Somewhere deep in the forests of the Ladvian continent…
"H-How are you this powerful?!" the last of the men screams—just before his head is kicked clean off. His blood sprays across the moss-covered forest floor, soaking into the roots like crimson rain.
Boreal grins, the cruel smirk of a godless beast. His skin gleams under the scattered moonlight, his right arm, freshly torn by battle, regenerating in an instant with a sickening sound of cracking bone and snapping sinew.
"I didn't know you all were this weak," he mocks, brushing blood from his brow with the back of his hand. "Honestly, I'm insulted. I almost feel bad."
He turns, the air thick with copper and death.
"Now… the Auroris sword."
A voice calls out from behind—calm, distant, emotionless. "Mr. Latavius, are you done yet?"
Boreal freezes, expression souring. "Tch. I told you not to call me that," he growls.
Authur steps forward, dressed in a neat, dark robe, his silver hair tucked behind his ears, eyes as still as frozen lakes. "And I told you—you were taking too long."
"I hate it when you're in this form," Boreal mutters, brushing past him. "Stay here. That blade isn't for you."
"Not yet," Authur agrees, his tone unreadable.
Boreal approaches the shrine.
It's ancient—overgrown with luminous moss and carved with runes that shift subtly as he draws near. Vines retract from the pedestal, revealing a gleaming sword bathed in an eerie silver-blue light.
Then come the whispers—hollow, seductive, in tongues no mortal should know.
Take me… claim what is owed…
Boreal halts, eyes narrowing.
Latavius… devour… ascend… bleed…
Unshaken, he steps forward. "You're mine now, legendary sword Auroris," he says, reaching out. His hand closes around the hilt—and instantly, a violent surge of energy pulses through his veins.
His skin chars and peels where the blade touches him. Smoke hisses from his arm. But Boreal doesn't scream.
He laughs.
"I've suffered worse."
The sword flares with unnatural power, biting into his palm, branding his soul—but he holds firm, pulling it from the pedestal.
Far behind him, Authur watches impassively. "Are you done yet, Boreal?"
"Yes, goddammit!"
"Fucking slob" Boreal mutters, flames crackling faintly from his scorched arm.
He lifts the sword and turns his gaze northward. "Now, to the Trient. I'm done with this damn curse."
Meanwhile, in the heart of Orelia…
The final stage of the placement event begins.
The sky above the Grelavile Arena is crystal clear, the midday sun casting sharp shadows over the circular coliseum carved from white stone. Students fill the stands, murmurs of anticipation rising to a chorus of excitement.
"Wow, there are so many people here," a student says in awe.
"Damn right," another replies, shielding their eyes as the gates begin to open.
In a high, gilded balcony, the Grand Holy Knights, academy staff, and the headmaster of Grelavile Academy observe in silence. Their presence alone demands reverence.
"Hey Miseria, who do you think will win?" Edric asks, leaning forward.
Miseria smirks. "It's obvious. Lelovia."
"Of course you'd say that. She's your apprentice," Edric chuckles.
"She's earned my pride."
"And the others? Benjamin, Aurora, Marcia?" Edric presses.
"They're all strong," Miseria says, tone more serious now. "But strength alone won't carry them."
Below, the crowd hushes as the announcer strides into the arena center.
"Silence!"
The arena falls into reverent quiet.
"Today marks the first battle of the final stage of the Placement Event!" the announcer roars. "The first match: Benjamin Claire versus Helar Stoneley!"
The crowd erupts in cheers.
From opposite ends of the arena, two figures enter.
Benjamin walks with a loose confidence and a eerie efficiency, one hand on his hip, his dark cloak fluttering behind him. Helar approaches from the east, sword drawn, jaw clenched with focused rage, noticeably more put together with slick back hair
"Hey, Helar," Benjamin calls, smirking. "Been a while. You ready to lose again?"
Helar scoffs. "Not this time. I've trained harder than you could imagine. I'm not losing to an arrogant bastard like you."
The announcer raises his hand. "Combatants—begin!"
Benjamin vanishes.
He reappears in a blur, blade aimed at Helar's throat—but Helar parries, their swords clashing with a deafening clang.
"You're faster," Helar admits, "but not fast enough."
He counters with a sharp upward strike, forcing Benjamin back.
Benjamin lands with a grin. "Looks like I'll need to get creative."
They charge—blades colliding again and again in a dizzying flurry of sparks and steel.
"Volcanic Barrage!" Benjamin shouts, unleashing a wave of fiery slashes, each strike leaving searing trails in the air. One cuts across Helar's shoulder—then another across his ribs.
Helar winces, staggering.
But then—he smirks.
He's waiting for something, Benjamin thinks.
Helar suddenly feints low and spins, sweeping Benjamin's legs from under him.
Benjamin hits the ground—but pivots, planting his hands into the sand and flipping backward, his heel slamming into Helar's jaw with stunning force.
Helar crashes into a boulder, blood running from his nose.
"Incredible," Edric mutters. "Did you teach him that, Lilith?"
"No," Lilith says simply. "He's finally using what's always been there. Natural flexibility. Instinct."
"He's found his style," Miseria notes.
Below, Benjamin stands, shoulders relaxed. A subtle red glow begins to emanate from his eyes, and his aura grows jagged, chaotic.
"I call it Killflow" he says, voice calm but intense.
"Killflow?" Helar echoes, panting.
"It's my own form. Adaptable, ruthless. Perfect for someone who fights with no hesitation."
The crowd roars, feeling the shift.
Benjamin raises his blade again, the glow deepening. "You still want to keep going?"
Helar clenches his fists, rising from the rubble.
"You're damn right I do."
The second clash begins—with fire, fury, and the unrelenting hunger of a future king.
Suddenly, Benjamin thrust his blade narrowly above Helar's head—a clear miss. But in the second Helar takes to wonder why, his legs are swept from beneath him. He finds himself midair, completely without a stance.
The crowd gasps. Some had already begun to celebrate. But to everyone's surprise, Helar had replicated Benjamin's Killflow—pursuing the air itself—before stomping hard into Benjamin's face.
Benjamin staggers back, tightly gripping his now-broken nose.
"You little—ah," he snarls, trying to snap it back into place with a grimace.
"Honestly, you were the idiot for falling for the bait," Helar smirks. "I already knew you didn't need a stance, even I can do aerial combat, Lilith made sure to hammer that in."
A rare grunt of approval rumbles from the ever-watchful Lilith.
"The reason I let myself get hit… was so you'd show me your new, elusive style. I was curious. Even during training, I couldn't figure it out. You were secretive—I'll give you that," Helar continues.
Benjamin exhales sharply, blood running down his lip. "It won't change a thing. In fact, just to prove it won't… I'll show you why only I can use Killflow to its full potential."
With that, Benjamin rushes in—low, focused, dangerous.
Helar matches his stance, eyes sharp. They clash—furious, short exchanges—Helar clearly on the backfoot.
Then Benjamin makes his move.
He tosses his sword slightly above Helar's head. Helar glances up—a moment's distraction is all it takes.
A flurry of blows land squarely in Helar's chest.
As he tries to regain control, Benjamin stomps onto his shoulder—launching himself into the air.
He grabs his sword midair, spins, and brings it down in a brutal downward slash—carving through Helar's back.
"Ah—!" Helar gasps, then crumples to the floor. His consciousness fades… and then, darkness.
"The winner is Benjamin Claire!"
The crowd erupts. Benjamin sighs, tired but victorious.
"Those kids are something else, man," Edric mutters under his breath.
"They're only the tip of what my students can do," Lilith replies, eerily calm.