Things continued to move on, at least on the surface. The academy resumed its curriculum, the city lights of Crimora still shimmered at night, and officials made statements to maintain calm—but beneath the veil of routine, a heavy silence lingered.
The death of Captain Garrick Clifford and the entirety of the 3rd Unit had not just shaken the academy—it had fractured the very psyche of the continent.
It wasn't just their deaths that sent tremors through the land, but the way they died. The 3rd Unit wasn't some nameless militia. They were legends—men and women who had stood against countless threats, their Captain known for single-handedly suppressing a dungeon break just weeks ago. That very event had been broadcasted across the news, cementing Garrick's place as one of the continent's top protectors.
And now… gone. All of them.
Worse still, the town they had been deployed to—Doitand—was no more. Nothing remained but scorched earth and melted stone. No survivors. No buildings. No answers.
Only one name emerged from the ashes—Emberfall.
A cursed name.
A nightmare reborn.
________________________________________
At the academy, everything felt wrong. The once-bustling halls had grown unnervingly quiet. Laughter had become rare. Joy was buried beneath sorrow, and whispers filled the gaps left behind by missing voices.
Roy had returned.
But he was not the same.
The once-charismatic, confident, and slightly arrogant prodigy was now a hollow echo of himself. His posture was stiff, his eyes red-rimmed and unfocused. The sparkle that usually danced behind them was gone, replaced by a haunting stillness.
Kara tried to joke with him.
Jay challenged him to spar.
June brought food.
Logan offered a book Garrick once gifted him.
Even Mellissa, awkward as she was with emotions, attempted to sit beside him in silence.
But each time, Roy offered them a rehearsed smile, soft and distant. "Thanks," he would say, before excusing himself—always with a reason, always too quickly.
And always… to the same place.
It was a massive underground chamber—designed to suppress aura outbursts and allow peak-rank battles without endangering the academy.
At the far end stood Principal Dvalin, arms folded behind his back, leaning upon a dwarven-forged greatsword planted into the stone floor. His bearded face was unreadable, the old warrior's eyes sharp as they followed Roy's every movement.
Across from him, Roy faced down three puppets—humanoid constructs built to replicate combatants at Peak Rank 2. Each moved with frightening coordination, speed, and strength. They weren't made to kill, but they could break bones if you let your guard down.
Roy, despite his burning will, was only Early Rank 2.
And it showed.
He shot forward, his light blue essence igniting in a bright flare as he aimed a precise strike at one puppet's chest—but it side-stepped effortlessly, catching his wrist mid-air and spinning him around. The second puppet delivered a crushing blow to his ribs, sending him flying.
Roy landed with a grunt, panting heavily.
But he got up. Again.
Charging back in, he roared, his light blue aura crackling wildly. "I won't lose!"
This time he tried to blind them—focusing all his essence into a flash of light. The puppets staggered for a brief moment, and he landed two clean hits on the first before the third slammed into him from behind, knocking the air from his lungs.
He coughed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Still, he stood again.
Dvalin narrowed his eyes. 'He's not using his head… he's letting the grief control him'
Roy's strikes were fast—furious—but they lacked precision. Emotion clouded his judgment. His form wavered. His steps faltered. His aura flared, but without purpose.
Again, he charged.
One puppet parried his sword, the second grabbed his leg mid-kick, and the third spun behind him.
In the next instant, he was on the ground.
Pinned.
The first puppet's boot pressed firmly on his chest, holding him down. He struggled—grunted—his hands clawing at the polished floor as his lungs screamed for breath.
The second puppet raised its blade, poised for a finishing stab directly into his heart.
And just as the strike descended—
Whirrrrr… click.
The puppets froze.
One by one, they went limp, their eyes dimming. Metal clanked softly as weapons fell to the floor and limbs retracted into standby mode.
Roy lay there, still gasping, sweat dripping from his brow, his golden hair matted to his skin. The training room buzzed faintly with the aftershock of the puppets' shutdown, but all he could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat. His chest rose and fell rapidly, ribs throbbing with each breath.
He clenched his fist.
Then slammed it against the floor.
Again.
And again.
A sharp crack echoed as skin tore and blood smeared against the polished stone.
"You should've let it go!" he snapped, voice trembling—cracked raw from frustration and grief. "I had them… I'm sure I could've won…"
Dvalin stepped closer, his shadow falling over the boy like a mountain's weight. His dwarven eyes held neither judgment nor pity—only understanding.
"You're strong, Roy," he said slowly. "Most skilled Mid Rank 2s would struggle against you. But right now? In this state? You'd lose to a decent Rank 1."
The words weren't cruel—they were cold truths. And cold truths pierced deeper than blades.
Roy remained still for a moment, jaw tight. Then, he slowly reached for his sword, fingers curling around the hilt as if clinging to the last piece of his broken pride.
"I'm not strong enough," he whispered. His eyes flickered up toward Dvalin, shimmering with fury and something far darker. "I want to crush Emberfall. I have to make them pay."
He stood, shaky at first, but with growing steadiness. His knuckles whitened on his sword. His aura flared—wild and unruly, like a raging storm barely held together.
"I will make them pay. No matter what it takes."
And then it began.
The temperature in the room dropped—not from cold, but from tension.
A pressure began to gather in the air, thick like coalescing thunderclouds. Roy's light blue aura flared brighter—but it wasn't just brighter. It was heavier.
Dvalin's eyes narrowed.
Something was changing.
The air thrummed as if the room itself was holding its breath.
Then—
Roy's eyes began to glow.
But not the color of his aura. No.
A deeper, almost celestial hue bled through the whites of his eyes—an otherworldly luminescence that didn't match the energy flaring around him. Not yet. Not fully.
His aura continued to rise, twisting into a tempest around him. His wounds began to knit themselves closed—slowly, unnaturally, essence drawn in like a vortex, spiraling into him from the very air.
Dvalin took a half-step back, brows raising. "You…"
But Roy wasn't listening anymore.
His body shook violently, like it was being torn apart from within. His teeth gritted, veins glowing faintly beneath his skin. His aura—now an intense, blinding blue—burned away the sweat and grime on his body.
The light blue deepened.
And deepened.
Until it cracked into azure, a vivid hue that seemed to refract light itself.
Then came the boom.
A deafening shockwave burst from Roy's body. The walls trembled. The training floor if weaker would have cracked beneath him in a spiderweb pattern. It wasn't just a flare of power—it was release. Everything that had been locked inside him… finally broke free.
His aura vanished for one breathless second—completely gone.
Then rushed back in like a tidal wave, impossibly denser, sharper, and refined.
Mid Rank 2.
Dvalin's expression changed. First surprise. Then awe. Then… a slow grin.
Roy exhaled, eyes still glowing with that mysterious other hue. His face was calm now. Cold, focused—like a blade freshly tempered.
"Master," he said evenly. "Start the puppets back up. This time… send three more."
There was no arrogance in his tone. No desperation.
Just certainty.
Dvalin stared at him for a long beat, his mouth slightly agape before chuckling deep in his chest.
Then he covered his face with a calloused hand and laughed fully. "Lad… you just don't stop impressing me, do you?"
Roy blinked, confused by the sudden amusement.
Dvalin turned his back, striding toward the exit. "Forget the puppets," he said. "Go clean up and rest. Next time… you'll face me instead. I'm far too curious now."
He stopped at the doorway, placing a hand on the heavy metal door. His voice softened, a rare warmth laced through his usual gruffness.
"Oh, and it's good timing." He looked over his shoulder, eyes twinkling. "He's here. You two should catch up."
The door groaned open.
Roy turned, still catching his breath—his azure aura flickering like a slow flame.
And standing in the doorway…
Was Denwen.
Silent. Watching.
Far away, beneath the smoking skies of a ruined land, a cloaked figure stood at the edge of what was once Doitand.
His silver mask shimmered with runes—each one pulsing faintly with heat, the signature of his craft.
He looked down at the charred earth, at the warped remnants of bone and steel buried beneath molten stone.
Then smiled.
Not out of joy.
But recognition.
"Another one awakens…" he murmured.
Behind him, cloaked shadows stirred.
"Shall we eliminate him?" one asked.
The masked man didn't turn. He just stared into the horizon, where Crimora's distant mountains cut across the skyline like broken teeth.
"No," he said. "The time isn't right, but soon"
He looked skyward, as if speaking to something above—or perhaps within.
"They all must learn... what true despair feels like."
And in the silence that followed, the wind whispered the name again—
Emberfall.