Noah took a half-step forward, weight shifting as if already preparing to meet the challenge. The look in his eyes carried no bravado, no calculation-just the reflex of someone who had always stepped into the fire, forgetting each burn the moment the flames died down.
But before he could move further, a shadow crossed his path. Syl stepped smoothly in front of him, her figure a barrier as sharp as any drawn blade. Her voice rang out, cordial yet unyielding, a mirror of Kurtys's own tone.
"Unfortunately, my partner is injured. It seems I will have to take his place."
The words cut through the courtyard, silken and precise, leaving no opening for rebuttal. She inclined her head lightly, her expression calm. "Surely that will not be an issue for you, Mr. Kurtys. After all, the purpose here is purely educational. Since I, too, bear the essence of light-and a blade-it would be entirely acceptable, would it not?"
Kurtys's jaw tightened, his lips pressing together as though he had bitten down on his own objection. Denying her would expose the truth of his provocation for what it was. The glint in his eyes betrayed the frustration he worked to bury.
Noah shifted forward, hand brushing the hilt at his side. "Syl, I can handle this, even hurt-"
Her elbow struck hard into his stomach. The sound that escaped him was more of a wheeze than a word, and before he could catch himself, his legs buckled. He landed squarely on the ground with an awkward thump, sitting back against the grass, both arms wrapped tight around his middle.
The courtyard rippled with muffled laughter. A few students failed to hide their grins, hands rising too late to cover them. Even among the rows of upper-years, a smirk or two betrayed itself.
On the dais, the Headmistress tilted her head ever so slightly, one hand brushing against her lips as though to disguise the flicker of amusement in her violet eyes.
Syl didn't so much as glance back. She stepped forward smoothly, her voice light, cordial, each word cutting with perfect precision. "As you can see, a single strike is enough to stir his injuries. Therefore, as his partner in this Academy, I will take his place in the duel."
A hush fell across the courtyard. The Headmistress's gaze lingered on Syl for a long moment, unreadable behind the thin gleam of her spectacles. Then, with the smallest nod, she turned her head toward the instructors behind her.
"Professor Matthew," she said evenly, "would you be so kind as to activate the dueling circle? We can't risk a stray Sigil flaring by accident."
At her call, a refined elf stepped forward, his dark uniform precise, a monocle resting against one eye. His steps were calm as he moved across the courtyard, passing the benches and heading toward the open grass on the far side of the dueling grounds - the direction opposite the mountain arch, where the space lay flat and unbroken.
He knelt with a practiced elegance, pressing one hand lightly to the stone. A faint pulse of light spread outward, runes threading like veins across the courtyard floor. The circle shimmered into being, translucent at first, then solidifying into a glowing perimeter.
Professor Matthew straightened, his voice carrying with calm authority. "The dueling circle is now active. Be aware - all other Sigils in this section of the garden are temporarily disabled. Control your techniques. This is a demonstration, not a battlefield."
Murmurs passed quietly through the crowd, the students leaning forward as the duel ring hummed with power.
Syl advanced with calm steps toward the dueling circle. The air thrummed with expectation, the chatter of students fading into silence.
Kurtys strode toward the ring, boots striking the stone with a steady rhythm. His gaze was fixed ahead, his posture sharp, each step carrying him closer to the glowing perimeter where Syl already waited.
And then - a voice, clear and elegant, cut the hush. From the benches, Syl's cousin watched him with an amused poise, as if entertained by a private jest.
"Mr. Kurtys, did you have breakfast this morning?"
He faltered, stopping mid-stride. The oddity of the question drew his brows together, though he turned toward the benches with respectful composure.
"Not this morning, Miss Elyra. Any particular reason-"
She lifted her hand delicately, halting his words with a single graceful motion. With unhurried ease, she crossed one leg over the other, the picture of composed indifference.
"Don't trouble yourself," she said, her tone smooth, unhurried. "Just a passing thought. Good luck in your duel."
Kurtys inclined his head, still visibly puzzled, before resuming his steps into the circle, before setting his focus back on Syl.
Elyra, meanwhile, reclined with ease, her expression unreadable.
Beside her, a low whisper carried. "Miss Elyra... may I ask why such a question?"
The dark hair girl leaned closer, curiosity flickering in her otherwise controlled features.
Elyra allowed herself a small, measured smile. "Meena, you remember who forged my runicblade, don't you?"
The girl straightened, almost eager. "Of course, miss. It was forged by the current Guardian - not only the greatest Summoner of our age, but also one of the finest runesmiths ever known."
Pride laced her voice, but Elyra's smile sharpened, tinged with something sly. "And yet mine is only a copy. Look at Syl's hip, Meena. That blade is the original."
Meena's eyes widened, surprise flashing bright before her composure returned. She hesitated, then spoke cautiously. "Even so, I don't understand. Even if the prin-"
Elyra's gaze turned, sharp as a blade, halting the slip.
Meena corrected herself instantly. "Forgive me. I meant Miss Syl. Even if she bears the original runicblade... what does that have to do with your question about breakfast?"
Elyra's lips curved into a knowing smile, her voice smooth as silk. "That, you will discover during the duel. But let me share a secret..."
She leaned in close, her words a hushed whisper by Meena's ear. "The Guardian is not only Syl's sister - she is her master. She has trained her since childhood. Not even I could defeat her in pure close combat."
Meena drew back slowly, posture stiff.
Miss Elyra was never careless with her words. Syl might be called a prodigy, yes - but she had only just arrived at the Academy. How could it make sense that someone so new could surpass Miss Elyra, one of the three strongest Bridges in our Academy, even if it was only in pure close combat?
The thought trailed away, unfinished, doubt gnawing at the edges of her certainty.
Kurtys entered the circle with an almost relaxed poise, his expression composed, a faint smirk at the corner of his lips. To him, this was a formality - a demonstration, nothing more. He looked at Syl.
They bowed, shallow and perfunctory, and the duel began.
With a flick of his wrist, the ground stirred. Small ridges of stone rose and lunged toward Syl, jagged edges meant to startle, not kill. The crowd leaned forward, but Syl moved as though she were already several steps ahead. She pivoted smoothly, coat brushing the stones as they closed behind her, her breathing unshaken, her runicblade still sheathed.
Kurtys raised his hand again, this time sending a series of sharp stone shards toward her chest. They split the air with a whistle - but Syl merely shifted her weight, boots gliding across the ground, each shard cutting nothing but air. Her gaze never left him, calm and unyielding, like water flowing around obstacles.
The crowd murmured. To them, it looked effortless - and that was the truth.
Kurtys's smirk thinned. His jaw tightened, the first crack in his confidence. He dragged both arms upward, and the ground beneath Syl lurched violently. Thick spikes of stone erupted where she stood.
But Syl was already moving. Her body folded into a low spin, coat flaring as she sprang sideways, her landing so precise it seemed rehearsed. The spikes collapsed harmlessly behind her, their jagged points left gnashing at empty air.
Frustration shadowed Kurtys's features. His movements grew sharper, harsher. He slammed his palm against the ground; a fissure raced outward, the stone splitting open like a beast's maw. Dust and gravel sprayed the air.
Syl leapt lightly across it, not even brushing the edges. She did not counter, did not even raise her hand to her runicblade. Each time his fury built, she dissolved it with the simplest motion - an effortless step, a pivot, a sway.
The difference was becoming clear: every gesture cost Kurtys strength. Every dodge cost Syl nothing.
Sweat beaded at Kurtys's brow. His breathing grew harsher, his shoulders tightening with the strain. His eyes flicked toward the crowd, catching the gazes of nobles and upper-years alike. He could feel their judgment pressing down.
Syl brushed the dirt from her trousers with measured calm.
"I trust, Mr. Kurtys, that you have at least one technique you can execute without flaw. Perhaps now would be a good time to show it."
With a guttural growl, he thrust both hands forward. The courtyard shook as a wall of stone erupted, surging toward Syl like a tidal wave. The ground buckled, dust spiraled upward.
And still - Syl slipped through the chaos like a shadow.
Her pace never quickened, her breath never broke. One moment she was there, surrounded by the storm of rock, and the next she was gone.
She appeared before him in a blur, lowered, her eyes catching the light in a shimmer of violet. Her voice came low, sharp as steel.
"Wrong. Again. Now - know your place."
Her chest twisted, shoulder lifting, and in one seamless motion her elbow drove upward, square into his stomach.
And before his body even hit the ground, Syl pushed off with both feet, springing backward in a clean arc. She landed several paces away, boots striking the stone with perfect control. In the space of a heartbeat, she had returned to her starting point - spine straight, every line of her stance poised as though she had never moved at all.
The impact cracked through the courtyard. Kurtys's breath fled him in a strangled gasp. His body folded, knees buckling as he collapsed onto the stone. A violent cough wracked him, bile and spittle striking the ground with an ugly splash.
From the benches, Elyra's lips curved into the faintest smile. She turned her gaze just enough for Meena to catch the subtle motion.
Meena's eyes widened slightly, a glimmer of realization dawning. Admiration softened her features as she inclined her head toward Elyra, voice low, almost reverent.
"Ah... so that's what you meant with the breakfast question. I see now."
Kurtys, still hunched, forced his gaze upward - and caught the sight of Elyra's delicate smirk watching him from across the courtyard. Heat flushed his face, shame mixing with fury. His jaw clenched tight, teeth grinding.
With a guttural snarl, he slammed his palm against the ground.
The stone shuddered. A tremor rippled outward, clouds of dust and dirt rising, swallowing the space between him and Syl. The courtyard filled with haze, students coughing and straining to see through the swirling veil.
And then, from within the murk, a new light bloomed.
His glove.
It pulsed violet, the runes etched across it igniting one by one. The ground beneath his feet quaked as a dark slit began to tear itself open, lightless and unnatural - the first breath of a Link portal.
Before the portal could bloom wide, before his power could spill loose, the air itself cracked with movement.
In the blink of an eye, the veterans moved like shadows closing in. The tall third-year of stone stepped forward, his frame a wall of muscle and resolve, planting himself directly before Syl. The suddenness of his presence startled her - her boots scraped against the stone as she stumbled back, losing balance for the briefest moment before dropping lightly to the ground, more from surprise than any true fall.
Elyra moved next. With effortless grace, the golden-haired elf slid her runicblade from its sheath, its edge flashing as it kissed the hollow of Kurtys's throat, gleaming a breath away from spilling blood.
Behind him, Meena struck with silent precision. In a fluid motion, she twisted Kurtys's arm behind his back, her grip locking firm around the violet glove at his wrist. Her knee pressed hard between his shoulder blades, forcing his spine into an arch that left his throat bared to Elyra's runicblade. It was an immobilization as merciless as it was elegant - every escape route drowned before it could form.
From the flanks, the second-years shifted into place. They did not strike, but their posture spoke volumes - crouched tension, weight balanced, every movement promising they could spring at any moment. The air itself seemed to tighten, pulled taut by the cord of their readiness.
The short firebrand was the first to break the silence. A strained laugh cracked out of him, sharp against the hush. "I knew anything involving Kurtys would end badly, but this?" His hand gestured faintly toward the cage of blades closing around the elf. "But Fley, was it really necessary - all this, just because he broke the rules? He's a Sync Summoner, I know, but even as a second-year - she's Syl, a prodigy. Even I, who usually don't know much about common sense, can say that even if he used his Link, she could've handled him."
His words carried only to her, their exchange kept low, private - too quiet for anyone else in the courtyard to catch.
Fley, at his side, tilted her head. Her smirk was gone, her tone low and clipped like the cut of a blade. "You really don't get it, do you, Raenus? Look again."
Her eyes narrowed, not at Syl, but past the duel itself. "They're not protecting the princess... they're protecting Kurtys. Look behind Borthos," she added, nodding faintly toward the towering third-year standing firm before Syl, his bulk a wall of stone.
Her words landed heavy, and Raenus turned. At first, his usual careless ease clung to his face - but then it hit him.
The pressure.
It wasn't sound, or sight - it was weight. A suffocating presence that pressed down like a predator's gaze, fixed not on the crowd but on him. His chest seized, breath catching sharp. Every flicker of mischief drained from his eyes, leaving only raw alarm. His glove flared, violet light sputtering to life - not as an attack, but as instinct, survival reaching before thought could.
"What... what is this?" His voice came ragged, stripped bare of bravado. "This killing intent..."
Raenus squinted toward the direction Fley indicated - but there was nothing. Only a blur, a haze, as if the air itself refused to reveal the source.
"I... I can't find it," he whispered, panic threading his tone.
"That's because you're afraid," Fley said, her voice cutting with quiet certainty. "Your instinct isn't telling you to fight, Raenus. It's telling you to run. And when you run, you don't need to see what's behind you."
Her eyes gleamed faintly as she tilted her head. "Calm yourself."
Raenus drew in a sharp breath, forcing it out slowly. His shoulders loosened, the tremor in his grip easing just enough.
And then - as though a mirage melted away, the haze broke.
There he was.
Noah stood at the edge of the crowd, one hand resting on the hilt at his waist - not drawn, not lifted, but heavy with intent. His gaze was fixed wholly on Kurtys, dark and unblinking. His shoulders were taut, every line of his body coiled as if the garden had fallen away and only the battlefield remained.
Raenus swallowed hard, his throat dry, body still half-rigid beneath the phantom weight.
Fley's lips curved into the faintest smirk.
"It's the human. Her partner, Noah. Who would've guessed that someone so cute could wear a look like that?"
The pressure rolling off Noah didn't roar. It whispered. A suffocating, primal promise: if he moved, it would not be to threaten - it would be to kill.
For a heartbeat, it felt as though blood had already been spilled. And then - he was gone.
By the time anyone registered it, Noah was at Syl's side, crouched lightly, his hand extended toward her. The murderous weight that had crushed the courtyard vanished as if it had never existed, replaced instead by a faint, almost careless smile.
"I'm fine," Syl said quietly as Noah helped her up. "Thank you."
The shift was so abrupt it left Raenus rattled, his chest still tight, his glove flickering faintly as though unsure whether to flare again or fade. Beside him, Fley exhaled softly, her smirk sharpening into something keener.
"If they hadn't stepped in," she murmured for his ears alone, eyes never leaving Noah, "Kurtys's head would already be rolling in the grass."
Raenus swallowed, the weight of her words settling like stone.
Meanwhile, Kurtys, still trapped in Meena's hold, caught the scene from the corner of his eye - and humiliation burned across his face. His jaw clenched as though grinding his frustration into dust, but when the veterans released him, his body betrayed him. He dropped to his knees, coughing, spittle striking the stone.
The three veterans remained unmoving, statues carved from light, water, and stone. They stood as if awaiting a signal, their presence a silent wall between Kurtys and anything worse.
Slowly, the earthen haze began to thin, curling away with the breeze. And when the last of it cleared, the Headmistress's voice cut through - quiet but absolute.
"Mr. Kurtys, you will report to my office at the end of the day."
Her gaze swept the courtyard, calm and sharp behind her spectacles. "This concludes the demonstration. Collect your uniforms from the assigned armories and report to your first class. I apologize for the disruption. The issue was nothing more than a failure in Mr. Kurtys's equipment maintenance."
She inclined her head faintly, and the three veterans bowed as one before retreating the way they had come. Kurtys walked ahead of them, head bowed low, shame clinging to every step.
Fley followed in silence, but as she passed the benches her eyes flicked sideways - and froze for a moment.
Syl had Noah caught in an arm-lock, her hand clamped firmly around his nose as he squirmed, laughing through muffled words.
"Why would you even accept the duel, knowing you were already hurt?" she scolded, her tone half-icy, half-exasperated.
"I surrender, I surrender!" Noah wheezed, still smiling even as she twisted his head. "Force of habit, I swear!"
The small cluster of nearby first-years chuckled, the tension of the moment dissolving into awkward relief.
But Fley's gaze lingered, her steps slowing ever so slightly. Just moments ago, she had felt a killing intent so sharp it could have sliced through bone - and now, here was that same boy, grinning like a fool under the playful wrath of his partner.
Her brow arched, curiosity glinting in her silver-green eyes. She murmured low to herself, a whisper lost beneath the shuffle of departing boots. "How can someone who radiates that kind of pressure smile like this?"
Her lips curved, the expression sharpening into something keen, thoughtful. "Noah, hmm... interesting."
Syl waited by the door of their cabin, already dressed in her uniform. The cut was the same as Elyra's - fitted jacket and polished boots - but as a first-year, her glove was plain white, and the half-cape absent. She tapped her heel against the step impatiently as groups of students passed on the street, heading toward the Academy.
"Noah, let's go," she called, her voice edged with impatience. "It can't be that hard to put on a uniform."
She sighed and walked slowly toward the short corridor that led to Noah's room. Stopping just before the warding Sigil, she called again, softer this time.
"Noah, we're going to be late..."
Silence. His door was ajar.
Her gaze flicked from the open door to the faint glow of the Sigil. Cautiously, she closed her eyes and reached out. Nothing resisted. No shimmer, no barrier. The ward let her pass. She stepped forward, lips parting slightly.
He consented. Without a word, without asking... it's like the Headmistress said. Consent lies in the Soul Heart, not in what we say.
A small, involuntary smile tugged at her lips - a strange, quiet satisfaction at a conquest she hadn't even realized she wanted.
She pushed the door open.
"Noah, I hope you're dressed-"
A muffled grunt answered her. Her eyes snapped open, and she hurried inside - only to stop in the doorway.
Noah stood frozen in front of the bed, half-wrestled into his uniform. The collar was twisted halfway across his face, one arm stuck above his head like a trapped animal. His wide-eyed look met hers. For a heartbeat, silence - and then Syl burst out laughing. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, tears threatening as she gasped for breath.
"I thought someone like you - so good with chores - wouldn't have trouble with something this simple. Turns out everyone has their weaknesses."
Noah groaned through the fabric muffling his mouth, his voice barely intelligible. She stepped closer, untangling him like she was working a stubborn knot of yarn. Piece by piece, the uniform came free. He collapsed back with a relieved exhale.
"Thank you... I thought I was going to die in there. I even kept telling the Sigil,let her through, please, I'm too young to die - and not like this.Lucky it listened."
Still recovering from her laughter, Syl wiped the corners of her eyes, then instinctively reached up to adjust his collar properly.
"There. Good as new."
She paused, her hand lingering for just a breath. "Shall we?"
He nodded, but then turned back abruptly.
"Wait - almost forgot."
Reaching to the bed, he picked up a silver chain and slipped it around his neck. The pendant rested against his chest, the same emblem now stitched into his uniform: a heart-shaped flame, a shield, and two blades crossed behind it. The cloth version gleamed in blue and silver - missing only the delicate leafwork etched into the pendant.
Tucking the necklace beneath his jacket, Noah gave a small nod.
"Now we can go."
The walk from their cabin to the Academy carried a new weight. Students in crisp uniforms filled the paths, their chatter weaving through the morning air. Syl led with composed steps, Noah half a pace behind, tugging at his freshly straightened collar, earning himself a small, hidden smile from her.
Soon the two passed under the tall arch of carved stone that marked the entrance. Corridors branched like arteries, each lined with silver-blue banners that shimmered faintly in the light. Following the steady stream of first-years, they came at last to their destination.
The classroom was circular in shape, the chamber breathed space and symmetry. Benches curved in two rising semicircles, encircling a wide open floor at the center. Above that floor floated a great sphere of water, suspended in air, rippling faintly with its own light - It pulsed in quiet rhythm.
The orb shimmered like a living blackboard - reflections of sigils, maps, and words flickering just beneath its surface. The room itself seemed designed for immersion - knowledge here was something that could envelop all who studied it.
Students filtered to their seats, some clutching memory orbs that glowed softly in their hands, others with quills already glimmering with runic sigils, testing colors in idle strokes. The quiet rustle of parchment and the faint hum of enchanted tools filled the air.
Syl and Noah slipped into the first row, right-hand side, their view unobstructed. The low murmur of voices ebbed, fading into silence as the last of the students sat.
And then the door opened.
An elf strode in, her presence commanding the room at once. Long hair the color of flame spilled past her shoulders, catching every light like strands of fire.
Her attire was not the plain cut of the students' uniforms. Instead, she wore a long, elegant coat, its folds draping with deliberate grace, designed as much for command as for movement. Silver embroidery traced along its hems like flowing sigils, and a short half-cape rested on her shoulder, joined by refined pauldrons that lent her silhouette an authority beyond ornament. It was the garb of a professor - ceremonial, refined.
Each step was certain, deliberate, as though the room already belonged to her. A smile curved her lips - warm and intoxicating, yet sharp enough to unsettle. Her eyes, a bright amber-gold, swept the chamber.
She stopped at the very center of the circle, the water-orb behind her shimmering as if answering her presence. For a heartbeat, she let the silence stretch - and then she spoke.
"My name is Professor Nemya," her voice smooth, carrying with effortless authority. "I will be your instructor in Runic History and Fundamentals of Links. You may have heard words of welcome before, but today you stand not as guests - but as students. So let me be the first to say..."
Her smile sharpened, radiant.
"Welcome to Soul Academy."