I stared at the ceiling. Runic patterns glowed faintly along the white stone walls, pulsing like they were breathing. Whoever designed this place clearly had trust issues.
"Alright," I muttered, rubbing my face. "Step one: confirm I'm alive. Step two: pants."
I looked down. Still optional. Great.
Sliding off the bed, my legs nearly gave out immediately. One step, two steps, then gravity claimed its victory. I grabbed the wall and whispered, "This body… is tragic."
This wasn't just younger. It was weaker. Fragile. Early academy-level before any real training or refinement. I winced, remembering my old life.
I was Riven Ashcroft, once hailed as a prodigy of the dueling world. Noble house blood, trained from childhood in swordsmanship and mana control, undefeated in regional duels. My name carried prestige, respect, envy… until it all came crashing down in a single duel I should have won. Stripped of my title, mocked, humiliated… it had ended with me dead—or so everyone thought.
Now, I woke up as a child in some dungeon-school room, a second chance with a body that betrayed me at every step.
I reached inward for mana. Nothing. Not even a spark. In my old life, mana obeyed like a loyal hound; now it felt like trying to push mud with my thoughts.
"Of course," I muttered. "Second chance… downgraded hardware."
A soft chime echoed through the room.
Click.
The door slid open on its own. A narrow corridor stretched beyond, lined with glowing runes and floating crystal lamps. Voices drifted in from somewhere far ahead—young, loud, excited. Students.
Academy confirmed.
I took one step forward—and nearly faceplanted.
A hand grabbed my collar at the last second.
"Whoa! Easy there."
I looked up into a stranger's face—round eyes, messy brown hair, and a grin too friendly for someone holding a half-naked stranger upright.
"You okay?" he asked. "You look like you just crawled out of a grave."
I blinked. "…Rude. But not inaccurate."
He laughed. "First day nerves? Don't worry, everyone's weak during awakening."
Everyone except monsters, I thought.
"Guess I skipped leg day. Permanently," I said, shrugging.
He snorted. "Name's Taren. Room three-six."
"Riven Ashcroft," I replied, "currently battling gravity."
Taren helped me walk—slowly, embarrassingly—down the corridor. The hall opened into a massive space filled with kids around my age. Some glowed faintly with mana. Others floated weapons or sparks.
Naturals. Talents. Future elites. And then there was me—clinging to a wall like a cursed decoration.
A sudden pressure swept the room. Chatter died instantly.
At the front, an instructor in black robes with eyes sharp enough to cut steel spoke.
"Welcome," he said calmly. "To Grimveil Academy. In three days, you will undergo your First Assessment. Survival-based. Failure results in expulsion."
Murmurs spread.
Memory stirred deep inside me—blood, steel, screams, and the name of my fallen duelist self.
I smiled weakly. "Three days, huh? Plenty of time to… not die."
Probably.