

The group moved as a single entity. They carried a collective weight that distorted the ambient mana around them. Vane, the Usurper. Valerica, the Sun. Ashe, the Flicker. Isole, the Oracle.

Four EX-Rank Authorities in one squad.

In any other decade, a single one of them would have been the crown jewel of the generation. Together, they were a gravitational anomaly.

Whispers trailed them like smoke.

"That’s the circle." "The ones who cleared the Groves." "They killed a Justiciar."

Vane ignored the noise. He ignored the glares of the Second Years who leaned against the lockers, sizing them up. He ignored the territorial posturing of the rival squads.

He had tunnel vision.

The only thing that mattered was the gap. The distance between his current rank and the peak was still too wide. He needed to close it.

They reached the Void Chambers.

The doors were solid slabs of obsidian, three times the height of a man. The mana density leaking from the cracks was thick enough to taste—metallic and sweet.

These were the premium cultivation rooms. They were carved directly into the heart of the floating island, tapping into the arterial mana-veins of the ley line. Traditionally, this was Second Year territory.

The Sentinel merger had broken the lock.

Vane placed his hand on the scanner. The wards flashed white. The doors groaned open.

They entered.

The main hall of the Void Chambers was a cathedral of silence.

It was a cavernous space, lit only by the soft, blue luminescence of floating mana crystals. The floor wasn’t stone; it was a grate suspended over a subterranean lake of liquid mana. The raw power bubbled and hissed below, sending plumes of pure energy rising into the air.

Circular meditation platforms floated above the lake, tethered by gravity runes.

Most were occupied.

Vane scanned the room. He saw the aura signatures of the Second Year elite. Rank 4 Sentinels. Their shrouds were dense, guarded. They sat in lotus positions, breathing in the heavy mana, refining their cores.

Vane’s eyes swept the perimeter.

He stopped.

In the far corner, away from the prime real estate of the mana lake, there was a recessed alcove. It was shadowed, cut off from the main light sources.

Something was wrong with the space.

It wasn’t empty. It was too empty.

A girl sat there.

She looked entirely out of place in the grim, militaristic atmosphere of the Academy. She wasn’t meditating. She wasn’t practicing somatic loops.

She was lounging.

She sat on a pile of crushed velvet cushions, her back propped against the cold stone wall. Her legs were drawn up, chin resting on her knees. Long, lavender hair fell in a messy, unkempt curtain around her face.

She looked bored. Lazy. Detached from the reality of the room.

"That’s her," Ashe whispered. Her voice dropped an octave. "Rank 1."

Ashe didn’t point. She knew better.

"Nyx," Ashe breathed. "They say she hasn’t attended a lecture in four months. The instructors don’t mark her absent. They mark her ’Exempt.’ Look at the air around her."

Valerica narrowed her eyes. The air around her shoulders shimmered as she activated her gravitational senses.

"I can’t feel her," Valerica murmured. A frown creased her forehead. "My waves are sliding right off. It’s like there’s a hole in the world where she’s sitting."

Vane didn’t respond.

He stared at the alcove.

He felt a pull. A tug in his chest. It wasn’t magic. It was instinct. The Rat inside him sat up and took notice. It was the recognition of a predator acknowledging another apex creature entering the territory.

He wanted to know.

"Vane," Isole said. Her voice was sharp. Her emerald eye flashed. "Stop. She is not like the others. The lines around her... they don’t connect."

"I know," Vane said.

He stepped forward.

"Vane!" Valerica hissed.

He ignored her.

He walked across the obsidian grate. His boots made soft, deliberate contacts. He left the safety of his squad and moved into the open ground.

He approached the alcove.

He raised his silver shroud. It wasn’t a flare; it was a shield. He wrapped the Silver Fang around his mind and body, tightening his defenses until he was a walking bunker.

He entered her field.

The air changed.

The heavy, metallic taste of the Void Chamber mana vanished. The humidity dropped. The sound of the bubbling lake faded into a distant, muffled hum, as if he were underwater.

The light from the crystals turned grey. Desaturated.

Vane kept walking.

[Target Analysis]

Name: Nyx Rank: 4 (Peak Sentinel) Authority: [Dreamscape] (EX) Danger: Categorical

Vane’s eyes stayed fixed.

EX-Rank.

He had seen the designation before. It was the same tier as his own Usurper. The same tier as Valerica’s Star. But seeing it on a stranger—on an enemy—was different.

He stopped ten paces away.

The silence in the alcove was absolute. It was heavy. It pressed against his eardrums.

Nyx didn’t move.

She continued to stare at nothing. Her breathing was slow, shallow. She seemed lost in a world that overlaid the physical one.

She was playing with something.

Between her fingers, she twisted a thin ribbon of purple mana.

Vane focused on the ribbon.

His brain hurt.

The ribbon looped in patterns that defied geometry. It passed through itself. It had one side. It vanished and reappeared inches away without crossing the space between.

She was knitting unreality.

Vane stood his ground. He let his silent confidence act as a breakwater against the unsettling atmosphere. He didn’t speak. He didn’t challenge her. He simply existed in her space, his silver eyes dissecting her defenses.

He searched for a flaw. A tremor. A point of friction.

There was nothing.

She was perfectly synchronized with the silence. She was a ghost in the machine.

Vane took one more step.

He crossed the invisible threshold.

The purple ribbon in her fingers stopped moving.

The silence deepened. It turned from a lack of sound into an active force. It grabbed Vane’s throat.

The silver mana in his veins turned to ice. His internal circulation—perfect moments ago—stuttered.

He thought of Isole’s nightmares. The frost that wouldn’t melt.

Slowly, Nyx moved.

She lifted her head. The motion was fluid, drag-heavy, as if she were moving through deep water. The lavender hair fell away from her face.

Her skin was porcelain. Pale. Flawless. Her features were symmetrical to the point of being uncanny. She looked like a doll carved by a master craftsman who had forgotten to add humanity.

She opened her eyes.

They were voids.

No whites. No pupils. Just deep, endless pools of violet starlight that swirled with the slow, terrifying rotation of a galaxy.

She looked at Vane.

And for the first time since coming to Zenith, Vane felt the sensation of being transparent.