Arthur's sword was still dripping when he stopped.
The forest around them was quiet now—too quiet. Broken branches littered the ground, the air heavy with the scent of burned Arcana and churned soil. Riven stood nearby, breathing hard, Julius leaning against a tree with his weapon resting against his shoulder.
Bound cadets from Division One knelt between them, weapons discarded, faces pale with disbelief.
It had worked.
Arthur exhaled slowly, forcing his racing heart to steady. "Regroup," he said. "We head for the mountain."
Before either of them could respond—
The door slammed open.
Taren walked in, eyes sharp, expression unreadable.
He stepped forward and threw the flag onto the table.
The cloth slapped against the wood, still warm, still stained.
"No need," Taren said calmly. "We're the victors."
For a moment, nobody moved.
Arthur stared.
His mind refused to process it. The insignia burned into his vision, reality lagging behind comprehension.
Then his knees buckled.
Arthur collapsed forward, hands shaking, breath catching as disbelief shattered into something raw and overwhelming. Tears burst free as joy detonated in his chest.
"We—" his voice cracked. "We won?"
Arthur surged forward and wrapped his arms around him, tears spilling freely now, his face pressed against Taren's shoulder. His sobbing was ugly and unrestrained, snot running down as relief tore through him all at once.
"That's disgusting," Taren muttered, trying — and failing — to push him away.
"S-sorry—!" Arthur choked, wiping his face with his sleeve. "I can't stop—"
Riven didn't even bother holding back. He bolted from the room to spread the news, his voice already echoing down the corridor.
Within minutes, Division Four collapsed into one another — laughing, crying, screaming — hands gripping shoulders as if letting go would make the moment disappear.
Elsewhere—
The observation chamber fell into stunned silence.
Renald stood frozen for a heartbeat—then broke.
He laughed, loud and unrestrained, the sound bursting from his chest as months of tension finally shattered.
"They did it," he said, voice rough. "Those idiots actually did it."
He turned sharply and grabbed Sol by the collar, yanking him forward into a fierce, unceremonious hug.
"You trained them well."
Sol stiffened, then slowly exhaled. He didn't return the embrace—but he didn't pull away either.
"…They exceeded my expectations," he said quietly.
Renald pulled back, grinning wide. "We're throwing a party."
Sol adjusted his glasses. "Don't expect me to drink."
Renald laughed harder. "Still scared of losing?"
Magnus chuckled behind them. "It's been a long time since I've seen you this happy, Renald."
Igred hadn't moved.
He stood staring at the image long after it vanished, eyes locked on the space where Leon had carried two unconscious bodies through fire and ruin.
Magnus noticed.
He stepped closer and placed a heavy hand on Igred's shoulder. "You've got fine grandsons."
Igred snorted. "Tell Carla they're okay."
Magnus chuckled. "You should tell her yourself."
Igred waved him off. "After we get wasted."
Magnus laughed, deep and unrestrained. "Just like old times."
Igred smirked. "Tabs on you."
Magnus laughed harder as they turned and left the chamber together.
Modred stood barefoot in endless grass.
Grass stretched endlessly in every direction—clean, untouched, impossibly green. The sky above was painted in soft gold, the air warm and still, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Ahead of him stood a massive tree.
Its trunk was ancient, roots spreading deep into the earth, branches heavy with pale yellow leaves that shimmered faintly in the sunlight.
Someone stood beneath it.
A man.
Dark hair stirred gently in the breeze, his back turned, posture relaxed—as though he had been waiting.
"Who are you?" Modred asked.
The man didn't turn.
Instead, he chuckled softly.
"You have a long way to go."
Modred frowned, unease tightening his chest. "That doesn't answer anything."
The man finally looked over his shoulder—not fully. Modred never saw his eyes.
Only the smile.
"Things will only get harder from here," the man said. "Much harder."
Modred clenched his fists. "Then tell me what I'm supposed to do."
The man raised one hand.
He pointed.
A fiery shape tore through the air—a phoenix-like creature made of living flame, radiant and violent, its cry echoing through the field as it surged forward and entered Modred's chest.
Pain exploded.
Heat flooded his veins.
Modred gasped, clutching his chest as his knees nearly gave out, breath tearing from his lungs as something ancient and heavy settled deep within him.
The man stepped closer.
"This is a gift," he said quietly. "Use it wisely."
Modred looked up, teeth clenched. "What did I do to deserve this?"
The man chuckled quietly.
"The time will come," he said, "when everything will be clear."
The man had already turned away.
"There are people waiting for you," he said. "You should go."
The world began to fade.
As consciousness slipped, the man's voice reached him one last time.
"Get stronger, little one."
Modred jolted awake, gasping.
He turned his head.
Lysara was there.
She sat beside the bed in a wooden chair pulled too close, her posture stiff with exhaustion. Her silver hair had slipped loose from its usual tie, strands falling across her face, catching the light like threads of moonlight. One hand rested on the edge of the mattress, fingers curled slightly, as though she'd been afraid to let go even in sleep.
She was asleep.
Her head leaned against the bed, cheek pressed gently into the sheets near his arm. Her breathing was shallow, uneven—someone who hadn't truly rested, only surrendered when her body could no longer stay awake.
For a moment, Modred just stared.
Then his hand moved—slow, careful, afraid of breaking something fragile.
His fingers brushed her hair back.
Lysara stirred.
Her eyes opened slowly, violet catching the sunlight as confusion flickered across her face—then fear, sharp and sudden.
"Modred—?"
She froze when she saw his eyes open.
And then she broke.
Tears welled instantly, spilling over as her composure shattered. She stood too fast, chair scraping softly against the floor, hands trembling as she reached for him but stopped just short, unsure.
"You— you idiot," she whispered, voice cracking. "Do you have any idea how worried i was—"
She couldn't finish.
Her shoulders shook as she pressed her forehead against his chest, careful of his wounds but desperate all the same. Her fingers clenched into his shirt, knuckles white, as quiet sobs escaped her despite every effort to stop them.
"I thought I lost you," she said, the words muffled, raw.
Modred's throat tightened.
He lifted his hand and rested it gently on her head, fingers threading through her hair, holding her there.
"I'm here," he said softly. "I'm not going anywhere."
She shook her head against him, tears soaking into the fabric. "Don't say that so easily… You always say that."
His hand tightened just a little.
"Then I'll prove it," he murmured.
Lysara pulled back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were red, lashes wet, cheeks flushed from crying. Sunlight reflected in her gaze, making it impossible to tell where tears ended and light began.
"You scared me," she said quietly.
"I know."
She hesitated, then reached up—slowly—and touched his face, her thumb brushing beneath his eye as if confirming he was real.
"…I'm glad," she whispered. "I'm glad you're alive."
Modred smiled.
Not the reckless grin he wore into battle. Not the arrogant smirk he used to hide fear.
Just a small, honest smile.
"So am I."
She laughed weakly through tears, then leaned in again, this time resting her head against his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her carefully, pulling her closer, one hand steady at her back, the other still cradling her head.
Outside, the wind stirred the curtains.
Lysara's breathing had evened out long before she realized it.
Her grip on his sleeve loosened, fingers uncurling one by one as exhaustion finally claimed what fear had been holding together. Her lashes rested against flushed cheeks, tear tracks faint but still there.
Modred noticed immediately.
He shifted just enough to ease her weight, careful not to wake her, then reached up and brushed his thumb lightly across her temple.
"You're exhausted," he murmured.
He smiled faintly.
With slow, practiced movements, he guided her down onto the bed, adjusting the covers around her shoulders. She stirred once, brow knitting slightly, as if instinctively reaching for him even in sleep.
"Rest," he murmured quietly. "You've done enough."
She didn't answer.
He lingered for a moment longer, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest, committing the image to memory in a way he didn't fully understand yet. Satisfied, he turned and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
The hallway was unfamiliar.
Wide. Polished stone floors reflecting torchlight. Pillars carved with old sigils lined the walls, their designs elegant rather than oppressive. Tapestries hung between them—banners of gold and black, bearing the crest of the Liam household.
That was when it hit him.
He stopped walking.
"…This is the Liam estate," he muttered.
Then he heard it.
A commotion.
"…I said I'm not hungry!"
Modred followed the sound and stepped into the room.
Carla stood there with a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other, eyes blazing.
Augustus sat stubbornly on the chair, arms crossed, jaw set.
"Eat," Carla snapped.
"I'm not a little boy," Augustus shot back. "I'd rather have a hot maid feed me than—"
Thud.
Carla struck him clean on the head without hesitation.
"Finish that sentence and I'll kill you myself."
Modred snorted despite himself.
They both turned.
For a heartbeat, Carla froze—then the bowl slipped from her hands and shattered against the floor.
"Modred…"
She crossed the room in three steps and pulled him into a tight embrace, fingers gripping his clothes as her voice cracked.
"I'm so glad you're alright."
He hugged her back just as tightly, resting his chin against her shoulder.
"Thank you," he murmured. "For everything."
Warm sunlight filtered through the windows, catching in Carla's eyes as she pulled back, wiping at her face with a huff.
Augustus looked away. "…Took you long enough."
Footsteps echoed.
Leon entered first, followed by Taren and Dante.
They stopped short when they saw him.
Leon exhaled slowly, then crossed the room and ruffled Modred's hair with a quiet chuckle.
"Good to see my baby brother still breathing."
"Cut it out," Modred muttered, swatting his hand away.
Leon just laughed.
Dante tilted his head. "I've been meaning to ask—how the hell are you two brothers? You don't even look alike."
Leon shrugged. "Same father. Different mothers."
The room went silent.
"…Damn," Dante said after a beat. "Old man had game."
Everyone laughed.
"Hey!" Dante snapped, suddenly flustered. "What's so funny?!"
— Elsewhere, Beyond the Capital —
The training grounds of the Elaris Royal Palace rang with steel.
A blade struck the final arc of its swing and stopped dead.
Sweat rolled down the man's neck and collarbone, darkening the fabric beneath the leather straps that crossed his back. He straightened slowly, breath steady despite the punishment his body had just endured.
Xeraniel Rhise reached behind his shoulder and slid the sword back into its sheath.
He was tall—noticeably so—even among palace knights. Broad shoulders, a lean but powerful frame, muscle carved sharp beneath skin hardened by years of battle. His pale white hair clung slightly to his forehead from sweat, strands catching the light as he tilted his head upward. Golden-orange eyes watched the courtyard in silence, calm and unreadable.
A messenger approached, kneeling without hesitation.
"A letter," the man said, holding it out with both hands.
Xeraniel took it, breaking the seal with one thumb.
His eyes moved quickly.
Then—he smiled.
"Well then," he murmured, folding the letter neatly.
"Modred… looks like you kept your promise."
He turned without another word and headed into the palace interior, boots echoing softly against polished stone.
Xeraniel then entered in the inner palace and went into the royal chambers, as he approached one of the doors he pushed it without a second thought
The door slid open.
"Hey, Diane."
She looked up.
Diane sat near the window, sunlight spilling across the room and catching in her pale white hair as it fell loosely down her back. She had grown into herself—graceful, composed, undeniably beautiful. Her posture was relaxed, but there was strength there, the quiet confidence of someone who had endured and become more for it.
Her golden-orange eyes widened when she saw him.
"Xeraniel?"
He leaned casually against the doorway. "Got news."
Her expression sharpened instantly. "What kind?"
He watched her carefully before answering.
"Modred's entering the Academy."
For half a heartbeat, she froze.
Then her eyes lit up.
Not exaggerated. Not dramatic. Just pure, unguarded joy that slipped through before she could stop it.
"…He is?" she asked softly.
Xeraniel chuckled. "Didn't know he meant that much to you."
Her reaction was immediate.
"Sh-shut up!" she snapped, pointing at him, cheeks and ears flushing red as she turned away. "You're reading into things!"
Xeraniel laughed openly now, running a hand through his damp hair.
"Sure I am."
She shot him a glare that had absolutely no bite behind it.
"…Idiot."
Still smiling, Xeraniel straightened.
"Get ready," he said. "Looks like things are about to get interesting."
Diane looked back toward the window, sunlight reflecting in her eyes as her fingers curled slightly at her side.
"…Yeah," she whispered.
"They are."
Two months passed.
The royal carriage rolled through the capital gates, sunlight glinting off marble towers as laughter filled the cabin.
"Finally," Modred said, leaning forward eagerly. "The Academy."
Taren smiled faintly. "Not everyone made it."
"Some joined the Ardes," Riven added. "Some quit."
Arthur nodded. "After everything… who could blame them?"
Modred turned to Taren. "How did you really get the flag?"
Taren hesitated, then sighed. "I started calculating during the Division Two raid. I needed Division One distracted."
He continued calmly, outlining every move — the fire, the bait, Dante pulling Leon and Augustus away, Julius and Riven ambushing, Arthur holding the line.
Silence followed.
"…Damn," Julius muttered. "You're good."
Taren looked away, embarrassed.
The capital rose gradually around them, stone giving way to spires as the carriage slowed.
Then the Academy revealed itself.
It was not a single structure, but a dominion carved into the heart of the city—vast walls of white stone reinforced with gold-veined buttresses, gothic arches climbing skyward like spears aimed at the heavens. Crusader towers stood beside elegant spires, their designs layered with refined ornamentation that gave the entire complex a sacred, almost untouchable presence.
Blue banners hung between the towers, their fabric shimmering faintly with Arcane reinforcement as sunlight washed over the grounds. Pathways of polished marble wound inward, leading toward the heart of the Academy like veins feeding a colossal beast.
At the center stood the Golden Gate.
Two massive doors forged from radiant gold and dark alloy towered above them, engraved with the Academy's crest.
A blackened phoenix, wings spread wide, its body framed by a laurel of sharpened leaves. Two crossed blades lay beneath it, not ornamental but severe—symbols of discipline and resolve rather than glory. The crest radiated authority, its surface faintly pulsing as if alive, watching those who dared pass beneath it.
No one spoke.
They stood there wearing the Academy uniform for the first time.
The female uniform was elegant yet commanding: a fitted black dress layered beneath a structured short jacket, trimmed cleanly with gold lining along the collar, sleeves, and hem. The waist was cinched by a dark sash bearing the Academy insignia, giving the silhouette both grace and strength. A long black cape flowed from the shoulders, its inner lining a deep muted blue that caught the light when it moved. The design was unmistakably noble—but never fragile.
Lysara wore it naturally.
The gold accents framed her silver hair and pale complexion, the crest resting over her chest like a vow rather than an ornament. She stood straight, calm, composed—every inch a student of a place that forged elites rather than taught children.
The male uniform mirrored that authority.
A long black coat layered over a tailored inner shirt, gold trim running cleanly along the seams and cuffs. The coat fell past the hips, split at the back for movement, secured by a reinforced belt carrying the Academy emblem. Dark trousers and polished boots completed the look, practical and disciplined, built for both combat and command.
Most of them wore it as intended.
Modred did not.
His coat was cut short at the sleeves, exposing his forearms, fingerless black gloves wrapped tight around his hands. The open collar and loosened belt gave him a sharper, more dangerous presence—less student, more weapon barely restrained. The Academy crest rested over his heart, stark against the black fabric.
Dante stood beside him, mirroring the choice. Short sleeves. One gloved arm.
Modred looked up at the gate, eyes reflecting gold and shadow alike.
"Well then," he said quietly, a smile tugging at his lips.
"Shall we begin?"
One by one, they nodded.
And together, they stepped forward—passing beneath the phoenix crest and into the Academy that would change everything.