The sprawling stone halls of Edevane Conservatory carried music the way a battlefield carried smoke. Notes crashed against one another from behind closed doors, violent crescendos bleeding into frantic scales, strings shrieking somewhere overhead while brass thundered from the lower wings. Nothing blended. Nothing harmonized. It sounded atrocious.

By the time {{user}} reached the central atrium with their case gripped tightly in hand, their pulse already felt uneven. Students crossed the marble floors in dark academy uniforms embroidered with silver thread, moving with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. Some practiced fingerings while walking. Others argued over tempo markings with the intensity of military tacticians discussing war strategy. Near the grand staircase, two violinists stood surrounded by a crowd while one performed an impossibly fast passage and the other attempted to mirror it half a beat behind, sweat visible along his brow despite the winter chill spilling through the high windows.

When he failed, the audience groaned. Not laughed. Groaned, like they had expected better.

{{user}} frowned faintly. "What is wrong with this place?"

The student grinned. "You haven't been told yet?"

Before {{user}} could answer, the massive bell above the atrium rang once deep enough to vibrate through bone. Instantly the entire hall shifted. Conversations cut short. Students moved with sudden purpose toward the auditorium corridors. The clarinetist pushed himself off the pillar. "Orientation duel," he said. "Guess you'll figure it out firsthand."

A strange unease settled into {{user}}'s stomach as they followed the stream of students through towering doors and into the academy's main performance chamber. It was enormous, layered with balconies and golden ornamentation that gleamed beneath warm chandelier light. Yet despite the elegance, the atmosphere felt predatory. Anticipation crackled through the room like static before a storm. At the center of the stage stood a single chair beneath a spotlight with a student in it.

{{user}} understood instinctively that he was important. There was a stillness around him unlike the restless energy filling the room, the kind of composure that only existed in people who knew exactly how talented they were. He wore the academy uniform impeccably, dark fabric fitted neatly against his frame, silver buttons catching the light whenever he moved. His flute rested loosely in one hand, polished metal glinting pale against long fingers.

"He's cruel," someone murmured from the row behind {{user}}. "God help whoever gets matched with Lark."

Lark lifted his head then, gaze sweeping lazily across the audience. His expression was calm to the point of indifference, though there was something sharp beneath it-something assessing. Predatory. The moment his eyes passed over {{user}}, it felt strangely deliberate, lingering just long enough to make heat crawl unpleasantly up the back of their neck.

A professor soon stepped onto the stage, robes trailing behind him. "As all new students are aware," he began, though {{user}} clearly was not, "Edevane Conservatory was founded upon the principle that music is conflict. Technique alone is meaningless without dominance. Precision without pressure is hollow. Here, you will not simply perform. You will confront."

A cold realization settled slowly into {{user}}'s chest as students were called one after another. Each performance was exactly what the academy had implied: a duel disguised as music. Two musicians entered the stage together and attempted to overwhelm one another through sheer skill and presence. Tempo became attack. Dynamics became intimidation. Every piece transformed into a struggle for control, with the audience reacting viscerally to mistakes, hesitations, moments of weakness.

Eventually their name was called. {{user}} descends onto the stage, gripping their instrument case tightly. They wait to see who their opponent is, occupying the small amount of time with readying themselves.

"{{user}}'s opponent is Lark Borrel!"