Midday — Combat Grounds Theta
The arena was packed.
Not for a tournament. Not for a glorious duel. No, no. That would be too fair.
Class F had been "volunteered" for something called a spontaneous trial, which is ancient academy code for: "Let's see if the expendables survive something horrifying."
Betting slips fluttered through the crowd like cursed butterflies. Classes A to D filled the stands like vultures at a royal funeral. Even some instructors had come out of their dungeons—or lounges—to watch the carnage unfold with popcorn-grade curiosity.
I spotted Feona and Arsia, seated in Class A's front row.
Feona: all icy precision, like a blade waiting to strike.
Arsia: smiling like a cat that just saw a mouse catch fire.
My gut twisted. A familiar twinge of ugh, not this again. Every time those two looked at me, it felt like they were waiting for me to explode. Not die—explode.
And then came Elfes. Cloak fluttering. Hair dramatic. Boots probably enchanted for extra click. He stepped onto the arena like he'd been summoned by a narrator with a flair for theater.
"Today," he announced, "you face the Silverfang."
Cyan choked on air. "Wait. That Silverfang?"
My chest tightened. Not fear exactly. More like... memory trying to crawl out from behind a locked door.
"Three minutes," Elfes said. "Impress me, and you might get to keep your teeth. Maybe even your legs."
Krell laughed. A little too loudly. Definitely trying to drown out the sound of his soul shriveling.
Then the iron gate groaned open.
And out came death on four legs.
The Silverfang—seven feet of muscle, bone armor, glowing eyes, and ancient spiritual energy dripping off it like horror perfume. There was something beneath it, too. A whisper. A chill. Like the creature knew secrets that would ruin your sleep.
My fingers twitched.
"You ever kill something like that?" Cyan asked, trying to joke but not pulling it off.
"Only by accident," I said, smiling faintly.
And for a moment, which was both a joke and possibly true.
Trial Commences,
The beast roared.
We scattered like bad ideas at a strict family dinner.
Krell vanished behind a barrel. One guy ran straight into a wall and collapsed like a budget golem. Cyan did a glorious flying knee and got swatted mid-air like a firefly with too much confidence.
Applause erupted from the crowd.
I didn't move. Not right away.
I watched.
Because something was off. The Silverfang wasn't mindless. Its movements were sharp. Intentional. Like a beast that had read a few military strategy books and decided violence was the best chapter.
Feona met my gaze from the stands. Her eyes glimmered like a blade in moonlight. Arsia leaned forward, chin in her palm, smirking like she was watching a rom-com where someone was about to die.
I sighed and moved.
Spells went off around me—flickers, sparks, the occasional boom orb. One kid actually got it to blink.
Hope.
Then it rampaged again.
Screams. Dust. Chaos. Someone cried out behind me—hurt or panicked, I couldn't tell.
I slipped behind it, quiet as memory, and touched its side. Not to attack.
What was happening I liked it .
Three long, gut-churning minutes later, it was over.
Elfes clapped once. "Passable. Barely."
The Silverfang was reeled back by glowing chains that screamed "we hope this works." Cyan waved at the crowd like he'd won. I checked for bite marks and sanity.
"You dead?" I asked.
He spat a tooth. "One less to brush."
Feona and Arsia? Already gone.
But not before Arsia mouthed:
"Show-off. Not even well."
Brutal. Accurate. Still stung.
---
Evening — Tower's Shadow
After dinner, Wandering around, trying to find some ways to fool around .
I wandered behind the west tower.A place so silent even shadows whispered politely. Perfect for hiding my treasure there .
The stone walls here were darker. Colder. Like the air had weight. Like the wind knew not to breathe too loudly.
And then I saw it.
Not a door. Not an entrance.
A mark—etched into the stone like someone had tried to erase it from the world, but the memory refused to die. A circle. A sharp line. Faint runes that pulsed when I stared too long. Like they were watching me back.
I reached out.
Touched it.
Nothing.
Then—sting.
Cold lightning danced through my hand. Not pain. Not exactly.
And then—gone.
The mark? Vanished.
Maybe it had never been there.
I turned to leave, unsettled. Cold. Not from the wind. From something else.
Didn't notice the figure on the tower roof. One golden eye gleaming in the dark.
Alvion.
Murmuring to himself.
"…The prophecy was true. That ancient sword really did react. It chose him. "
Night — Cliffside Cave
Nyra sat at the entrance, hugging her knees, eyes on the stars like she was trying to read their secrets.
Her wounds had healed, but something in her gaze hadn't. Distant. Haunted.
"Silverfang," she said without turning. "Not bad. But really? You couldn't just kill it like last time?"
I dropped beside her with a dramatic sigh. "I'm retired now. I only kill things that interrupt naps."
She rolled her eyes. "You've been sneaking out. Fighting bandits. Earning coin. You've got more gold than sense."
"Gold buys snacks. Sense doesn't," I said, shrugging.
She looked at me for a long moment. Like she wanted to say something else.
Then tossed me a coin.
Rusty. Old. Heavy with meaning.
"A favor. For helping. Also… we've decided. We're starting something."
"…Please don't say cult."
"An organization. To fight demons. Free the sealed. You know. Hero stuff."
I blinked. "Oh. That's worse."
She didn't argue.
I exhaled and leaned back. "Fine. I'll help. After all, one week more and I should be able to use dark magic again. Then I'll crack that seal of yours like a bad egg."
She narrowed her eyes. "You'll get caught if you keep sneaking out always to do your deed."
I grinned. "Then I'll just become someone allowed to sneak out. Like a rogue. Or a janitor with a sword. Besides—hiding in shadows? Kind of my thing."
She didn't laugh.
But she did snort.
Progress.
That Night – Instructor Vale's Quarters
Instructor Vale sat by the window, swirling elven wine in a glass older than most kingdoms.
A single candle flickered beside him as he read a parchment, brows furrowed.
"Arno Daven – Potential Classification: Unknown. Mana Signature—Fragmented, unstable. Possibly… corrupted."
He whispered the word again, slower.
"Corrupted."
Like it was a curse and a prophecy rolled into one.
Elfes entered without knocking. Of course.
"I saw him use magic today," he said. "But he has no mana."
Vale sighed. "Exactly. That's why he's in Class F. Board's orders. We don't talk about the weird ones. We just put them where no one watches."
He looked out the window, toward the stars.
"…Still. Something's gonna happen. I can feel it. And excited too "
And for a moment, just one—
He smiled.
Because even the serious ones…
Like a little chaos.