The Labyrinth was no longer shifting to challenge the students; it was shifting to harvest them.
The screams from the other side of the obsidian walls had turned from sharp terror into a wet, rhythmic silence. In the sub-level where the F-Class stood, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and iron. The Goliath Warden loomed over them, a relic of a forgotten holy war, its joints hissing with high-pressure steam.
On its shoulder, the student—a high-ranking Elite named Barrett—laughed, his face twisted by a "Blessing" that looked more like a parasitic vine of gold light burrowing into his skin.
"Look at them, Matthew," Barrett sneered, pointing toward a pile of shredded robes and broken wands in the corner. "The D-Class. The C-Class. They didn't even make it past the first hall. The Dean told us the Labyrinth needed to be 'fed' to stabilize the Academy's core after your little stunt. You're not just a student anymore. You're the reason they're dead."
"He's lying, Matt!" Lyra shouted, but her voice was drowned out as the Goliath Warden raised its massive iron flail.
The Warden didn't strike Matthew first. It swung the flail in a devastating horizontal arc, smashing into a group of three E-Class students who were trying to hide behind a pillar. They didn't have time to scream. The impact pulverized the stone and the students alike, leaving nothing but a smear of red and silver dust.
The Labyrinth reacted to the death instantly. The green moss on the walls flared to a bright, hungry emerald, sucking the spilled mana out of the air.
"He's using them as fuel!" Andre yelled, his goggles flashing. "The Warden gets stronger every time someone dies nearby! It's a closed-loop sacrifice!"
Matthew watched the dust settle. The Golden Ring in his eyes didn't just pulse; it burned. A cold, absolute rage settled into his bones, dampening the "Hollow Saint" heat and replacing it with something far older and far more dangerous.
"Barrett," Matthew said, his voice a low, vibrating hum that made the Warden's steam-valves stutter. "You think the Gods want you as a winner?"
Matthew stepped over the rubble, his hand reaching for the air. The violet fire didn't erupt outward this time; it coiled around his arm like a serpent, turning his skin into a matte-black void that seemed to swallow the light from the moss.
"They don't want winners," Matthew rasped. "They want a clean plate."
The Warden lunged, the flail coming down with enough force to crack the continent. Matthew didn't move. He raised his left hand, and when the iron hit the void, the laws of physics simply stopped. The flail didn't bounce; it didn't shatter. It stopped. The kinetic energy was absorbed into Matthew's core in a single, silent thud.
Barrett's smile vanished. "What... what are you doing? That's a Holy Relic! You can't just—"
"I'm hungry, Barrett," Matthew whispered.
Matthew gripped the chain of the flail and pulled. The twenty-foot Warden stumbled forward, its massive iron feet grinding into the moss. Matthew didn't just pull the metal; he pulled the spirit inside the suit. The glowing silver runes on the Warden's chest began to flicker and turn violet.
"Andre! Lyra! Now!"
Lyra leaped onto the Warden's leg, her fire-sword carving a jagged line through the armor's cooling vents. Andrew slammed his shield into the Warden's knee, the vibration echoing through the chamber.
But it was Matthew who delivered the "Practical" lesson. He leaped onto the Warden's chest, his black-void hand punching through the iron plate. He didn't find a heart; he found a glowing core of divine mana—the very "stomach" of the construct.
He crushed it.
The explosion of energy was contained within the small space of Matthew's grip. The Warden's gold-and-iron body went limp, its steam turning to cold mist. Barrett was thrown from the shoulder, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
Matthew stood atop the dead Warden, the stolen mana leaking from his eyes like violet tears. He looked out into the darkness.
He could hear them now. Not just the spiders, but the sound of the Academy's main gate opening at the top of the Labyrinth. The Dean wasn't waiting for the Practical to end. He was sending in the Inquisitor-General's Purge Squad to finish the job while the students were still trapped in the maze.
"Matt..." Lyra whispered, looking at the pile of dead students in the corner. "How many are left?"
Matthew looked at the shifting walls. He could feel the heartbeats of the survivors—dimming, scattered, and terrified.
"Not enough," Matthew said, his voice echoing through the hollow stone. "But enough to start a fire."