Every soul in this world was born carrying either a blessing or a curse. These divine marks, called Gifts and Curses, came in infinite variety, no two ever the same. They usually awakened in a moment of crisis or change, burning themselves into a person's being with such clarity that it felt like recalling a memory etched since birth.
For Connor McCloud, his Gift was deceptively simple. A sharp tingling across his forehead whenever danger lurked. It warned not only of blades aimed at his throat or poisoned food hidden in feasts, but even of the subtler dangers—standing before a capricious noble who demanded absolute obedience, or being cornered in a negotiation where one wrong word could mean death.
Yet, while it was a loyal sentinel, it offered nothing more than pain. No guidance, no solution. Only the raw signal that peril existed. His Curse had yet to awaken, but he almost hoped it never would. In a life already twisted by loss, he had no desire for yet another chain.
The memory of the previous day lingered like poison. When that sky-haired noblewoman looked at him, the pain in his head was worse than anything he had ever felt. Worse than Meteors. Worse than war.
That afternoon, the grand entrance ceremony filled the colossal hall of Trinity Academy. It was a chamber so vast that one could lose themselves counting the endless rows of seats, each arranged with symbolic order. Red, blue, and black seats were for nobles from the three great nations, while the plain white seats, slightly apart, marked the place for commoners.
Connor sank into one of those white chairs, the air of separation already heavy on his shoulders.
Noble students glittered under the light, their polished skin free of scars, their hair shimmering with wealth and care. Some looked nervous, others ambitious, but none carried the weight of blood-soaked battle. Their strength was sharp, yes, but it was the sharpness of political intrigue and guarded assassinations—not the battlefield.
Commoner students, on the other hand, were a bizarre tapestry. A ragged youth twitching with paranoia. A girl hugging a massive pillow, somehow asleep despite the clamor. A figure clad in dark armor, one wing of orange feathers and the other forged from steel. Even a black coffin stood in place of a chair, its presence chilling.
Connor frowned. This was not a gathering of scholars, but a parade of oddities.
A voice amplified by magic silenced the crowd. On stage rolled a wheeled chair pushed by a clay golem. But instead of a man seated there, a painted canvas of an aged hero rested against the chair.
This, the golem announced, was none other than Parcaso Andalusia—the headmaster of Trinity Academy, and the hero who had once saved humanity from the Meteors four centuries ago.
The painting moved. Its lips opened. The hall roared with applause. Connor's mind froze.
The impossible truth was undeniable: the ancient hero still lived, but bound within a portrait. His voice carried legends, his presence reverberated like a storm, but the students—especially the commoners—soon wilted under the weight of his endless words.
Connor's head drooped with the others, though he forced his ears open when one detail pierced the haze. A graduation exam. Only those who passed could earn the title of Guardian. Failure meant dismissal, perhaps disgrace.
His stomach sank. Quiet graduation, his dream of peace, seemed to retreat further away.
Hours blurred. Professors were introduced one by one, each greeted with polite applause. Then came the freshman oath.
Three figures appeared—representatives of their nations, each one a prodigy.
First was Zephyros Astram of the Alima Union, Hall Rank 29, a man with warm charisma and strength equal to an army. Applause shook the hall for him.
Next was Prince Bergt Platinum, Rank 23, a cold flame of nobility whose presence scratched faintly at Connor's forehead. His Gift whispered of danger.
But then came the true storm: Maiael Astarod, eldest daughter of Duke Astarod of the Hercule Empire. Hall Rank 36. A number beyond the reach of most mercenary captains. A realm of overwhelming force.
And her hair—sky-blue, radiant. The same girl whose gaze yesterday had nearly shattered his mind.
As she lifted her hand in elegant greeting, Connor's Gift screamed, burning his forehead with unbearable pain. Her smile was bright, noble, welcoming—yet to him, it was more lethal than the gaping maws of Meteors.
The oath was spoken, lofty words about blood, duty, and humanity's future. The hall erupted with thunderous applause. Connor did not join them.
His mind turned like a storm, questions crashing against each other. Why did she threaten him? How could one person, a girl his age, be more terrifying than monsters born from the heavens' craters?
Their eyes met, and the Gift flared again. Her smile did not waver.
Orientation followed, and professors guided groups of students down polished halls, speaking of classes, training, and the future. Connor walked with them, numb, until a familiar rumble stopped him. The golem Merog approached, its stone voice resonant.
The principal had summoned him.
The Gift stayed quiet, offering no warning this time. Connor's chest tightened nonetheless.
He asked himself one desperate question as every gaze turned his way:
Had he already done something wrong?