Early morning.
The training grounds of Walton Academy lay cloaked in a biting chill. A pale fog rolled across the open fields, curling around the practice dummies and wooden racks lined with dull blades. Frost clung to the grass, crunching under every step, and the air carried the sharp sting of winter even though the season had not yet fully set in.
End pulled his cloak tighter, his breath steaming in the air.
"Finally… I can use the pendant," he muttered to himself, flexing his fingers as though reassuring his own body. Then he frowned, rubbing his numb hands together. "Wow… today is really cold. Since coming to this world, I've never felt a day this cold."
He huffed, stuffing his freezing fingers under his armpits. "I need to go inside. My hands are turning to ice."
The silence of the grounds was broken by the sudden scrape of boots on stone.
"Who's there?" a gruff voice called out.
End stiffened. A guard.
The man's lantern beam cut through the fog, swinging left and right as he searched. "Weird… I thought I heard someone making a ruckus just now." He paused, squinting at the shadows.
End pressed his back against a tree at the far corner of the yard, holding his breath.
"Did I hear wrong?" the guard muttered. "Hmm. Lately, the training hall grounds have been getting too noisy at night. Students need their sleep. How can anyone rest with so much racket?" He shook his head and paced further down the path.
"It'd be strange for a student to come here this early," the man continued, talking to himself. "Maybe one of the professors again. I've told him not to sneak out at this hour…"
"Tch." End clicked his tongue softly. Why now of all times? He crouched lower, hidden in the mist. If I get caught, it'll be nothing but trouble.
Then another voice rang out, closer.
"Here, put it over there!"
End's eyes widened. He peeked from behind the tree. Several guards were hauling poles, cloth, and a stack of folded banners across the grounds.
"Quickly, now. Mister, do we really need to position it exactly like this? Can't we just hang it anyhow?" one of them complained.
"No!" barked the lead guard. "This isn't just a flag, it's the academy flag. Arrange it properly."
From his hiding place, End's gaze sharpened. The academy flag?
The guards worked quickly, their lanterns illuminating flashes of gold and silver embroidery.
"The academies might start fighting if we don't hang their flags properly," the leader warned, voice low but firm.
He unfolded one of the banners, the bold crest of Walton catching the faint moonlight. "This belongs to the host academy. Hang it first. The others go left and right. No mistakes—this is Walton's pride, the best academy on the continent."
"Yes, sir."
The men hurried, planting the poles and hoisting the flags with practiced motions.
"Now this one, hang it at the front," the leader ordered.
"Hurry, hurry! We need this finished before sunrise. If the students see us still fumbling, it'll be shameful."
One of the younger guards sighed. "Did you hear? This year's intake is bigger than last year's."
"Of course it is," the leader replied. "More students means more pressure. Walton Academy has to prove itself again."
Hidden behind the tree, End's expression hardened.
"So today's the day… the students arrive." He exhaled slowly, mist curling in front of him. "I have to avoid catching anyone's eye. I don't want trouble—not in this world."
But even as he whispered it, his gaze flicked to the training grounds. The rows of practice dummies stood in eerie silence, weapons glittering faintly in the guard's lantern light. His hand drifted unconsciously to his sword.
No one's watching this side. If I'm careful…
He slipped from the tree, footsteps muffled by frost. While the guards remained busy with the flags, End crossed to the far corner of the yard and drew his training blade.
The cold bit into his palms, but he tightened his grip and squared his stance.
"Focus," he whispered.
He exhaled and lunged at the nearest dummy. His blade struck wood with a hollow thunk. He followed with a quick diagonal slash, then twisted into a horizontal sweep, breath puffing with each motion.
His form was still rough. His wrist ached at the wrong angles, and his swings lacked weight. But End didn't stop. He planted his feet, corrected his posture, and drove the sword in again, this time with cleaner movement.
Step, slash, pivot. Step, thrust, withdraw.
The chill faded as sweat broke along his neck and back.
Again. Again. Again.
Each strike echoed softly in the fog, blending with the distant murmurs of the guards. His muscles burned, but he kept pushing, carving repetition into instinct.
He remembered the lessons he'd overheard, watching from the sidelines: keep the blade aligned, never overextend, let the hips guide the cut. He practiced them now, one by one, until his arms trembled.
Finally, he lowered his sword, chest heaving.
"…Still weak," he muttered bitterly. "I need to get stronger." His gaze flicked down to the faint gleam of the Oracle Pendant tucked under his shirt. Without this artifact, I'd be nothing. A useless extra.
He clenched his fist, nails digging into his palm. "No. I can't stay weak. If I do…" His thoughts trailed, dark and heavy. He shook his head sharply, pushing them away.
The sound of boots drew closer. End quickly sheathed his blade and retreated once more behind the tree.
The guards passed by, carrying the last of the banners.
"Finally done," one grumbled. "Let's head back before the professors start barking."
Their voices faded into the distance.
The grounds were quiet again.
End exhaled, his shoulders loosening slightly.
The cold air stung his lungs, but the fire of his training still lingered in his muscles. He tightened his cloak, staring up at the faint glow of dawn breaking over the horizon.
"…A new term begins today." His breath hung in the air. "I'll survive. No matter what it takes."
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