Chapter Eighty-Nine: The Star Ceremony

  The Hero’s Hall stretched impossibly, as if reality itself had bowed to the whimsy of magic. The grandeur wasn’t merely in its size—though it was vast enough to host every one of the seven thousand students, dignitaries, and visitors without the slightest sense of crowding—but in the subtle elegance that adorned every inch of its newly enchanted space. The ceiling vaulted far above, a magnificent dome that mirrored the night sky. Silver stars glided across its surface, streaks of cosmic light, shimmering just beyond reach. Every few moments, a shooting star blazed a bright, fleeting path that drew murmurs of appreciation from the arriving guests.

  Jace stood on the red carpet leading to the entrance, a thin layer of dusk still clinging to the horizon behind him. The golden hour painted everything in warm, liquid light, catching the shimmer of formalwear, the elegance of gowns, and the pressed suits of those gathered. Jace’s fingers fidgeted against his side, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as a wave of nerves rolled through him. He had spent what he could afford on this night, dressing himself in an attire fit for the Society of Hades—a dark, onyx-black suit with subtle embroidery in crimson thread, coiling like twisting smoke along his sleeves. His jacket was a long tailcoat, its silken lining glinting like the surface of still water under moonlight, and beneath, a vest the color of blood, with buttons of polished obsidian. The whole ensemble felt weighty, not because of the fabric, but because of the image it portrayed—a fleeting comfort to be draped in such shadows, something that whispered he belonged.

  Beside him, Dex wore a grin that was as much a part of his outfit as his Hermes attire—an ensemble of deep gray with accents of gold, a cape clasped at the shoulder with a glistening winged pin. Dex had been flirting shamelessly with the stream of students walking by, and his gaze darted about, catching and releasing smiles, until his eyes widened.

  Jace followed his friend’s gaze, and his words caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.

  Ell, Molly, and Alice approached, and for a moment, it felt as if time itself had slowed. Molly walked with effortless poise, her gown seemingly conjured from mist and shadow, with silvery threads glistening in the shifting fabric. There were symbols of Hecate—a trinity knot nestled into the pattern, a necklace that hung delicately at her throat, its amulet a dark moonstone that carried a soft glow, matched in her eyes.

  Ell moved with the self-assurance of one born to command. Her gown was fitting for a champion of Athena, woven in silvery greens and layered with hints of armor-like detail—a shimmering bodice that showed both beauty and strength. Ell stood there, her long brown hair swept up in an intricate design, a delicate balance of braids and curls that framed her face like a crown.

  The rich green of her dress seemed to pull at the olive undertones in her skin, deepening the warmth of her complexion. The gown flowed around her, hugging her frame in a way that was both elegant and effortlessly alluring, the fabric catching the light with each subtle movement. Her eyes, a sharp contrast to her warm tones, sparkled with mischief, and the faintest touch of gold in her earrings caught the light as she tilted her head, that mocking smile playing on her lips. She radiated a confidence that was nearly regal, tempered by a hint of mischief that made her presence impossible to ignore.

  Then there was Alice. The breath caught hardest when Jace’s gaze fell upon her. Her dress was deceptively simple at first glance—a fluid, ivory material, almost translucent in its delicacy, with subtle layers underneath that prevented the eye from understanding its depth. Gold filigree spiraled gently around her sleeves, her waist, and her collar. A diadem rested on her brow; a silver chain with a single sapphire at its center, glinting each time the fading light above caught it.

  Her hair, usually a bright blonde, had been enchanted to a deeper, almost molten gold, each strand shimmering as though they were but kisses of sunlight. The golden waves fell around her shoulders, and two long, waving curls framed her face, cascading down gracefully to her chest. The glow gave her an ethereal aspect, as if she were a vision from another world.

  Her eyes found Jace’s, and for a heartbeat, the rest of the world melted away—no bustling students, no grand hall, just the quiet moment between them. Her soft smile was enough to dissolve every word that had formed on his tongue, leaving only the unspoken warmth hanging in the air between them. His heart quickened, and she responded with a gentle blush, her eyes lowering slightly under the intensity of his gaze.

  “Well, look at you all,” Dex was the first to recover, offering a grinning half-bow.

  Ell’s red lips curled into a mocking frown, but the corners betrayed her with a faint smile.

  “Look at me?” She let her gaze linger on him for a long beat. “Finally learned how to put on a suit, I see. I hope I haven’t seen the last of your roguish charm, Dex.” Her eyes sparkled, holding a warmth her words tried to mask.

  Dex turned away, uncharacteristically shy, his grin faltering for just a moment.

  Jace broke the moment with a clap, his voice full of teasing admiration. “I didn’t know it was possible, Ell. You’ve managed to make young Dex here blush.”

  Before the banter could continue, a high-pitched voice cut in from the side. Marcus approached, his entrance marked by the shimmering reflection of golden threads in his suit, streaked with bolts of blue lightning that pulsed faintly with every step.

  “Ah, the gang’s all here,” Marcus said, spreading his arms as if to embrace the whole gathering. His smile was broad - well-rehearsed, his energy taut with effort, but it was clear he was genuinely trying.

  They each locked arms with a partner.

  Jace found himself next to Alice as they began moving inside, her arm resting gently in his. Dex had paired with Ell, and Marcus politely extended his arm to Molly, who quirked an eyebrow at him before giving a small, gracious nod. They moved forward together, an odd mix woven into a cohesive whole.

  The inside of the Hero’s Hall was breathtaking, the foyer opening up into a space grander than the outside could have ever suggested. It was like stepping into another world—a theater too splendid to be anything mundane. Plush carpeting swept beneath their feet, the fabric seemingly stitched from the dark night sky, sprinkled with tiny, glowing stars. A massive chandelier hung above the main entryway, a cascade of glass and crystal that refracted light into countless shimmering shards. From the open foyer, the theater beyond could be seen, each seat rising in a tiered pattern around a central stage, upon which orbs of light floated lazily, their glow soft and inviting.

  Around them, the room was a living constellation of the gods—students dressed in garments that paid homage to their chosen deities. To Jace’s left, a group from Poseidon’s Society moved like a tide, dressed in seafoam blues and greens, their robes rippling with each step as though waves broke along the fabric. Across the way, the students of Hephaestus stood with their copper-threaded jackets, blacksmith motifs woven into their attire, subtle glimmers of ember red flickering at their hems.

  A cluster of Apollo’s devotees moved through the crowd, their garments adorned with radiant sunbursts of gold and white, shining in the low light. Each of their cloaks had a glinting emblem—a lyre or a sun—stitched just over the heart. Beside them, the followers of Artemis stood quieter, wrapped in moonlit silvers and shadowy greens, cloaks pinned with small crescent brooches, the fabric trailing behind like midnight mist.

  Jace spotted Hermes’ followers scattered through the room—dexterous and agile even in formalwear. Each wore a different shade, though all bore winged pins, the insignia of their swift-footed patron. In stark contrast, a few of Ares’ adherents passed by, clad in crimson sashes and sharp, almost martial attire, as if even a ball was but another battlefield to conquer.

  The room shimmered, each group a living homage to their patron god, the blending colors, symbols, and the gentle clang of accessories forming a vivid mosaic of Olympus itself.

  They were led to their seats, positioned by the rank each had achieved—clusters of students of similar standing seated together. Jace found himself beside Molly in the Bronze Three section. He couldn’t help his curiosity, leaning toward her as they settled.

  “I thought you’d be higher ranked, given...well, everything,” Jace said softly.

  Molly turned her head, her smile a little wistful. “The step between Three and Four is no small thing, Jace. And being an Aide to Professors... well, it comes with perks and drawbacks. I possess access to knowledge, to old, arcane secrets passed down through millennia, but that means less time to life, to gain experience. As with all great things, a cost is paid.”

  Jace couldn’t help but wonder if Molly realized just how peculiar she sounded sometimes, her words often teetering between profound wisdom and enigmatic riddles, like she lived half a breath removed from everyone else’s reality.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Yes, I do,” Molly said, a slight smile playing on her lips.

  Jace blinked. Had he said that out loud? He glanced at her, trying to read the expression in her eyes.

  She simply smiled and nodded. The lights dimmed slightly, drawing attention toward the center stage. He glanced sideways at Alice. She was watching the orbs hovering above, her eyes wide in awe. Jace let himself smile, the feeling of nervousness settling into something warmer. It's strange the things we are nervous about and the things we aren’t.

  The night was beginning, and somehow, the unknown seemed not quite as daunting, his gaze drifting between his friends, knowing he wasn’t stepping into it alone.

  The four high council professors stepped onto the stage, each taking a seat with deliberate grace, facing the audience.

  The Archmage strode to the podium at the center, his wooden staff tapping rhythmically against the floor. His robes were a cascade of white and gold, flowing like liquid light, each thread seemingly woven from dawn itself. He paused, letting silence take root, his presence enough to snuff out even the murmurs at the back of the hall. His eyes scanned the crowd, and in that gaze, there was nothing soft, no warmth—only focus and expectation. When he spoke, his voice cut through the quiet like a blade, sharp and without preamble.

  “The Star Ceremony,” he began, his tone not indulgent of grand speeches, “is an annual acknowledgment of the progress among our students and faculty—marked through the stars and ranks earned.”

  He didn’t bother with any theatrics, didn’t call for applause. There was a stillness that held the room, every word hanging in the air like a challenge. It was something Jace was getting used to—the Archmage’s way of being so brutally direct that it left no room for misunderstanding.

  “Tonight, we celebrate what has been accomplished so far, and we rejoice in our growth. But,” his voice dropped a notch, “tonight, while recognizing what we’ve achieved, we must also acknowledge the necessity for more. More progress. More resilience.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd, anticipation and unease trading hands beneath the polite fa?ade of the gathered students.

  “And so,” he continued, “we are officially announcing this year’s Winter Games.”

  Jace felt a shiver run down his spine, his muscles tensing as if an electric current had passed through him. The Winter Games. Of course, the words hung there, almost like an accusation, daring them to react. Jace glanced around and saw the same look of shock etched on the faces of the students around him. No one had said it aloud before, not so bluntly. The Archmage had, once again, yanked it out of the realm of whispers and fears and planted it directly before them.

  “Many of you may think the Games should be canceled this year,” the Archmage went on. His eyes shifted to one of the council members—Brutus, whose lips were pressed into a thin, disapproving line. Dranice Thorne, on the other hand, was nodding, a self-satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “We have discussed it,” the Archmage said. “And it is true that the Winter Games are known for their exceedingly high casualty rate. But it is also true that this is when we see the most growth in your capabilities.” He paused, letting his gaze sweep across them, as though measuring their reaction.

  “These games were never just a test,” he continued, his voice now with an edge of conviction. “They were designed to teach, to push. The trial courses have, for countless generations, helped our students grow. And yes, the Respawn remains riskier than it’s ever been. We’re evaluating that risk continuously. Thus, there shall be an additional rule for these upcoming Games. You will be allowed only one Respawn—one, be it in preparation for or during the Games themselves. After that, you will be disqualified from continuing. And I understand that a single gamble with fate can seem too much, but I must remind you that outside of this campus, outside the safety we provide, many of you will face far worse. You must be ready.”

  Jace clenched his fists unconsciously, the Archmage’s words wrapping around him like a vice. A single Respawn... The room felt charged, as if everyone was holding their breath, caught between fear and determination.

  “I would rather risk a single death here,” the Archmage continued, his voice quiet but unwavering, “than watch you Respawn again and again in the field, against something far less forgiving.”

  He let the words settle, and for a moment, the room was silent again. Then, he drew himself up. “On the Winter Solstice, we will hold the Winter Games. We will increase both the rewards and the safety precautions. And remember—participation is not mandatory. Only those societies that wish to compete need enter.”

  His gaze swept over them one last time, and Jace felt the full measure of it, as though the Archmage was daring them to defy the necessity of the Games. He didn’t know if he was ready—if anyone was ready—but the choice, it seemed, was slipping further from their hands.

  “There is a cold reality we must face, it seems. For the time being, logging out is no longer an option.” The Archmage’s words cut clean through the murmurs, his tone as sharp as the edge of his staff. “For months, we’ve watched, analyzed, and tried to understand. Only a handful have needed to respawn that remained here, within the campus—less than a few dozen. But what they experienced…” He paused, his grip tightening on the staff, the knuckles paling under the strain. It was the first sign that even he, the unflinching Archmage, was not immune to the gravity of what he was about to say.

  The murmur in the hall swelled, tension coursing through the crowd like a living thing. Jace’s breath caught in his throat. This wasn’t the kind of directness he expected. Beside him, Ell’s fingers twitched, her eyes darting nervously as if she were seeking something to anchor herself.

  The Archmage tapped his staff against the stage floor, and the air around him shimmered. A figure of light sprang to life above his head, flickering like a candle’s flame—fragile but arresting. It zoomed into a glowing image of a brain, thin tendrils of energy coiling around it like spectral vines.

  “Why this is, we cannot say for certain. But I won’t shield you from what we do know.”

  The Archmage’s eyes swept across the audience, unwavering.

  “We have made some discoveries, and a few more educated guesses, by studying the Traveler’s Handbooks—both before and after respawn. The Handbook keeps a detailed, running record of a Traveler’s experiences and quests throughout Terra Mythica. For those with a high enough perception rank, hidden layers within their own Handbook are revealed, secrets woven beneath the surface for those sharp enough to see.”

  He paused, his gaze growing more intent, as if daring anyone to look away.

  “We’ve been working with individuals—high ranking Travelers outside of this campus. And what they have found aligns with our own observations.”

  The Archmage took a deep breath, his fingers tapping lightly on the staff as he continued. “We are combining data from across all of Mythica, and this is what we’ve discovered so far. It appears that there are two components at play,” he continued calmly. “The brain, and the mind.”

  He gestured at the glowing brain, a shimmering aura beginning to pulse around it.

  “The brain is the hardware. The mind, however, is believed to be something else entirely. Its energy, an electromagnetic force—tied to the body but also beyond it.”

  Jace watched, entranced, as the aura pulsed outward in spectral waves. It seemed almost alive, a living echo around the core of the brain. The Archmage continued, “The Neural Device—the one that links all Travelers to Terra Mythica—splits this connection. It allows your mind to immerse itself fully, to live here, to treat this world as real.”

  He paused, letting the concept settle. “But when death occurs here, there’s a conflict. The mind attempts to return to the body, rejecting death as fake—it wants to reject it, to disbelieve that particular fact. Most of the time, it works.” The image above him dimmed for a heartbeat. “But sometimes… it doesn’t.”

  The hall went utterly silent. Every student was focused, eyes glued to the Archmage, their attention captive and unmoving. No one even dared to breathe too loudly, the tension taut as a drawn bowstring.

  “When the mind truly believes in its own death,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “something else happens. The mind starts rewriting -memories- experiences. It creates what I would call a critical error. And over time, those errors compound.”

  The image shifted, becoming fragmented—scenes shifting chaotically like a broken projector. Fragments of memories, disjointed and haunting. “For some,” the Archmage went on, “it results in lapses—minor gaps that seem like nothing. But for others, the effects are far more serious: disorientation, hallucinations, and in the worst cases… a complete detachment from reality. The mind, reshaped by its own glitches.”

  A chill settled over Jace, creeping up his spine. He barely noticed Dex whispering something beside him; his focus was entirely on the Archmage, on the images of shattered memories. This wasn’t just a game anymore—it hadn’t been for a long time, but now it was impossible to ignore. The line between digital and real, between illusion and existence, had blurred to nothing.

  “So far,” the Archmage continued, his tone somber, “three students have experienced these severe effects—effects of multiple respawns. But the truth is, we have no idea how deep this problem goes.”

  Jace glanced around, catching Molly’s gaze across the room—her eyes wide, her mouth pressed into a thin line. The unease in the hall was palpable, a slow-building panic kept in check only by the frozen stillness of fear.

  “Terra Mythica was designed to be fully immersive,” the Archmage resumed, breaking the silence. “But there are those among us—including myself—who are beginning to question if this is truly a digital construct at all.” His eyes scanned the crowd, each word a challenge, daring someone to object. “Every attempt to parse its code, every effort to understand the framework that underpins this world, has ended in failure. No messages from System Support. No external communication. Earth’s science offers no answers. Some still call it a game, but where is the evidence for that?”

  He stepped forward, and Jace could see the fatigue etched into his features, the lines at the corners of his eyes that spoke of long nights and unanswered questions. “The fact remains,” the Archmage said, his voice steady now, “that whether this is a digital illusion, a simulation, or something far beyond our understanding—it is our reality now.”

  The words struck like a blow, leaving the room breathless. Jace felt his stomach twist, a sense of vertigo taking hold. It wasn’t a game. It was never just a game.

  “I know this truth is hard to accept,” the Archmage said, his expression softening, the barest hint of sympathy in his eyes. “But I trust that you all are stronger than this truth. Keeping you in the dark would do nothing but weaken you. And we cannot afford weakness—not with what lies ahead.”

  He lifted his chin, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, meeting eyes filled with fear and disbelief. “This world isn’t something you can run from. Ignorance isn’t bliss here—it’s a death sentence. Only by facing the truth, through strength and knowledge, can we hope to carve a way forward.”

  He paused, then, almost unexpectedly, a faint smile curled at the corners of his lips. “If I could shield you all from this, I would. But since I cannot, I hope to provide you with the strength to face up to and win against it.”

  He bowed, his speech ending as abruptly as it had begun, like a sudden gust of wind that vanishes without a trace. It left the students in a state of stunned silence, their thoughts suspended in the empty space where his words had once hung.

  Professor Tanner Frost rose and moved beside the Archmage, clearing her throat.

  “On that note,” she said, her voice steady, “let us proceed with the Star Progressions.”