The hallway echoed with polished footsteps and shallow breaths. High, arched ceilings stretched overhead like a cathedral, lined with glowing banners that shifted every few seconds to display rotating emblems—Vanguard squads, elite alumni, past victories.
Deor walked somewhere in the middle of the tour group, hoodie up, hands in his pockets, already over it.
“These floors were laid with sigil-lined obsidian tiles—meant to absorb shock and magical resonance,” the guide droned, her burgundy blazer crisp, her voice sharp. “You’re walking on the same grounds our founding class trained on during the Battle of Halstera.”
Jake leaned close, whispering, “Soundin’ real dramatic for some fancy tile.”
Deor smirked. “Bet it squeaks like a bitch when it rains.”
The guide didn’t react, but the way her steps stiffened told Deor she heard.
Zephyr trailed behind them, eyes scanning everything, already piecing together exit routes, blind spots, and power clusters.
They turned the corner—and the temperature in the hallway changed.
The air grew thicker. Quieter.
Everyone felt it.
Even the guide slowed her steps.
Coming toward them was a formation of ten students—not just any students. These were the names people whispered about in the dorms, the ones who only showed up during ranked trials or emergencies.
The Top 10.
They walked like they owned gravity.
Each wore a black combat coat draped over their shoulders, not worn but carried—the long fabric billowing like cloaks behind them. The inside was lined with gold thread, and across each back was a glowing symbol—each one ancient, written in the student’s given language, some celestial, some animalistic, some from tongues no longer spoken.
No need to ask who they were. You could feel it.
The student in front—a tall girl with obsidian hair and silver eyes—walked like a blade. Her coat read “YARAI”, written in clean, angular script that shimmered when she moved.
Whispers rippled through the tour group.
“Is that the Elementalist?”
“She’s ranked 3rd…”
“Don’t make eye contact…”
As they passed, the Top 10 didn’t look at the tour group. Except one.
A boy near the back, hair braided down his back like a war chant, gold marking burned into the side of his neck, locked eyes with Deor for half a second.
No words. Just a smirk.Not friendly. Not hostile. Just a challenge.
Deor raised an eyebrow.
Jake caught it. “You saw that, right?”
Deor: “Yeah.”
Zephyr: “What’d that mean?”
Deor: “Means he blinked first.”
The guide cleared her throat, clearly shaken but trying to regain control.
“And here is the Simulation Hall. Five training zones, custom atmospheres, spell-stabilized for safety. Only ranked students and licensed instructors are allowed inside during active tests.”
Deor’s gaze lingered on the Top 10 as they disappeared down another corridor, gold still flickering in the air behind them.
Draped coats like royalty. Symbols like warnings.
“Yo,” Jake whispered. “What if you get ranked?”
Deor didn’t answer.But something in his chest tightened.
He didn’t come to play student.He came to find answers.But now?
He might have to take a crown or two along the way.
Jake sat up. “You okay?”
Deor leaned back against the bed frame, staring at the ceiling.
“I came here to be lowkey. To figure my power out. Not to become a damn symbol.”
Zephyr looked over. “You don’t get to choose that, man. Sometimes the fire chooses you.”
Deor smirked faintly.
“Well, then let it burn.”
Deor dropped his bag on the floor of the dorm with a dull thud, letting the silence of the room settle over him. One bed had a soccer jersey draped on it. The other had sketchbooks stacked high, runes drawn in sharp black ink across their covers.
“Guess that’s Jake’s and Zephyr’s,” he murmured.
He kicked off his shoes and grabbed a pair of black cargo pants, pulling them on along with a fitted white t-shirt. Then he tied his dreads back into a loose tail, grabbed his schedule from the nightstand, and stared at it.
“Combat Training II… Rune Theory… Tactical Awareness?” he muttered. “These ain’t beginner classes.”
Freshmen didn’t officially start until tomorrow—but sitting around wasn’t his style. He needed to know where he was going, and more importantly, what he was walking into.
—
The halls of the academy stretched wide and glowing. Everything was steeped in enchantments—floating lanterns bobbing overhead, runes humming faintly against the stone walls. As Deor wandered, groups of upperclassmen passed by in clusters, laughing, talking, sometimes sparring mid-hall before a teacher’s glare broke it up.
He peeked into his first classroom. Empty, desks floating slightly above the ground in organized rows. A rune projector was embedded into the front wall, cycling between languages.
His next class: Vanguard History. Sophomores, if the Level II plaque was anything to go by.
“Damn. All of these are sophomore classes,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “They really threw me in the deep end.”
He peeked into one more—Combat Training II—and paused.
The room was large and circular, like a small arena. Weapons lined the walls. Dummies stood ready near a rune-marked mat. It was quiet… but not empty.
Deor stepped inside.
Rows of spears and swords glinted in the light. A display of magical bows rested in the corner, each with a different elemental core embedded in the grip. Then his eyes landed on a rack of swords—and a single katana. Sleek, balanced, clean design. No frills. Just intent.
He reached out—
“Most students wait until they’ve earned the right to touch a blade like that.”
Deor spun around. A tall man with short-cut silver hair leaned against the far wall. His expression was unreadable—eye dark, the other faded and scarred. He wore a combat instructor’s coat, long and lined with iron.
“Didn’t mean to disrespect,” Deor said quickly. “I’m Deor. I’ll be in this class starting tomorrow. Was just trying to get a feel for the place.”
“Rokosh,” the man said, pushing off the wall and approaching slowly. “I know who you are. I signed off on you being in this class.”
Deor blinked. “You did?”
“Yeah. But I didn’t do it because of a name on a report.” Rokosh’s eyes narrowed. “I watched the footage. You held your ground on an airship that should’ve killed you. You healed the wounded. You acted when others froze.”
He stopped a few feet away. “So, let me hear it. Why do you think you’re here?”
Deor looked down at the wooden floor for a second before lifting his gaze.
“Because I didn’t wait to be told to do something. I acted. Not just in the fight… but afterward, too. Saving lives. That’s the whole point of being a hero, right?”
He gestured to the katana.
“And I’ve always respected that blade. No wasted motion. It’s not about power—it’s about clarity. Precision. Discipline. I’m not here to show off. I’m here to get better. Earn my place. No shortcuts.”
The silence stretched.
Then Rokosh smirked faintly.
“Not a bad answer,” he said, turning toward the weapons rack. He pulled a wooden katana from it and tossed it to Deor. “Every student starts with one of these. Get familiar with it before you earn steel.”
Deor caught it in one hand. “Got it.”
“And if you’re late,” Rokosh added, stepping away, “you run the entire academy. Every tower. Every stair.”
Deor grinned. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now get out. Class starts early tomorrow.”
—
Back at the dorm, the hallway was still quiet. Deor opened the door and spotted a long box sitting neatly on his bed.
A golden seal held the envelope on top:“From the Headmaster’s Office.”
He tore it open and unfolded the letter inside.
Mr. Jackson,In recognition of your performance during the entrance incident, your healing of over one hundred wounded, and your conduct in combat, we are assigning you provisional placement in the Top 25 of your grade.Your ranking is subject to change based on upcoming challenges.Enclosed: combat attire, official books, and rank uniform.
He opened the box.
The combat uniform was neatly folded—dark purple and black. Matte plating over the shoulders and chest. Silver linings along the boots and trim. A rank symbol glimmered faintly on the sleeve.
It didn’t look bad, exactly. Just… plain.
“Mid-tier flavor,” Deor muttered, holding it up. “Not ugly. Not fresh. Just… meh.”
Still, it meant something.
Top 25. #23. Out of 500.
He found another note tucked under the uniform.
Freshman and sophomores do not receive cloaks, regardless of rank. True experience is proven, not given. Earn the gold.—Assistant to the Headmaster
Deor set everything down and leaned back on his bed, the wooden katana across his chest. For a while, he just stared at the ceiling, the day sinking in slowly.
Tomorrow, the real test began.
And he wasn’t walking into it blind.
Deor was up early.
Uniform on. Dreads tied back. Wooden katana strapped across his back like it belonged there. The violet-trimmed jacket moved just enough when he walked, drawing eyes but not shouting. Just presence.
He knew his schedule. Knew exactly where he was going.
Combat Training II — Sable Training Hall.
When he entered, the scent of sweat, steel, and polished wood hit him like memory. He scanned the room and saw nothing but sophomores—sharp-eyed, physically developed, wearing smug expressions or mild confusion.
Conversations slowed.
Whispers bloomed.
“Is that a freshman?”
“No way. There’s no tag.”
“Why’s he carrying a blade already?”
“Probably lost…”
Deor ignored it all. He walked toward the wall, dropped his bag with calm precision, and started loosening up his shoulders, stretching slow and deliberate. He didn’t glance at anyone, but he could feel the weight of their curiosity building.
Sera, white braids pulled tight and magic-lined gloves on her hands, narrowed her eyes at him.Dane, with his scorched knuckles and thick arms, muttered just loud enough for his friends, “He’s gonna fold the second someone touches him.”
The doors slammed open.
Rokosh entered with a slow, iron-footed gait. The room snapped to attention.
He said nothing at first, just scanned the students, eyes grazing over Deor for only a second—no surprise, no announcement. Just quiet acknowledgment.
That was the only proof Deor needed. He belonged here.
“Pair up,” Rokosh said.
“Two rounds. No soft hands. If your partner limps, it means you didn’t train hard enough last week.”
The students moved.
Still, no one stepped toward Deor. Too many questions. Too much ego.
He waited.
Eventually, Sera stepped forward, cocking her head. “You got a name, freshman?”
“Deor.”
She smiled with just a sliver of mockery. “Sera. Hope you don’t bruise easy.”
“I don’t.”
They bowed. Rokosh crossed his arms and watched.
The match began.
Deor shifted into stance—high guard, weight balanced.
Sera was fast, testing his defense with flicks and arcs meant to pressure. Deor parried, rotated, stepped back when needed, but never gave ground without reason.
She grinned mid-swing. “You’ve done this before.”
“Just a little.”
By the end of the two rounds, neither had landed a clean blow. There were close calls, near-hits, narrow dodges—but nothing decisive. When Rokosh finally called, both lowered their weapons, panting.
Sera gave a small nod, more serious now. “Okay, Deor.”
He nodded back.
Deor grabbed his wooden katana from his bag
The wooden katana still felt a little unfamiliar in Deor’s hands—balanced, yes, but not yet an extension of him. Rokosh’s voice cut through the air like steel.
“Switch partners.”
Students moved. Some groaned. Some looked relieved they wouldn’t have to go another round with their previous match.
Rokosh scanned the room again and barked, “Dane. You’re with the freshman.”
Deor looked up. Dane.
The one with the fire-scarred arms and the heavy build. He grinned like he’d just been handed a chew toy.
Sera gave Deor a glance as she passed him. “Watch your ribs.”
Deor rolled his shoulders back. “He doesn’t look that scary.”
Sera laughed. “It’s not his look. It’s his left hand.”
Dane stepped onto the mat, cracking his neck, holding his bokken like a club. “No offense, freshman,” he said, “but you’re not walking out of this round clean.”
Deor met his stare, calm and steady. “That the goal? To hurt someone weaker than you?”
Dane smirked. “Nah. Just proving something.”
Rokosh spoke before the tension could rise further. “Begin.”
Dane came fast—his first strike wild, arcing, meant to blow through Deor’s guard. Deor pivoted just in time, letting the wood whistle past his face. He didn’t counter yet. He measured.
Dane struck again. And again.
Deor blocked the third, barely, the force rattling his arms. He spun out, low, dragging the tip of his blade against the floor, popping up just inside Dane’s guard—but didn’t strike.
Rokosh was watching.
Deor knew it wasn’t just about winning. It was about intent. Control. Discipline.
That’s why he hesitated.
Dane didn’t.
The next blow caught Deor across the shoulder—clean, hard. The students winced.
Deor stumbled but didn’t fall.
Blood roared in his ears.
He adjusted his stance.
Focused.
Dane charged again—confident, aggressive. Too aggressive. Deor waited, baited him with an exposed side, then—
Crack.
Deor struck upward, edge to chin, just before the full swing came down.
Dane froze.
Rokosh’s voice echoed: “Stop.”
Everyone looked.
Deor’s blade hovered less than an inch from Dane’s throat.
Dane pulled back slowly, mouth tight, pride bruised more than anything else.
Deor lowered his sword.
Rokosh walked over, eyes narrowed. He looked at Dane first. “What did I say about reckless pride?”
Dane didn’t answer.
Then he turned to Deor. “You hesitated. Why?”
Deor didn’t flinch. “Because power without purpose is just violence. I’m not here to win—I’m here to grow.”
A long silence.
Then—Rokosh gave the faintest nod.
“Next time, cut deeper,” he said. “But never without reason.”
He walked off, barking at the next group.
Dane looked at Deor. His face still held pride—but it was laced with something new: respect.
“You’re not bad,” he muttered.
Deor gave a half-shrug. “Neither are you. Just try less swinging, more thinking.”
Dane laughed under his breath, walking away.
From the sidelines, a few more students started watching Deor with new eyes.
He hadn’t just survived.
He’d shown restraint, skill, and something rarer—purpose.
Deor’s feet were already aching from his long day, but he trudged onward. Combat Training II had been grueling, and he was still absorbing the sting of his teacher’s words: “Swords are loud. Glyphs whisper.”
But there was one class left—Rune History. His mind buzzed with what Professor Rokosh had said, and the cryptic meaning of the glyphs on the wooden katana was still swirling in his thoughts. He was ready for something less physical, though—he needed to settle his mind before the day was over.
He entered Rune History with a deep breath, finding himself in a room far older than the modern classrooms. The smell of aged books and parchment filled the air, the hum of ancient runes embedded in the walls seeming to echo through the space. The flickering glow from the ceiling’s runes bathed the room in a soft light, and bookshelves packed with arcane knowledge lined the walls.
At the front, a woman with silver glasses and a long braid of white and gold sat behind a desk, her calm, focused presence as commanding as the runes themselves.
Professor Sael Verani was a woman of few words, but those words carried weight. She looked up briefly and nodded toward the seats. “Take a seat. Class will begin shortly.”
Deor chose a seat near the middle, his fingers instinctively reaching for the parchment Mrs. Sully had given him before he left the airship—a parting gift of sorts, one that was meant to guide him on his path. He had only taken a quick glance at it before, but now, as the class settled in and the room fell into a quiet hum, he unrolled it slowly, feeling the weight of its energy.
The glyphs on the parchment were different from anything he’d seen before—far more intricate, far older. They seemed to glow faintly in response to his touch, reshaping as he held them.
He tried to focus on one glyph at a time, but the language was unlike anything he had been taught. It pulsed, almost as if it were alive.
His hand shot up.
Professor Verani’s gaze shifted toward him immediately. There was no question about her attention. She had noticed the parchment in his hand.
“Yes?” she asked, her voice smooth but with an edge that suggested she was used to questions regarding this kind of thing.
“Mrs. Sully gave me this,” Deor said, holding up the scroll carefully. “She said it was a parting gift. I’m supposed to read it, but I don’t fully understand. Some of these glyphs don’t make sense.”
Professor Verani’s eyes narrowed slightly as she rose from her seat and approached him. Her gaze flicked over the ancient script, reading it for a few seconds before she took a step back.
“Whoever gave you this was not simply passing along information,” she said, her voice heavy with meaning. “This is not a typical glyph script. It’s far older. Pre-Egyptian in origin, possibly. What you have here is a legacy script—a guide for someone who is chosen for something much greater.”
Deor's brow furrowed. “A legacy script?”
“Yes. This isn’t just a message to be deciphered. It’s a pathway. A journey.” She pointed to a specific glyph on the parchment that shimmered as her finger passed over it. “This one, for example, is tied to the concept of 'awakening.' It speaks of an individual who is reborn through trials, not just battles. The trials shape the person’s spirit.”
“I don’t—” Deor started, but she interrupted.
“It’s not meant to be understood all at once,” she said firmly. “Legacy glyphs work in layers. They resonate with the soul of the one who reads them. The more you grow, the more you understand.”
“But… what does it mean to be ‘reborn’ through trials?” Deor asked, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “And how am I supposed to ‘awaken’?”
Professor Verani glanced around the room briefly, as if considering how much she should say in front of the class. She turned back to Deor, her voice lowering. “You must go through personal trials. They’re unique to you. This script won’t give you everything. It simply points the way. Look at the next part…”
She gestured toward another portion of the scroll. Deor’s eyes followed, tracing the symbols with growing focus. His fingers hovered over one particular sequence of glyphs, which suddenly began to shimmer with faint gold light.
"The heart must quiet for the truth to rise. Flesh must weaken for the soul to burn bright. In darkness, the gate awaits."
“I think this part says something about meditation,” Deor murmured, trying to decipher it aloud.
Professor Verani nodded. “It’s more than meditation. It’s a connection. When you’ve mastered yourself in a place of peace, then your power can truly begin to unlock. But it’s not just about sitting in stillness. The body and mind must both be tested—through eating, through trial, through decision. These aren’t casual words.”
Deor stared at the page, his thoughts racing. This wasn’t just about mastering his glyphs—it was a journey through his very being, one that would make him push and challenge himself in ways he never had before.
“But there’s more, isn’t there?” he asked quietly, sensing there was still more to understand.
Professor Verani smiled faintly, a touch of something ancient in her expression. “There always is. The rest you’ll discover on your own, Jackson. But for now, focus on understanding the first steps. And remember…” She turned back to the class as the bell rang. “Legacy glyphs can’t be rushed. They will only reveal what you’re ready to see.”
Deor sat back in his chair, the words echoing in his mind as his heart pounded. He rolled the parchment back up carefully, sensing a deep connection to it he hadn’t felt before.
He had a long road ahead of him. And this script… it was only the beginning.
Tactical Awareness was no joke.
Once Mr. Griggs laid out the day’s assignment, the class was split into small units. Deor found himself placed with four other students—each older than him, each giving him sideways looks at first. No one said it out loud, but it was obvious they were wondering why a freshman was thrown in with them.
“Alright,” said a short, stocky girl with dark skin and short braids, pulling up a digital map. “We’re squad Echo. Let’s get to it.” She pointed to herself. “Name’s Kaia. Recon specialty.”
“Juno,” said a tall, pale guy next to her, chewing gum as he leaned over the table. “Support and infiltration.”
“Trent. Field combat,” said another, arms crossed, cold blue eyes measuring Deor.
The last was a boy with golden-tan skin, shaggy black hair, and a voice smooth as velvet. “Call me Ezra. I play the shadow. You’ll barely notice I’m there.”
Deor introduced himself simply. “Deor. Field adaptability.”
Kaia raised an eyebrow. “Freshman with a title like that?”
Deor met her look calmly. “You’ll see.”
They went to work analyzing the scenario Mr. Griggs had given them. A jungle insertion, retrieval of a captured asset, and extraction with limited resources. It was layered, meant to push pressure points and expose weaknesses. But as the group broke down tactics, terrain usage, possible enemy positions, and fallback plans, Deor not only kept up—he contributed.
“Actually, if you draw them to the ridge on the east side, you can force a bottleneck,” Deor said, tracing his finger across the hologram. “The elevation favors us and creates a line of sight for long-range.”
Juno blinked. “That’s... a good call.”
“And if we split recon to that bluff,” Kaia added, catching the thread, “we can collapse in from three sides once they commit.”
Trent gave a slow nod. “Didn’t think we’d be dragging a rookie, but—looks like we’re not.”
Ezra grinned. “Finally. Someone who doesn’t slow us down.”
As they worked, the group fell into rhythm. They shared knowledge freely—tactical hand signals, silent communication cues, even tips on terrain traversal that only came from hard-earned experience. Deor absorbed it all, offering his own insights when they matched. There was no pride or arrogance—just clarity, instinct, and quick thinking. By the end of the session, the others were clearly surprised—but in a good way.
Kaia nudged him as they wrapped up. “You’re sharper than expected, Deor. Glad we don’t gotta babysit you.”
“Same,” Juno agreed. “You get the lingo. You think fast.”
“Don’t lose that edge,” Trent muttered. “It’s rare.”
Ezra just gave him a nod. “Respect.”
Mr. Griggs dismissed them after a review of each group’s plan, and Deor filed out into the hallway, pulse still buzzing from the tactical rush. It was only his first day, but he was already standing level with students ahead of him—and that wasn’t something he took lightly.
He made his way to the cafeteria, where Jake and Zephyr were already waiting at a table near the windows, trays loaded with food.
Jake spotted him first and grinned. “Yo! How’s combat calculus?”
Deor slid into the seat across from them. “Tactical Awareness. It was solid. I got grouped with upperclassmen.”
Zephyr cocked a brow. “And?”
“I held my own.”
Jake smirked, shaking his head. “Knew it. Knew they’d throw you in the deep end and you’d swim.”
As they talked, Deor’s eyes drifted to the black-and-purple folded combat uniform tucked into his bag—sent earlier that morning in the package from the Headmaster’s assistant. It marked him as ranked—top 20 of the incoming class. The color scheme wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t meant to be. Black base, deep purple trim. Functional, reserved. Nothing “cool” about it—but it carried weight. It said I belong here.
And today had proven that maybe, just maybe, he did.
“You sticking around after lunch?” Zephyr asked, taking a bite of bread.
Deor looked out the window at the open training fields below. “Yeah. I got more to learn. A lot more.”
He wasn’t here to play catch-up. He was here to be great.
The cafeteria buzzed with life, but Deor’s corner felt like its own bubble.
Jake was already leaning back in his chair, feet up on the bench, grumbling with a half-eaten sandwich in hand. “Man, my rune inscription class? Garbage. Professor talks like he’s casting sleep spells. Bro literally paused mid-lecture to stare out the window like some tragic poet.”
Zephyr snorted into his water. “Better than Tactical Shifts. I got paired with some guy who thinks 'strategy' means running straight at the enemy and hoping for the best. He almost headbutted a dummy like it owed him money.”
Deor chuckled, tearing into his wrap. “Y’all got me feeling lucky. My group actually worked together.”
Jake narrowed his eyes, mouth full. “Yeah, yeah—Mr. Overachiever. Top 20 my ass.”
“Hey,” Deor said, smirking. “I earned that ‘meh’-looking uniform. Don’t be jealous.”
Zephyr grinned. “Nah, I’m jealous of the fact you already got teachers respecting you. We still getting the ‘who are you again?’ treatment.”
Jake suddenly perked up. “Yo—Lexi’s group just sat by the fountain.”
Deor turned. Sure enough, Lexi and a few other second-years lounged near the large, marble fountain outside, sun catching the streams of water that danced up and fell in glittering arcs. Lexi waved when she saw them, her brown curls bouncing with the motion. Her whole squad looked like they were born to lead—confident postures, effortless cool, laughter that sounded like they had nothing to prove.
Jake nudged Deor. “Let’s go.”
They headed out, joining the small group in the sunlight. Lexi gave Deor a once-over and nodded at the purple-black uniform trim.
“Looking sharp, glyph-boy.”
“Could be worse,” Deor replied. “Could’ve been neon green.”
They all laughed.
For a while, the group just vibed. Talking classes, who had the strictest instructors, rumors about upcoming challenges. One guy claimed the senior class leader once broke a golem with a glare. Another swore the headmaster could fly. It was light, fun—and for a moment, Deor felt like just another student. Not the kid who ran through flames or healed the wounded. Just Deor.
But eventually, the bell rang, and the second half of his schedule kicked in.
He split off from Jake and Zephyr and headed toward Vanguard History, tucked on the third floor in an older wing of the academy.
The afternoon sun filtered through the high arched windows of the Vanguard History hall, casting golden beams across the stone-tiled floor. Deor stepped into the room, where the air smelled faintly of parchment and old magic. Unlike the other rooms he'd seen, this one felt ancient—etched walls lined with relics, faded flags from past wars, and a looming chalkboard covered in maps, timelines, and glowing, rune-imbued diagrams.
Professor Amani stood at the front, tall and regal, her silver-ringed fingers gripping a staff that pulsed gently with light. Her voice echoed with authority as students filtered in.
“Take your seats,” she said, sweeping her gaze over the class. “If you’re here, then you’ve already been deemed capable of handling more than just a blade or a spell. Vanguard History is not about names and dates—it’s about survival. Strategy. Understanding the enemy.”
Deor settled into a middle seat. A thick book, Vanguard: The Line Between Realms, waited on every desk. Its cover was dark steel gray, with the emblem of the academy etched in gold.
Professor Amani began pacing slowly. “Humanity has faced extinction more than once. We’ve been burned by dragons, enslaved by warlocks, nearly consumed by the first Rift Breach… yet we still stand. Why?”
A student raised his hand. “Magic?”
“Incorrect,” Amani snapped. “We endure because we adapt. Because we remember. And because we learn from our mistakes—when we choose to, that is.”
Deor opened his textbook. Chapter One: The Fall of Argantheas. The page exploded into light, the enchanted text coming alive with an image of a once-great city swallowed by shadows. Red tendrils—like smoke—crept across the projection.
Professor Amani turned toward the board and tapped it with her staff, triggering an overlay of maps and sigils.
“Argantheas was our most fortified sky-city, held by seven vanguard guilds and guarded by elder elementals. It fell in four hours. Why? Because they didn’t take the threat seriously. They dismissed Rift Sign 87—a precursor signal that demonic activity was escalating in the region.”
Another student leaned forward. “What was Sign 87?”
“A fluctuation in ethereal pressure and echoes of soul resonance—signs of a breach forming. They ignored it. Laughed it off. A week later, the demons came.”
Deor’s brow furrowed. He was already engrossed. The book went deeper—detailing demon classifications, threat levels, behavioral patterns. It described the Treaty of Broken Flame, a desperate pact humanity made with a faction of ‘bound’ demons to protect the inner realms. Even more unsettling, the book noted that only two of those demons still remained loyal. The rest had vanished.
“Vanguard operatives,” Professor Amani continued, “are the front line. Not because you’re the strongest, but because you understand the enemy before they strike. You learn to see signs before they’re scars.”
Deor underlined a passage in the book: “To face chaos, one must first understand its nature.”
The class moved into open discussion. Deor’s group—Imani, Kael, Sora, and Bren—started breaking down historical threats. Imani brought up soul-fusion experiments. Kael mentioned the Acid Wars and bio-mutants. Bren recounted the forgotten plague-spirits in the south, while Sora explained Rift Sirens that sang soldiers to madness.
Deor surprised them with knowledge of the Demonwar timeline and the psychological warfare used during the Crimson Fog siege—things most students wouldn’t learn until next semester.
“Damn,” Kael muttered. “You sure you’re not a second-year?”
“I read fast,” Deor replied casually, flipping another page. “And I listen.”
Imani nudged him. “Cool. At least we don’t have to carry you through this class.”
The bell rang, marking the end of the session. As students packed up, Professor Amani raised her voice.
“Read Chapters One through Three. Be ready to dissect the Portals' Cold Era tomorrow. And remember—those who forget history are not just doomed to repeat it… they are the first to die from it.”
The day had drained him more than he realized.
Deor pushed open the doors to the dorm hall, the stone corridors now quieter with most students either outside training, lounging in the common areas, or crammed into the dining wing. He climbed the stairs, backpack slung low on one shoulder, mind still replaying Professor Amani’s lesson. The image of Argantheas being swallowed by shadow stuck with him like ash clinging to skin.
He keyed open the door to his dorm room and stepped in. Jake’s bed was messy, as usual. Zephyr’s side was tidy—too tidy, like he hadn’t even sat on it since morning. Deor’s side was organized but lived-in: his books stacked on the desk, the wooden training katana Rokosh gave him leaning in the corner, and the dark purple-and-black rank attire still folded on his bed. He hadn’t touched it yet.
Dropping his bag onto his chair, Deor stretched his arms overhead and exhaled hard, then pulled out his Vanguard History book and tactical notes. He kicked off his shoes, tugged his shirt off, and threw on a clean black tee before sinking into his chair.
He opened the glyph script again—the one Mrs. Sully gave him on the airship. He’d tucked it between the pages of his rune history notes. The faded ink shimmered faintly now, reacting to the ambient energy in the room. He traced a line with his finger. The markings weren’t just decorative; they pulsed in a pattern that mirrored breath, almost like they were… alive.
But for now, that had to wait.
He flipped back to his assigned work—detailing the threat escalation timeline leading to the Treaty of Broken Flame, and preparing three potential countermeasures based on weaknesses found in known Rift-level entities.
He chewed the end of his pen for a second. “Avoid portals near glacial zones… Rift Sirens use pitch to manipulate fear responses… and the Crimson Fog responds negatively to compressed light fields…”
He started writing, leaning in as the dorm’s lamp buzzed softly beside him. Through the window, the sun had already started dipping into hues of orange and crimson, casting long shadows across the desk.
Deor finished his work as soon as Jake and zephyr came in and proposed they snuck out.
The moon hung heavy in the sky, casting silver light over the rooftops of the distant town. From where they stood on the hill overlooking the outer path of the academy, Deor, Jake, and Zephyr could see the neon signs flickering like fireflies, hear faint music bleeding through the mountain air, and smell the tempting aroma of something fried.
Jake exhaled through his nose, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Finally. A place that doesn’t smell like burning rubber or chalk dust.”
Zephyr chuckled, his arms crossed as he leaned on the railing. “I still can’t believe they’ve got us running ops at sunrise, and now tactical awareness on top of it.”
Deor smirked. “Welcome to Vanguard Academy.”
They left campus behind without much hesitation. No one stopped them. No security, no gates, just open roads and a winding trail that led into town. The freedom felt like rebellion, a small act of teenage defiance that tasted better than anything they bought at the food stall by the corner.
They ordered burgers from a shack with glowing red lights, sat under a buzzing lamp at a cracked metal table, and ate like they'd just escaped a military prison. Jake complained the entire time.
“My awareness class? A joke. Mr. Griggs has us analyzing battle patterns from the ‘twilight incursion’ era and expecting us to strategize like we’ve been trained since birth.”
Zephyr snorted. “Sounds like he’s training y’all to die less stupid.”
Deor just stared off, half-listening. The burger in his hand cooled, untouched.
“Yo, earth to Deor,” Jake said. “You okay?”
Something shifted in the air—just beyond the town’s edge. A pressure, subtle but wrong, rolled in from the woods like a low tide brushing against his senses. Deor squinted toward the treeline, the hairs on his arms rising.
“You guys feel that?”
Zephyr looked up. “Feel what?”
“...Nothing,” Deor muttered, standing. “Probably nothing.”
Jake sighed, throwing away his trash. “You say that like you’re not about to run straight into a damn horror movie.”
Deor stared at the dark edge of the forest again. That pressure—it wasn’t fading. It was growing.
“You guys head back. I’ll catch up.”
Zephyr gave him a look. “Deor—”
“I’ll be fine. Just something I need to check out.”
The forest wasn’t far, but once Deor stepped into it, the world shifted. The noise of the town vanished behind a wall of silence. Trees loomed tall, their limbs clawing at the sky, and the mud beneath his boots made every step feel heavy. He reached down, brushing his fingers against the glyph etched into his forearm.
“Omek,” he whispered.
His pupils flared gold as the magic took hold—his vision adjusted, turning the shadows into something clearer, sharper. The forest wasn’t empty.
He moved cautiously, ducking under a branch. The stillness was unnatural. Even the crickets had gone silent.
Snap!
A twig broke behind him.
Deor whirled around, arm half-raised—only for a blur to slam into him from the side. They both tumbled to the forest floor in a tangle of limbs and breath.
“Ow— What the—?”
A girl. She gripped his shirt, eyes wide and glowing faintly in the dark. She was gasping, her chest rising and falling in panic.
“You have to run!” she hissed. “It’s coming!”
Deor barely had time to process before the forest shuddered behind her. A low, gurgling snarl echoed through the trees. Branches snapped, and then it emerged.
A black, oozing figure, its body an ever-shifting mess of sludge and limbs. Its eyes were hollow sockets of endless dark, and the air around it reeked of rotting sulfur.
Deor stood and pulled the girl behind him.
His hand ignited with red flame as he touched the fire glyph. Heat rippled off his skin.
Snap—whoosh!
A fireball burst forward, striking the creature dead center. It shrieked—a sound like boiling blood—and staggered back, steam rolling off its gooey flesh.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Deor’s gaze hardened. “You messed with the wrong river spirit.”
He stepped forward, flame flaring brighter—red shifting to blazing blue. The heat bent the air.
“Kon.”
Snap!
A roar of blue fire exploded from his fingers. The impact hit the beast full-force, erupting in a concussive blast that sent shockwaves through the clearing. Ash scattered. Smoke rolled. When it cleared, the creature was gone.
Deor exhaled, chest rising and falling with adrenaline. He turned to the girl.
“You okay?”
She nodded, brushing leaves off her arms. Now that he could see her better, she shimmered slightly under the moonlight—skin pearlescent, eyes like flowing water. She wasn’t human.
“A nymph…” he realized aloud.
“Yes,” she said softly. “That thing… it’s been stalking my river for weeks. I thought if I disguised myself as a human, it would retreat. I was wrong.”
Deor studied her. “You should go somewhere safe. That won’t be the last one.”
She smiled faintly. “Thank you, fire boy. You saved me.”
“Deor,” he said. “And no problem.”
As he stepped out of the woods, Jake and Zephyr were sprinting toward him down the dirt path, wide-eyed.
“Dude—what happened?!” Jake gasped.
Zephyr scanned him up and down. “Why do you smell like smoke?”
Deor wiped his soot-streaked hand on his jeans. “Handled something. Wasn’t friendly.”
“You handled something?” Jake looked ready to choke. “You’re not just gonna drop that like you put out a campfire!”
Deor raised an eyebrow. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
They didn’t notice the faint mechanical whir from above—one of the academy’s sentry drones, watching from the trees, recording everything.
Tomorrow, someone would find out. But tonight?
Tonight, they walked back to campus, silent under the stars.
Deor barely registered the mornings anymore — they were all the same: sunrise jogs, glyph meditations, advanced tactical drills, and constant combat simulations. The days bled together with the smell of sweat, burnt glyph paper, and the subtle buzz of magic in his veins.
He wasn’t coasting.
He was grinding.
Every spare moment was spent honing his fire glyph’s control, studying the pages of glyph script Mrs. Sully had given him, deciphering the cryptic lines about elemental harmony, diet, and mental focus. He stopped eating junk, started stretching more, even found time to meditate at dawn when his roommates were still snoring.
He was obsessed — because the Sophomore Challenges were coming, and he wasn’t going to just participate. He was going to dominate.
But just when he thought he could settle into the chaos, he got called to the Office.
The assistant principal’s office was clean, quiet — a sharp contrast to the roaring gym beyond its walls. Elric sat behind his sleek, rune-inscribed desk, hands folded as the last seconds of surveillance footage finished playing. On-screen, Deor’s blazing blue fire detonated across the forest floor, saving the nymph.
“Bold,” Elric said flatly. “Reckless… but bold.”
Deor sat upright in the leather chair. “They didn’t tell us we weren’t allowed to leave campus.”
“They didn’t,” Elric admitted. “Technically. But you’re not authorized to leave the grounds until the weekend. Especially not to go wandering off into restricted territory.”
Deor opened his mouth but paused. There was no good excuse. He just said, “I talked them into it. Jake and Zephyr. If you’re gonna punish anyone, punish me.”
Elric leaned back, the holographic clip pausing mid-flameburst.
“That’s admirable, Mr. Jackson. But unnecessary.”
Deor blinked.
“The only reason I’m not disqualifying all three of you from the trials is this.” He tapped the screen. “That nymph you saved — she’s part of a river clan that controls the balance of water flow into the northern grove. Had she died… the chaos that would’ve spilled into the other forests? Diplomatic, environmental, even magical.”
He gave Deor a sharp look. “You don’t know how close you were to turning an academy rule break into a continental incident.”
Deor exhaled slowly. “Didn’t mean for all that…”
Elric gave a thin smile. “Your instincts are good. And you didn’t hesitate. That’s why I’m letting this slide. But let this be the last time.”
Deor nodded once. “Yes sir.”
A moment passed before curiosity tugged at him. “You mentioned earlier… that only three-fifths of the forest is safe. Dryads, nymphs, fairies. What about the other two-fifths?”
Elric paused.
“Huh… you caught that.”
He rose, stepping toward the floor-to-ceiling window behind him. His voice dropped just slightly. “The other two-fifths are classified. Far too dangerous — and far too sensitive — to share with a sophomore such as yourself.”
Deor straightened in his seat.
Elric turned slightly, eyes locked onto him. “Let me be clear. Even in the paperwork your class received, it states: Do not venture into those zones. Ever.”
Deor nodded again, slower this time.
“I’m serious,” Elric said, voice like stone. “Those woods carry secrets older than this school. Older than this country. Don’t go looking for what doesn’t want to be found.”
“I won’t,” Deor said quietly.
“Good.” Elric walked back to his desk and waved his hand, dismissing the screen. “You’re dismissed. Trials begin shortly. Don’t disappoint.”
Deor stood and gave him a nod before turning and walking out — the assistant principal’s warning burning in the back of his mind like a glyph etched into bone.
He wasn’t sure what waited in that forbidden two-fifths…
…but a part of him, buried deep and stubborn, already knew he’d cross that line one day.
The Valorant Gymnasium wasn't just a training hall — it was a coliseum.
Four stories tall with retractable roofs and a fully morphable battlefield, the place looked like it belonged in a fantasy warzone crossed with a sci-fi simulator. Giant glyphs pulsed along the walls, powering terrain generators and elemental barriers. Floating screens hovered above, capturing live action from a dozen camera drones.
The energy inside the Trial Dome was electric — a huge circular coliseum surrounded by steep stone bleachers, enchantments humming along the walls, projecting elemental barriers and illusionary threats across the arena floor. Magical projectors lit up the center with shifting environments for each new test: jungle terrain, desert winds, swamps, and infernal plains — randomized for fairness and chaos.
Right now, the terrain was a crumbled city ruin. Concrete slabs. Broken cars. Blackened skies and smoke.
Deor leaned forward in his seat, arms folded over the rail as he watched Jake and Zephyr move like seasoned hunters.
Zephyr whipped a blazing crescent of fire with one arm, then twisted low, sending a burst of flame from his foot that cleared a charging wolf-shade. He spun, igniting both arms in twin ribbons of flame — his movements sharp and elegant, like a martial artist crossed with a firebender.
Below him, Jake leapt high with explosive force, wings of white bone and ash spreading from his back in a glorious unfurl. The primal energy in his shift pulsed around him like thunder.
“Heads up, Zeph!” Jake called, voice wind-laced.
From above, he dived like a missile — shoulder-slamming into the largest beast, a molten bear-drake hybrid, smashing it into a crater. The thing snarled, half-rising—
Zephyr didn’t hesitate. He launched a phoenix-shaped fireblast, the wings trailing behind it in streaks of ember and gold.
Boom!
The creature exploded in smoke and fire.
Silence held for half a second, then—
The crowd roared to life. Students jumped to their feet. Even some upperclassmen clapped.
Jake and Zephyr stood back-to-back in the center, breathing hard but grinning.
Deor stood, whistling loud. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
Jake looked up and gave a lazy salute. “You’re next, flame boy.”
Zephyr smirked, sweat running down his brow. “Better bring heat.”
Deor just grinned back, the fire in his chest barely contained.
Then came the announcement, projected across the dome in glowing runes:
— FRESHMAN TRIALS COMPLETE —
RANKING UPDATE:
#2 — Jake Iver, Primal Shift: Winged Form#3 — Zephyr Callen, Flame Control
Both boys looked up, exchanging surprised but satisfied glances. Cheers rang again from their section.
Deor stayed still, jaw tight with excitement. He could feel the tension in the crowd now shifting — everyone was waiting for the next name.
But it wouldn’t be his. Not yet.
His trial was next — the Sophomore Challenge. A different beast entirely.
As Jake and Zephyr jogged toward the side exits to cool down, Deor took a deep breath and cracked his knuckles. His glyphs itched beneath his sleeves — heat and potential building in every breath.
He wasn’t just going to match them.
He was going to light the damn arena up.
The arena buzzed with anticipation as Deor stepped onto the starting platform. Clad in cargo pants, combat boots, and his mother's necklace resting against his bare chest, he exuded confidence. His wooden katana was strapped across his back, a symbol of his dedication and discipline.
Ahead, the course loomed—an intricate maze of obstacles designed to test agility, strength, and strategy. Yuri, a swift and formidable opponent, darted ahead, her movements a blur. Close behind, Dane pursued with relentless determination.
Phase 1: The Beast Encounter
As Deor sprinted forward, a bloodthirsty creature emerged, its claws slicing through the air. The ground trembled as it struck, sending debris flying.
Deor: "Whoa! Not today!"
He executed a flawless somersault, narrowly evading the attack. Spotting Yuri above, he activated his "Fist of Horus" glyph, launching a spectral punch that staggered the beast.
Yuri: "Nice timing!"
She seized the moment, manipulating the creature's blood to form sickle-like weapons, dispatching it with precision.
Phase 2: The Gauntlet
The trio entered a treacherous zone filled with projectiles—arrows, bullets, and energy blasts.
Dane: "Keep moving! No room for error!"
With no room for offense, they relied solely on agility and reflexes. Deor's athleticism shone as he flipped, ducked, and weaved through the barrage, keeping pace with Yuri and Dane.
Phase 3: The Final Confrontation
A chained, winged beast awaited them. Suddenly, the chains snapped, and the creature unleashed a powerful beam.
Yuri: "Let's make this realistic!"
Deor slid forward, using his momentum to propel Yuri into the air.
Deor: "Go, Yuri!"
She extended a blood whip, pulling Deor up as well. Mid-air, Deor executed a spinning kick, then pointed his finger like a gun, firing a thunderbolt that struck the beast.
Dane: "My turn!"
Yuri swung Deor toward the ground, where he grabbed Dane, who launched upward, delivering a crushing blow to the creature. As they descended, the beast attempted a final attack, but Deor absorbed the energy, maneuvered behind it, and delivered a decisive blast, ending the challenge.
The Aftermath
The arena erupted in cheers as the trio landed.
Announcer: "Trial complete! Rankings are as follows:
-
#1: Yuri Nakamura – Mastery over blood manipulation and strategic prowess.
-
#2: Deor Jackson – Exceptional athleticism, glyph mastery, and adaptability.
-
#3: Dane Rivers – Unyielding strength and aerial dominance."
4 Mina Tsukiko – Shadow Duplication
5 Soren Kade – Magnetic Control
6 Lucia Virelli – Cryokinesis
7 Tavon Grant – Seismic Pulse
8 Kaela Moor – Beast Whisperer
9 Ezren Holt – Lightning Speed
10 Sable Irons – Poison Mist
Deor: "Not bad for a day's work."
Yuri: "We make a good team."
Dane: "Let's keep pushing the limits."
The Sophomore Trial had concluded.
They’d missed the junior trials—pulled away just after the announcements.
When the Top 10 sophomores returned to the arena, the air shifted.
They’d missed the junior trials—escorted away after the announcement, their rankings freshly carved into Academy record. But now, they were back. And as they stepped onto the field, everything about them said one thing:
They weren’t the same anymore.
Ranks six through ten led the way, dressed in upgraded combat uniforms—tailored, sharper, more defined. Their colors were sleek grays with subtle silver linings, a clear visual shift that marked their growth. Clean. Respectable.
But then came the Top 5.
Silence swept the stands.
Their attire didn’t just suggest advancement—it commanded recognition.
Each of them wore a sleek, combat-enhanced suit modeled after formal attire—elegant black with crimson accentsstitched through the lapels, cuffs, and lining. The material was high-grade, resistant to flame, blade, and pressure, yet moved with the ease of silk. Their pants tapered neatly into matte boots designed for traction and speed. The jackets were high-collared and cinched at the waist with a utility belt disguised beneath the aesthetic—gear, glyph scrolls, or whatever power source they favored tucked discreetly within.
Deor’s version of the uniform had a sharp-cut blazer that framed his shoulders and revealed a blood-red shirt beneath—his mother’s necklace gleaming just above the button line. His sleeves bore thin thread-like glyphs that shimmered only when he flexed his hands. His eyes matched the look—focused, burning, alive.
“You look like a prince,” Dane joked, rolling his neck in his own tailored fit, crimson tie loosened.“Or a damn assassin,” Zephyr added with a smirk.
Yuri walked at the front of the group, her long coat split at the back and flowing as she moved. Her gloves—black leather—matched the high-crimson of her heels, and her expression was calm, unreadable. Royal and ruthless.
The moment was short-lived.
As they stepped into the observation deck, the senior arena was already blazing.
Lightning ripped across the sky dome above. Earth cracked beneath a student who slammed his foot and sent a ripple that launched another ten feet into the air. A girl cloaked in feathers turned invisible mid-strike before exploding into full phoenix form mid-air. Another created blades out of gravity itself—warping space to slice incoming magic before it could reach her.
It wasn’t sparring. It was war—but with rules only they seemed to understand.
Deor’s hands gripped the railing. Every strike they landed... every move they made... his eyes caught every piece of it. He didn’t want to match them.
He wanted to dominate them.
Yuri spoke, almost under her breath. “It’s like watching the future.”
Deor didn’t look away. “No,” he said, quiet but sure.“It’s like watching my target.”
His glyphs pulsed quietly under his formal jacket—warm, hungry.
And the fire in his chest raged for more.
Two weeks had passed since the intensity of the trials, and Deor felt the weight of them still pressing on his mind. The competitions had revealed more than just his abilities; they had opened doors to new possibilities, ones that he hadn't fully prepared for. Today, however, was something different. It was time for the work-study class, something he had nearly forgotten in the chaos of his schedule.
As the final bell of Vanguard History echoed down the hall, Deor grabbed his bag quickly, stuffing his notebooks inside with hurried movements. His mind raced — this class, the work-study, was supposed to be a big deal, especially after how the trials had unfolded. He needed to stay sharp, needed to prove that he was more than just his powers.
Pulling up his updated schedule on his tablet, he saw the reminder — work-study class, next. It hit him hard, like a cold splash of water to the face. He'd been so focused on everything else that he had let this slip. He had no time to waste.
Deor bolted down the hall, weaving through students until he reached the door to the work-study room. It was slightly ajar, and the moment he stepped inside, he could feel the atmosphere shift. The room was far different from the usual classrooms; it had an air of tension, a kind of quiet energy that seemed to hum with purpose.
He took a deep breath as he crossed the threshold. Instantly, he could sense the power in the room. Strong, overwhelming, and real. This wasn’t just a classroom. This was the first step toward the real world.
There were nine other students scattered around the room, each exuding a calm confidence. Freshmen, sophomores, and a junior who had been in the work-study program since his first year. They were all here for a reason, and Deor knew he would have to prove himself among them.
His eyes scanned the room, pausing briefly when he saw Yuri Nakamura standing near the back, her arms crossed in a cool, deliberate stance. Deor had noticed her during the trials, and there was no mistaking her presence here. She was sharp, disciplined, and definitely someone to keep an eye on.
A voice pulled him from his thoughts. "You’re Deor Jackson, right?" The speaker was a senior who had been standing near the front. His appearance was quiet yet commanding, with sharp eyes and an air of mystery around him. He was tall, slender, and moved with the precision of someone who had honed their abilities for years. His black hair was cropped short, and there was an almost otherworldly calm to him, as if he was always one step ahead.
"I’m Kaiya. This is the work-study class," he said, his voice smooth, almost too calm. "You’re here because they think you’re ready for more advanced training. You’ll be paired with a mentor, someone to guide you through small missions and real-world scenarios. This isn’t the kind of thing you learn from textbooks."
Deor nodded, trying to keep his face neutral, but his mind was already racing. He hadn’t expected to be thrown in with this level of intensity so quickly, but he was ready. It was clear that the others had been through this before.
Kaiya continued, his eyes flicking to the seniors on the far side of the room. "The top four are currently out on a mission. Handling a demon. They’re not around, but that doesn’t mean you’re getting off easy. You’ll be working with the seniors ranked 5 to 11. These are the people who will be guiding you."
Deor raised an eyebrow. "A demon mission?" he asked, incredulous.
Kaiya smirked slightly, as though he was expecting that reaction. "Yeah. But don’t get ahead of yourself. You’ll be working under one of these seniors, and they won’t be easy on you." He gestured toward a figure in the corner.
Deor’s gaze followed the movement, and his eyes landed on a tall, lithe figure with strikingly sharp features. The senior standing there had a quiet, almost brooding energy about him. His name was Ali, and he stood apart from the others, his posture relaxed but his eyes watching everything, always alert.
Kaiya turned back to Deor. "You’ll be paired with Yuri Nakamura. And your mentor will be Ali, ranked 11th. He’s a... unique case. Don’t let his calm demeanor fool you. He’s one of the deadliest people you’ll ever meet."
Deor blinked, looking over at Ali again. There was something unsettling about the way he carried himself, the way his eyes followed every movement in the room. He looked like a predator, waiting for something to move so he could strike. His powers, Kaiya had explained, were like that of an assassin — stealth, speed, and lethal precision. Ali didn’t need brute strength or flashy powers. He was the type who would kill you before you even knew he was there.
Ali’s gaze flicked briefly toward Deor, his lips barely curling upward in a faint acknowledgment. His presence alone was enough to make Deor’s blood run cold. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Yuri, standing nearby, caught his eye for a moment. There was no hint of surprise on her face, just a quiet intensity, as if she were preparing herself for whatever came next. She was a threat in her own right, but now, paired with Ali, Deor was beginning to understand how much more he still had to learn.
Deor swallowed hard. This wasn’t just another class. This was a trial, a test of everything he had learned up until this point. It was a real-world preparation, and Deor wasn’t going to waste this chance. He had something to prove, not just to the seniors, not just to Yuri, but to himself.
"Your first task," Kaiya said, breaking into Deor’s thoughts, "will involve a small mission. You’ll be tasked with scouting and retrieving information. The rest of the details will be given to you by your mentor. You’ll have to use every skill you’ve developed so far, and I’ll be watching to see how you adapt. The real world isn’t forgiving."
Yuri moved toward Ali, and Deor could feel the shift in energy. It was clear that she was ready. Deor took a deep breath, his gaze returning to Ali. The assassin-like senior’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something—amusement, maybe?—in his eyes.
"Ready, Jackson?" Ali’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of someone who had seen the darkest corners of the world.
Deor didn’t hesitate. "I’m ready," he said, his voice steady.
Ali’s lips curled into a faint smile. "Good. Let’s see what you’re really made of."
And with that, Deor followed Ali and Yuri out of the work-study room, his mind buzzing with the promise of the challenge ahead. This was just the beginning, and Deor could feel that fire inside him growing, pushing him to reach even higher.