The next day.
As soon as the sun rose above the horizon, a giant ship appeared at the base of the mountain, descending slowly through the clouds before coming to a stop above a massive stone platform.
Behind it came several smaller vessels, each carrying elite members of the Bastion.
The arrival immediately drew the attention of nearly everyone in Ascension City. People poured out of buildings and gathered along the streets, while those who had already been waiting near the mountain pushed forward for a better view.
"That’s Vincent Lumberg, the Left Governor of the Lumberg Republic!"
"That’s the Senos Prince!"
"Look! That’s Landslide, the Great One-Eyed Giant!"
"Those are core members of the Bastion!"
Voices rose in a chaotic wave throughout the crowd.
For ordinary citizens, this was one of the most entertaining spectacles in the human territories. The Bastion rarely opened its gates to outsiders, and seeing some of humanity’s strongest figures gathered in one place was an opportunity that came only once a year.
But for the contestants standing upon the platform, there was nothing entertaining about it—this was life or death.
Some had spent decades preparing for this single opportunity, while others had been trained from childhood specifically for this selection, carrying the immense expectations of entire bloodlines on their shoulders.
For the four kingdoms—the Kingdom of Bark, the Lumberg Republic, the Senos Monarchy, and the Cryptic Empire—the selection was a definitive measure of their future standing.
Every year, their greatest young talents were sent here. And every year, the vast majority returned empty-handed.
The reason was simple: the Bastion only accepted twenty juniors from across all four kingdoms every year.
Twenty.
That razor-thin quota included generational prodigies, heirs of ancient lineages, high-tier summoners, and young combatants who had already reached heights most mortals could only dream of.
Yet even among them, only the absolute best were allowed through the gates.
Ethan stood among the contestants, quietly observing the colossal citadel ahead.
The Bastion itself looked less like a traditional academy and far more like an impenetrable military fortress. Massive stone walls climbed the jagged mountain ridges, reinforced by ancient defensive formations that stretched so far into the clouds that Ethan could barely see where they ended.
Several enormous towers rose behind the main gate, each serving a distinct purpose: training grounds, research facilities, summoning chambers, treasuries, and at the summit, the central hall where humanity’s supreme leaders convened.
Ethan’s eyes narrowed slightly. Even from this distance, he could feel countless overwhelming auras—some restrained so completely that their depths were unreadable, while others radiated sheer, lethal force.
"Quite a crowd," the familiar voice of the Son of Nezha chimed from beside him.
The Angel stood with his hands locked behind his head, looking around with relaxed indifference. To an ancient entity of his caliber, the gathered mortals weren’t particularly special; even the strongest among them were still leagues away from his realm.
"Good morning, great people of the world."
A resonant voice suddenly rolled across the entire platform, cutting through the noise instantly.
At the front of the dais stood a middle-aged proctor wearing a plain silk robe. There was nothing outwardly intimidating about his appearance—he wore no armor, drew no weapon, and projected no visible pressure—yet the moment he spoke, the entire platform fell dead silent.
His gaze swept across the assembled candidates. "The Bastion welcomes the heroes of the four kingdoms. Every year, countless talents arrive at this mountain seeking a place within humanity’s greatest shield. But the Bastion has never promised to accept everyone."
The atmosphere grew noticeably heavier.
"For this year’s selection, the baseline requirement is Tier 6."
Murmurs of shock rippled through the ranks.
"If you are below Tier 6, step aside," the proctor continued with cold indifference. "You may return next year."
Dozens of hopefuls immediately lowered their heads, clenching their fists in bitter disappointment as they were forced off the platform. They had arrived believing their natural gifts would suffice, only to realize the entry barrier had been raised yet again.
The Bastion had the resources to advance weaker candidates, but they had no desire to waste them. They valued individuals capable of breaking through bottlenecks by their own strength; if someone couldn’t even reach Tier 6 before arrival, they held little value to the citadel.
Ethan watched the disqualified candidates depart in silence.
The Son of Nezha let out a short chuckle. "Cruel."
"Necessary," Ethan replied calmly.
The Angel shot him a sideways glance. "You’re learning."
Before Ethan could answer, another imposing figure stepped forward. He was a broad-shouldered elder with a thick, gray beard, radiating a heavy, unmistakable pressure with every stride.
"So that’s Bartholomew," the Son of Nezha muttered.
Ethan looked over. "Pureblood Faction?"
The Angel nodded. "The one overseeing this trial."
Ethan studied the elder carefully. The Bastion was divided into four major power blocs: the Dawn Faction, the Pureblood Faction, the Ascendant Faction, and the Vanguard Faction.
The Pureblood Faction acted as the de facto political authority. While not necessarily the strongest in direct combat, their influence was vast. They favored ancient royal houses, descendants of the Bastion’s founders, and lineages possessing what they considered divine providence.
To them, bloodline was paramount. If left entirely to their devices, the Bastion would quickly become an exclusive playground for aristocracy and noble scions.
The Ascendants and Vanguards operated on different principles, while the Dawn Faction—the one Ethan held a direct token for—stood as the undisputed martial peak.
Ethan paid little mind to the factional politics for now; his sole priority was securing the resources and knowledge to grow stronger.
"No more time to waste," Bartholomew announced, raising a hand. "Send forth the candidates for the initial evaluation."
Several runic platforms hummed to life across the stage, illuminating the candidates nearest to them.
"The first stage is biodata and sampling," Bartholomew’s voice boomed. "Your class, summons, bloodline traits, and baseline potential will be cataloged. The Bastion’s minimum threshold is an A-Ranked class or summon. If you fall below that mark, you are eliminated."
Tension flared through the crowd once more. To ordinary mortals, an A-Rank asset was a generational miracle; here, it was merely the baseline to avoid instant disqualification.
The first contestant stepped forward onto the runic platform, visibly trembling as a column of light shot upward.
[Daro Mingos]
[Class: Summoner]
[Summons: 4]
[2 C-Rank]
[1 B-Rank]
[1 A-Rank]
[Qualified]
Admiration erupted from the spectators as Daro breathed a massive sigh of relief, proudly stepping aside. To the crowd, his four summons were impressive, but to the Bastion proctors, it barely cleared the floor.
One after another, candidates stepped onto the arrays.
[Selia Vorn]
[Class: Elemental Mage]
[Tier: 6]
[Innate Talent: A-Rank]
[Qualified]
[Toren Vance]
[Class: Summoner]
[3 Summons]
[1 B-Rank]
[2 A-Rank]
[Qualified]
As the trials continued, the crowd’s cheering grew louder with every qualified candidate.
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