Sun & Moon: The Great Wheel Of Time

chapter 8: Invasion test selected

“Where… am I?” Roso muttered as he slowly opened his eyes. His vision swam in and out of focus. A bright light poured in from his left, and when he turned his head, he found himself staring at a wide window.

“Huh?” His brow furrowed. “Am I… in a classroom?”

He blinked several times, trying to make sense of it. Desks, chairs, a blackboard, and rows of students — all of it looked painfully ordinary, yet something about it felt unreal. His thoughts were still muddled, and his body felt strangely light, as though he wasn’t fully there.

Then came a faint voice.

“Roso…”

He froze. The sound was faint, almost like a whisper brushing the edge of his mind.

“What is that?” he murmured. “Is it… in my head?”

The voice came again — clearer this time.

“Roso…”

He looked around, searching for the source, but saw only the quiet hum of students scribbling notes. “A classroom… really?” he said aloud. The realization settled slowly in his mind as he scanned the room once more. “Is a lesson going on?”

“Roso!”

The sharp call cut through his thoughts. This time, he was sure it wasn’t in his head. Are my friends here? he wondered, turning toward the direction of the voice.

But instead of his friends, he was met with the fierce gaze of a tall man standing at the front of the class — white hair, broad shoulders, and eyes that gleamed with irritation.

“I have been calling you for quite some time!” the man barked. “And all you’ve done is sit there ignoring me! Who do you think you are?”

The room erupted in laughter, but the mirth was instantly crushed beneath the man’s glare. Silence returned just as fast as it had come.

Roso blinked, utterly lost. His mouth opened and closed, but no coherent words came out. “Uhmn… ah… erhmn…”

The man slammed his hand against the desk, the sound echoing through the room. “What? Speak up! I can’t hear you!”

Roso stared at him blankly. Who even is this man? he thought in confusion. And before he could stop himself, the question slipped out. “Who are you?”

The entire class gasped. Some students covered their mouths; others simply gawked at him in disbelief.

The man turned, exhaling slowly. “After this class,” he said coldly, “you will report to the disciplinary hall and submit a record of your behavior.”

Still disoriented, Roso nodded automatically. “I comply, sir.” His eyes darted around, noting the bewildered expressions of his classmates. What’s going on here? he thought, but he forced himself to stay quiet.

The man turned back to the board and continued the lecture as though nothing had happened.

“Now, as I was saying…” His voice steadied. “In order to always find the true limit at the boundary of a domain of definition, one must first understand that a limit begins as information.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the silent class. “Take me, for example. I am a professor in Battle Analysis. To some of you, I may appear merely as a professor of analysis — that the ‘battle’ aspect has nothing to do with me. And of course, that’s reasonable, because all you see me doing is analyzing.”

He turned, chalk in hand, and continued. “That, however, is the limit of your information — and therefore, your limit is not absolute. It is yours alone.”

Murmurs rippled through the class as the students pondered his words.

“To others,” the professor went on, “I may appear only as a professor of battle — a warrior teaching through words. Some would even say, ‘What analysis? Isn’t he just flaunting his combat experience through lectures?’”

He smiled faintly, eyes glinting. “But tell me — would you believe what the person beside you says about me? Or will you relay information exactly as you received it? Can you even trust it?”

The room fell silent again.

“Since information can be manipulated,” the professor concluded, “and is therefore unreliable, there is no such thing as a true limit — except the one closest to the domain.”

He lowered the chalk, turning his sharp gaze toward the class.

“Now, tell me,” he said softly, yet every word carried weight, “who among you stands closest to the domain?”

The professor’s lesson ended, yet his words refused to leave the students’ minds. The classroom buzzed with low murmurs as they exchanged uneasy glances.

“But what did the professor mean by that?” one student whispered.

Another replied, “He said… If I am the domain of definition, you are the limit. The domain is the source, and the limit is the boundary.”

The room fell quiet again. The phrase lingered — cryptic, heavy, and strangely haunting.

Roso expression was unreadable. And as soon as the class was dismissed, he left the room, his mind still clouded by the surreal words and his earlier confusion.

Walking through the long, echoing corridor of the academy, he muttered to himself, “Where did he say the disciplinary hall was again?” He scratched his head, glancing left and right as he walked. The halls stretched endlessly, lined with identical doors and tall windows.

Then —

A whisper.

Soft. Distant. Almost like the one he had heard before.

Roso froze.

“What… was that?” he murmured.

The voice came again — faint, muffled by the wind.

“I think it’s coming from outside,” he said, stepping toward the window. Slowly, he leaned closer and peered through the glass.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

A group of masked men stood in the courtyard below. One of them held a weapon — and in an instant, he struck down a student without hesitation.

Roso’s eyes widened. “He just… killed a student? Who are they?”

Then, as if a memory had been jolted awake, his breath caught. “Wait… my first theme… it’s a terrorist attack.”

Reality clicked into place. This wasn’t a dream — it was part of the exam.

Before he could take another glance, a deafening crash shattered the corridor. A massive stone pillar burst through the wall, missing him by mere inches.

Dust and debris exploded around him as the force sent him staggering backward. “Damn it!” he hissed, instinctively summoning his vortex flow. The air twisted beneath him, lifting his body just before the rubble could crush him.

When he steadied himself midair, he caught sight of one of the masked men below — the one who had launched the attack. The terrorist’s eyes met his.

“Boss,” the man called out through his earpiece, “there’s a witness. He dodged my strike.”

A deep, distorted voice replied from the other side, “Then eliminate him.”

The terrorist smirked. “This should be enough!” he shouted, firing another burst toward Roso.

The impact sent shockwaves through the hallway. Roso barely managed to dodge, rolling onto the ground and gasping for air. “The stone pillar… almost killed me,” he muttered, clutching his chest.

His heart pounded. “The level of this exam is too insane. What do they expect us to accomplish? Survive? That’s impossible if we’re up against them…” His voice trembled, but he forced himself to breathe slowly.

“Stay calm, Roso. Stay calm,” he whispered again and again, repeating the words like a mantra until his pulse steadied.

After a moment, he thought aloud, “If there was a teacher in class earlier, then there must be teachers in this school. They’re probably the ones meant to fight these terrorists… But if that’s true, then what’s the point of this exam?”

He frowned, thinking harder. The logic didn’t add up.

“First things first,” he decided. “I need information.”

He clenched his fists. “Yes — that’s it. I need to know what they want.”

And so, Roso began his quiet investigation, moving through the broken ceilling like a shadow.

Hours passed. The terrorists had successfully infiltrated the academy. Screams echoed faintly from distant halls, but Roso dared not look. Every time he peeked through the vents, he saw lifeless bodies — students scattered like fallen leaves.

He whispered, “Why are the dead all students? Where are the teachers?”

A chill crept down his spine.

“Don’t tell me… the teachers are gone.” He swallowed hard. “I haven’t seen a single one since it began. No voices. No resistance.”

Reality set in like frost. He was alone.

Roso hid in the ceiling for nearly six hours, observing, waiting, thinking. The more he watched, the clearer the pattern became. The terrorists weren’t just killing aimlessly — they were also searching.

“They’re after something,” he realized. “They won’t stop until they find it.”

No instructions. No guidance. No support. Just chaos.

Roso exhaled and made his decision. “If no teacher will take our defense,” he murmured, “then someone else ought to do so... But who.”

With quiet precision, he crawled through the ventilation ducts, his senses sharpened. When he reached another hallway, he dropped silently from the ceiling, scanning his surroundings.

Then — a noise.

A faint shuffle.

Roso’s body tensed. “What was that?” he whispered. “It came from the left corridor.”

He moved soundlessly along the ceiling beams, inching closer to the source.

When he finally looked down — his breath caught.

Before his eyes unfolded a scene beyond bravery… or madness he thought.