The morning of the Freshman Friendly Match began not with peace, but with a voice. It called him from sleep, sharp yet patient, urging him to rise. Connor McCloud dismissed it at first, thinking it only the echo of an old mercenary captain who had drilled him awake countless dawns before. Yet this was no mercenary camp. He was inside Trinity Academy, in a dormitory room sealed for his use alone. The voice did not belong here.
When the blanket was tugged away, instincts honed on the battlefield took over. Connor's blade was drawn in a single breath, its edge resting against the throat of the intruder. The strike was flawless, the counter precise—except for one truth: the intruder was not human.
The figure before him was tall, horned, and masked, its dark stone-like skin suggesting neither flesh nor blood. Not a Meteor, for no violet flames burned from its body, but a creature no less unsettling. It claimed to be untouchable, a spirit immune to steel, and when Connor's strike cleaved through its arm, the blade passed harmlessly as if slicing mist.
Then came the words that shook him deeper than any battle wound. The creature declared itself to be Connor McCloud's own future, a version of him that had traveled back in time through imperfect regression. The revelation was grotesque: he was staring at what he might become—a monster in body, fractured in mind, stripped of much of its memory and sanity.
The "future Connor" explained that in attempting to rewrite fate, he had possessed his own younger self instead of cleanly overwriting it. His soul now shared the same body, weakened and unstable. What remained was fragmented: power diminished, knowledge incomplete. He could not recall why the world had ended, nor why he had become such a twisted figure, but one certainty remained—the Connor of this era was fated to die today.
Not tomorrow. Not years ahead. Today, in the very first match of the Freshman Friendly Tournament, against Maiael Astarod.
The explanation chilled Connor. It was no random death, but an accident born of talent. Maiael, wielding the legendary sword Whispy Whistling, would push him too far. She would grow intrigued when he blocked her strikes. She would escalate. And in that rising storm, one blow would pierce him fatally—not by intent, but by inevitability.
The future self urged him to live. Victory, not retreat, was the only path to survival.
Before Connor could wrest more answers, a great bell tolled across the dorms, marking the hour. Time would not wait. His future self dissolved into azure motes, seeping into his body. The possession was complete. A voice rang within his chest, clear and heavy:
"That is my soul. From now on, I stand with you."
Though unsettled, Connor accepted it. If this broken remnant of tomorrow could help him endure the duel, so be it. He gave the voice a name—Kyle—to distinguish it from himself.
By the time Connor donned his academy uniform and stepped into the waiting chamber of the great arena, it was nearly 9:30. The stadium towered above him, vast stone stands filled with nobles in jeweled finery and commoners in simpler garb, their cheers echoing like rolling thunder.
The golem Merog introduced him first: Connor McCloud, Hall Rank 19, the Highlander of the Carleo Mercenary Corps. Whispers shot through the stands, awe mixing with envy. His name carried weight. To commoners, he was a figure of inspiration. To nobles, an unwelcome rival.
Then Maiael Astarod emerged from the opposite tunnel. Sky-blue hair shimmered like sunlight through water, her steps graceful and unhurried. The Gift flared in Connor's forehead at once, a searing warning. Hall Rank 36. The difference between them was a gulf wider than rivers, deeper than oceans. To most, it was unthinkable that a duel between them could even be called fair.
Tradition demanded they shake hands before combat. Maiael's palm was soft, her smile radiant, and for a fleeting instant the Gift went silent. But her words were colder than the storm she carried: "This will be over in ten seconds."
Merog called for weapons to be drawn. Connor's steel, though familiar and dependable, suddenly felt like wood compared to what Maiael unveiled. At her belt hung only a strange D-shaped knuckle, inlaid with jewels. But when she gripped it, air itself sharpened into invisible edges. Whispy Whistling. Forged by a wind spirit, handled by starlight shaped by dragons—a blade without form, its edge hidden within the storm.
Connor braced himself. His Gift remained quiet, yet unease burned through him. Kyle's voice murmured strategies, but time for preparation had ended.
Merog's resonant voice boomed across the arena:
"The first match of the Freshman Friendly Tournament begins!"
At once, the world roared. The air split. The wind screamed. A storm surged forward, Maiael's strike cutting not with steel, but with the fury of nature itself.
And thus, Connor's trial by fate began.