The atmosphere around Four Stars Academy had changed.
Even the wind carried a sort of anticipation, sharp and restless, as if it too was waiting for the next storm to arrive.
Three days had passed since the Hero Academy's duel fiasco — three days since half the continent started whispering about the "Academy Tournament of Legends."
But within the Academy walls, the instructors had stopped talking altogether.
They were watching. Waiting. Measuring the new arrivals.
And today, the final two academies had come.
---
The grand carriages of Carcarkat's Bloom Knights Academy rolled to a stop at the main gates. Their banners — deep royal blue trimmed with silver — caught the morning light, fluttering against the cobblestone courtyard.
The emblem of a blooming sword gleamed at the center — pride of the southern aristocracy.
From the lead carriage, a single figure stepped down first.
Edward Bloom.
Third-year ace.
Descendant of nobility.
The one whispered to have reached Sword Aura Manifestation before turning thirteen.
His steps were calm, measured — neither slow nor fast — but they had that kind of rhythm that demanded attention.
He didn't need guards, attendants, or ceremony. The air itself seemed to give way for him.
"Bloom Knights…" someone muttered from the watching crowd.
"They're said to be trained by the Royal Paladins themselves."
"I heard their top students fight using dual stances."
"No, that's outdated — the current ace fights with a single sword. Precision over power."
"...Wait, that's him?"
Edward ignored them.
He had long learned that attention was a tax you paid for existing in a noble house.
So, instead, he paid it no mind.
His uniform was immaculate — white with gold trims, the knight insignia embossed on his left shoulder. His gloves were spotless; his expression unreadable. He looked less like a warrior and more like a man who'd been sculpted to look perfect and then told to move.
The one sent to receive him was Nuelle. Of course it was.
If there was a problem student, a powerful arrival, or a potential mess, the instructors always sent Nuelle.
"Edward Bloom, right?" she called, voice cutting through the murmurs. "Sensei Pwain said I should give you a tour. Try not to get lost."
Edward looked at her once — a glance so brief, it might have been mistaken for disinterest. Then he nodded slightly.
"Third-year… Nuelle." His voice was quiet, polite, almost detached. "Ranked second in Four Stars. You carry berserker affinity, correct?"
Her eyebrows twitched. "You read the files?"
"No." He turned his head slightly, studying her aura. "Energy hums differently depending on the wielder. Yours… vibrates like a blade that's been swung too many times."
"…Was that supposed to be an insult?"
He smiled faintly — a ghost of a smirk that barely reached his eyes. "Observation."
They started walking through the inner court.
Edward's silence wasn't awkward — it was heavy. Intentional. The kind that made other people talk just to fill the void.
"So," Nuelle began after a while, "I heard your academy doesn't do open duels. You people too noble to get your hands dirty?"
Edward's reply came after a pause. "We don't duel to learn."
She frowned. "Then why duel at all?"
He stopped, looked at her — and for a moment, something faintly cold flickered behind his calm eyes. "Because when we draw our swords, it's not practice. It's purpose."
There was no heat in his tone, no arrogance — just certainty.
The kind that couldn't be faked.
The silence stretched.
Somewhere in the distance, bells chimed for midday training, but the sound barely registered between them.
"You're kind of scary when you say things like that," Nuelle muttered, crossing her arms.
Edward glanced toward the training field, where sparks of aura and shouts filled the air. "You shouldn't fear a calm sword, Nuelle."
"Why not?"
"Because calm swords only draw when they must."
He resumed walking, leaving her standing there, unsure whether she'd just been reassured or threatened.
From a balcony above, Instructor Pwain and Headmaster Kime watched the exchange.
"Calm, isn't he?" Kime murmured. "What do you take of him?"
"Too calm," Sensei Pwain replied. "The quiet ones in these tournaments are always the ones that change the scoreboards."
---
On the northern pier, fog rolled in from the sea — thick, white, almost unnatural.
The ship from Frussia's Ranger Academy cut through it silently, its hull painted black and marked with silver fangs — their emblem.
The guards who stood by the hanger whispered nervously. Everyone knew Frussia's Rangers were not soldiers. They were the Empire's shadows — specialists trained for survival, infiltration, and silent elimination.
To see them here, in a school tournament, was… unsettling.
One by one, they disembarked — faceless under their hoods, each moving with precise, calculated rhythm. Even the sound of their boots was synchronized.
Then came the last figure.
No hood.
No weapon visible.
Shzekcl.
His name alone carried rumor. Some said he'd once served in an actual assassination unit before being forced into the Academy system. Others said he was a failed experiment from the northern labs.
He neither confirmed nor denied any of it.
His silver-gray hair caught faint strands of mist, eyes glassy yet sharp, like a man awake but done with the world. His presence didn't radiate threat — it erased it.
It was like standing next to someone who didn't register as alive.
At the dock's end stood Itekan, arms crossed, waiting — sent by Kime, though everyone knew "waiting" wasn't exactly his strong suit.
"So, you're the Rangers, huh?" he muttered, glancing over the arriving line. "You all look like you're about to assassinate someone."
Then his gaze found Shzekcl.
"Guess that's the ace…" he murmured. "Doesn't look like much."
The air shifted.
For a split second, Itekan's instincts screamed — and before his mind caught up, Shzekcl was gone.
A flicker of motion — not even wind displacement — and a finger pressed against the side of his neck.
Cold. Precise.
"You shouldn't say that out loud," came the quiet voice behind him.
Itekan spun, his daggers half-drawn — but Shzekcl was already back where he'd been standing, as if he'd never moved at all.
"…What the hell was that?" Itekan exhaled. "Did he just—?"
No answer. Shzekcl was looking at the water, eyes reflecting the fog.
Finally, he spoke — softly, tonelessly. "The waves here are loud."
"Huh?"
"Everywhere you go, people make noise. Words. Motion. Pointless." He turned slightly, gaze empty but steady. "If the world were quieter… I think I'd like it better."
Itekan frowned. "You saying you wanna drown everyone or something?"
A faint tilt of the head. "Wouldn't that be quieter?"
Itekan stared at him. "You're one creepy bastard, you know that?"
Shzekcl blinked once, slow. "So I've been told."
He started walking toward the academy grounds, steps silent even on the wet planks.
Itekan stayed behind, breathing a little too hard, feeling that strange pulse of pressure that came from true danger.
That speed…
Even with his shadow being spread across the entire hanger, he hadn't caught it.
Not a flicker. Not a whisper.
As he stood there he realized — he realized why Headmaster Kime had sent him to receive them. He was letting him know, that despite his recent growth there were people who were still far ahead of him.
"I'd like to fight this guy — Shzekcl huh! Let's see how strong you really are."
By dusk, the academy was buzzing. Word spread fast — "The Bloom Knights ace arrived" … "The Ranger phantom moved like a ghost" … "Four Stars is in trouble this year."
Instructors from other schools exchanged polite smiles in the mess hall, but the tension underneath was unmistakable.
Every glance was a measurement. Every greeting, a disguised probe.
Edward sat at one table, calmly drinking tea, posture perfect, presence contained.
Shzekcl sat at another, half in shadow, eating mechanically, eyes never leaving the flicker of the ceiling light.
Ronga couldn't sit in one spot for long. Her presence brought sparks even as Korimer tried keeping them at bay.
And between them — without speaking, without even acknowledging the other's existence — a silent understanding formed.
Opposites.
But equally dangerous.
The quiet knight who kills with purpose.
The tired assassin who kills because the world gives him no reason not to.
The lightning storm that tore all as sunder.
And the legacy of fire that none could quench.
When they finally meet, no one would be ready.
---
Three arrivals.
Four storms.
And though none had drawn their weapon yet, Four Stars could already feel the coming quake.
The tournament hadn't even begun —
and already, the battlefield had changed.
.
.
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Spiritual Energy (SE)
Spiritual Sea (SS)
Spiritual Signature (SST)