In a quiet grove, two youths clad in the academy's standard leather armor clashed with swords in hand.
Clang, clang, clang!
Steel rang against steel, two streaks of cold light colliding, scattering sparks. Nearby branches caught in their exchange were shorn apart, splintering to pieces, proof of the blades' keenness.
Boom!
With another fierce impact, one youth was driven back by the force transmitted down his blade, while the other halted his assault.
"How is it? Are you hurt?"
The golden-haired youth lowered his sword, his voice concerned.
"I'm fine. You're getting stronger," replied the other, a boy with curling flaxen hair. A smile flickered across his face as he looked at his companion.
"Ha."
The golden-haired youth grinned at the praise.
They were Henry and Charles.
Half a month had passed since Henry's duel with Benson. In that time, Henry's growth had been staggering—where once he had been slightly weaker than Charles, now he had already surpassed him. The pace of his improvement left Charles speechless; even Titus Kirk, ranked first in their year, did not seem to advance so swiftly.
It was a pity Henry had only begun to unleash his potential now. Had this growth begun when he first entered the academy, Titus would not hold the top position.
"Let's head back," Henry said, glancing at the sun already suspended high above.
"Not a little longer?" Charles asked, reluctant.
Day after day, whenever time allowed, they came to this grove to refine their swordsmanship. Under Henry's guidance, Charles's own skills had grown by leaps and bounds, and he had grown addicted to that feeling of daily progress.
"No. We've trained long enough. Push too far and the body suffers—better to rest now than pay later."
Henry shook his head. He knew well the balance between strain and rest, never indulging in laziness, but never exhausting himself. It was a lesson hard-learned from the hidden injuries of his body's former owner.
"You're right," Charles conceded. He too remembered how Henry's physique had once stagnated from overexertion. Only after Lady Sera of the Scarlet Hand had purged his hidden afflictions had Henry's body grown stronger with such swiftness.
After bathing and taking lunch in the dining hall, Henry made his way back toward his dormitory.
In his past life, he had favored a midday nap, and he had not abandoned that habit here. After the rigor of training, there was nothing finer than surrendering to the restorative peace of sleep.
But when he reached the door of his dormitory, he found someone waiting.
A thin boy in the livery of the academy's servants stood there, eyes sharp and quick.
"What is it?" Henry asked directly.
The boy hesitated, then hurried to bow.
"Are you Young Master Henry?"
"I am," Henry answered.
"Young Master Henry, there is someone outside seeking you."
"Seeking me?" Henry paused, then comprehension dawned. He drew out three copper coins and pressed them into the servant's hand.
"Your fee."
"Thank you, Young Master Henry!"
The boy's face lit with joy at the unexpected generosity. Three coins were nearly three days' pay. With the two he had already received from another earlier, he had earned five days' wages in a single morning. Opportunities like this were rare indeed.
The gates of the Neo Knight Academy loomed ahead, towering seven or eight meters high, solemn and majestic. Upon the façade, six bold characters carved in the continent's common tongue proclaimed: "Neo Knight Academy." Their brushstrokes were vigorous and forceful, said to be the very handwriting of the founding dean.
Beneath, the ground was paved with polished granite blocks, each hewn to the same size, their surfaces gleaming like mirrors. Veins of cloudy patterns ran through the stone—marks of granite quarried only from Cloud Mountain, a material so costly that even the royal palace made use of it.
When Henry arrived at the gates, he saw a black-clad butler waiting.
The moment he beheld him, memories surfaced—
Pound Farel, steward of House Windsor. He had served two generations of lords and was cherished by the current head, Broad Windsor, Henry's father. His position in the household was lofty, his loyalty unquestioned.
"Steward Pound."
Henry's tone was natural; he had long since grown into the role of Henry, no longer plagued by the awkwardness he once felt.
"Young Master Henry," the old man greeted warmly. He had watched Henry grow since childhood; in truth, he knew the boy better than his own father, whose duties often left little time for his children.
"Why have you come?" Henry asked.
"I came with the goods of the trading fleet," Pound replied. "And to bring your living expenses."
"Ah—I nearly forgot."
Henry remembered belatedly. Because Asser City lay far from the capital, the family only sent his allowance once a year, in mid-term, enough to cover the rest of the year. Busy with training, and being no longer the same Henry, he had let such details slip.
"Young master has always been forgetful. I still recall when you once forgot to attend your lessons—until the lord himself found out—" Pound chuckled with grandfatherly warmth.
"Steward Pound, how fares my father? And the business?" Henry quickly interjected, diverting the old man. From the original Henry's memory, once Pound began reminiscing, there was no end. Were they alone, Henry would indulge him, but here at the academy gates, under the eyes of passing students, such tales felt mortifying for one with the soul of a man in his twenties.
"The lord is well. He bade me remind you not to disappoint the family. As for the trading house…" Pound hesitated.
"What is it, Steward Pound?" Henry pressed. He knew at once that something was amiss.
House Windsor was a family of merchants. Though modestly prosperous in Asser City, their lack of noble connections had stifled their growth. Sending Henry to the finest knight academy in Caro Kingdom had been a gamble to raise one of their own into knighthood and thus into nobility.
"The conflict with the Adams Trading House grows sharper," Pound admitted, brows furrowed. "Since the beginning of the year, there have already been several clashes in secret."
"Adams Trading House?"
At once, Benson's name surfaced in Henry's mind. Benson hailed from the Adams family.
And indeed, the hostility between them had begun only this year. Before, relations had been distant but neutral; yet since the year's start, Benson had targeted him with relentless malice. At times Henry had even glimpsed naked killing intent in the boy's eyes. Now the truth was plain—the enmity of their families had spilled into the academy.
"Is something wrong, Young Master Henry?" Pound asked, noticing the change in his face.
"Nothing," Henry replied, shaking his head. He would not speak of Benson's actions. To reveal them would only inflame the conflict further and risk his family's ruin.
"Tell Father to be cautious," Henry said instead, his voice low. "I fear Adams may strike from the shadows."
"I shall deliver the warning," Pound promised.
Shortly after, the steward departed on his duties.
"Farewell, Steward Pound," Henry said, watching him leave.
As Henry turned back toward the academy, he felt it—a gaze, sharp and venomous.
He looked aside.
A youth with brown hair stood there, his eyes bloodshot, fixed upon Henry with an icy, hateful glare.