The duel's conclusion left the arena breathless. The referee's voice declared the victor—Connor McCloud—yet the silence that followed was heavier than thunder. The storm of power that should have ended Connor had vanished at the final instant, and disbelief poisoned the air.
Confusion spread like wildfire among students and professors alike. Commoners whispered in awe and doubt, while noble-born pupils fumed at what they saw as impossible. Some even muttered suspicions of cheating, their pride unwilling to accept that a mercenary could topple an imperial heir.
But the uproar stilled when unexpected applause rose from the imperial aristocrats themselves. Calm, measured, and resolute, they honored the result. Their dignified acceptance struck the hearts of all present more deeply than protest ever could. Soon, genuine cheers followed, belated but thunderous, sealing Connor's victory in memory as a historic opening match.
At the center of it all, however, the new champion collapsed—not from injury, but from relief that crushed his spirit after narrowly escaping death.
Connor awoke later in the academy infirmary. The bruises, burns, and cuts he remembered from the battle had been erased as though they never existed. The academy's healers were skilled beyond compare, their treatments drawing upon rare alchemical tonics and restorative arrays woven into the very infirmary itself. His body was now unscarred, but his mind brimmed with questions.
Blue light rose from his chest. From it emerged the towering phantom of Kyle—his supposed future self, a being who carried both authority and mystery. Though Connor doubted the claim, he could not deny the figure's knowledge nor the aid it had given him.
The two reviewed the duel's strange events. The storm had been silenced not by luck, but through rune magic, an ancient art long lost to time. Unlike modern sorcery that channels mana into shape, runes aligned directly with the world's elemental flow. To bend wind, fire, water, or earth, no magic was more absolute. Connor learned that he, too, would one day wield such power—should he walk the path Kyle had once walked.
Yet greater revelations followed. Connor confessed that during the fight, visions had pierced his mind, showing moments of his imminent death before they occurred. Each was vivid, unavoidable, yet wrong—because he survived. Kyle's expression darkened. Gifts and curses, unique powers etched into every soul, had always been singular. To have two was an impossibility written into the laws of history. And yet, Connor stood as proof of a broken law. Was it a second gift, or a curse disguised as salvation?
Their debate left no answers, only heavier questions. Connor pressed his so-called future self on contradictions—how could Kyle remember both Connor's destined death and the world's end if fate had already been overturned? Kyle faltered, memories tangled like threads in a storm. All he could admit was that something about their existence was… distorted.
At last, Kyle proposed a pact. He would teach Connor the techniques, arts, and knowledge that the mercenary would one day master, in exchange for Connor's cooperation in preventing the world's destruction and restoring Kyle's fragmented power. The offer carried risk, for mercenaries never accepted contracts without weighing return against peril. Yet the temptation was undeniable. If Connor could master rune magic and Kyle's future skills, perhaps even graduation—his greatest dream—would become effortless. And if the apocalypse was only a false memory, then he would lose nothing. He agreed.
But secrecy was vital. When the infirmary nurse entered, Connor realized with horror that only he could see Kyle. To others, he appeared as a young man muttering to himself like a lunatic. Kyle explained that his spirit form remained invisible to all but Connor unless he chose to fully manifest. The truth would have to remain hidden, lest inquisitors seize Connor as a dangerous anomaly.
Soon after, the nurse ordered him to his newly assigned classroom. There, his group for the academy's trials awaited. The academy grouped students into small units under appointed professors, fostering both rivalry and unity.
Connor arrived late to find an unusual cast of companions. A wolf-eared delinquent with torn uniform and defiant eyes. A winged warrior encased in avian armor. A pale girl draped in black, a coffin standing silently at her side. A short student sleeping soundly at her desk, oblivious to all. And at the front—Professor Master Muscle, a man whose body itself was an intimidating wall of sinew and fury, ranked among the top fifty fighters of the continent.
The professor's booming presence shook the room, chastising Connor with words that carried the weight of boulders. Yet what startled Connor more was the sight of an empty desk—one final member had yet to arrive.
Moments later, the door opened.
Polished steps crossed the threshold. Sky-blue hair shimmered like frost beneath sunlight. The aura of nobility radiated effortlessly from the figure. Connor's heart froze when recognition struck.
The final member of his group… was Myael Astarod. The very prodigy he had just defeated.
And thus, the seeds of future conflict were planted.