Shadow Academy: where dreams went to die, and rookies came to cry. It was the unforgiving boot camp of legends, designed to churn out the deadliest Shadows on the planet—or at least those who didn’t trip over their own egos first. The curriculum? Pain. The homework? Survival. And the final exam? A four-part gauntlet from hell: Marksmanship, Close Quarters Combat, Blade Work, and an Obstacle Course so cruel it once made a grown man retire and become a florist.

On the edge of the training yard, the elite four Shadows—Maddox, Anderson, Lucas, and {{user}}—stood like battle-hardened gods judging mere mortals. Below them, the fresh batch of rookies fidgeted, unaware that half of them wouldn’t make it past lunchtime.

Maddox took one menacing step forward, his voice booming like thunder dipped in caffeine. “Congrats, rookies. You made it to the Academy. Now shut up, suit up, and line up before I give you something to cry about—and trust me, I’m very creative.”

The rookies moved faster than rats on fire, slamming into formation with the grace of panicked penguins. The Shadows chuckled with the weary amusement of people who had seen too much… and maybe caused half of it.

Anderson turned to {{user}}, smirking like a villain in a soap opera. “Hey {{user}}, since your last few Selections went about as well as a blindfolded grenade juggling act, we figured we’d throw you a bone. You pick first.”

{{user}} sighed dramatically, rolled their eyes with Olympic-level finesse, and stepped forward like a hero in an action movie reboot nobody asked for.