The journey took a month, a long road carried by creaking wheels and the endless rhythm of horse hooves. When Connor McCloud finally arrived at Chorus, the grand city at the heart of the world and home to Trinity Academy, he was not even given the chance to marvel at its vast towers or bustling plazas.
The moment his boots touched stone, two figures approached. One was a man whose thin frame and fragile glasses made him resemble a clerk buried in scrolls, his plain suit dark and without ornament. The other stood taller, her presence sharp and wild. She bore scars across her hardened face, crimson hair bound by a fraying cord, and calloused hands that revealed a lifetime spent gripping steel. On her back rested a battle axe, strapped loosely, ready to split armor in a heartbeat.
They introduced themselves as academy officials, tasked with verifying each new arrival. The man, Professor Philo Caden, spoke with precision, dripping caution into every word. The warrior woman, Scarlett Dreadx, carried herself like a storm barely restrained, her tone mocking, her smile daring Connor to prove himself.
Documents were demanded. Connor presented both his letter of admission and the introduction given by his mercenary captain. Each was tested with alchemical solution—an academy safeguard against forged entries and stolen identities. The ink held true, and so his place was confirmed.
When their roles were revealed, Connor's doubts grew sharper. Philo was not an errand-runner, but a professor of history and culture. Scarlett, however, shocked him most: her Hall Rank was 72. In this world, the Hall stood as a tower of endless descent, its depths filled with creatures called Meteors—monstrous abominations born from chaos. A warrior's rank determined how deep they could fight within its floors. To reach even the 60s was rare, but 72 meant she had stood on the threshold of the abyss itself, a figure who could crush a Rank 23 Meteor—the very type that had nearly killed Connor's comrades—without effort.
Why was such a giant of war teaching at this academy?
Scarlett laughed at his stunned expression, while Philo scolded her lack of restraint. She then revealed her recognition of him—not as just a student, but as the Highlander, the lone survivor of a slaughter where Meteors had multiplied and consumed an entire village. The name, once whispered with awe and pity, had already spread beyond the borders of kingdoms. To nobles, fame was bait, and to challengers, it was opportunity.
Connor's hopes of a quiet life at the academy felt thinner by the moment.
Then came the thunder.
A rumble shook the streets as an endless line of carriages, ornate and massive, rolled through Chorus. At their head was a gilded four-horse chariot, its presence demanding reverence. Philo and Scarlett straightened at once, rushing to meet it with visible tension. Connor, wary of noble entanglements, hung back, watching from a distance.
From the grand carriage stepped a girl his own age, her hair a pure sky-blue that cascaded like silk to her waist. Her expression was calm, her posture gentle, her greeting graceful enough to calm the crowd. Yet when her eyes turned toward Connor, the world split open.
His forehead erupted with unbearable pain, more violent than any warning he had ever received from his Gift. It felt as though lightning had struck directly into his skull. In all his battles against Meteors, against claws and fangs and chaos itself, nothing had ever made the Gift scream so violently.
Yet the girl only smiled, soft and welcoming.
The contrast froze him. How could such danger radiate from a noble maiden who looked so serene? The pain vanished as suddenly as it had come, but Connor knew the truth. His instincts had never lied.
This girl was more perilous to his existence than any monster he had faced.
He had not even entered the academy gates, and already the shadow of death loomed closer than ever.