The next morning.
The Eastern Grounds stretched wide and gray under the early fog. Five other students stood nearby, none he recognized. All older. All stronger. One had an enchanted greatsword. Another wore silver Ki armor.
Thalos stood in the center, arms crossed. Towering. Scarred.
"You're all here because someone thinks you're promising," he barked. "Or dangerous. I don't care which."
He tossed a map to the ground.
"There are three objectives. Capture the flags. Use any means necessary. Break alliances. Betray. Adapt."
He looked directly at Raka.
"Let's see who survives strategy."
---
The whistle blew before anyone could even shake hands.
Raka didn't move.
The others did.
Five students sprinted toward the treeline like unleashed hounds, weapons drawn, Ki flaring. Dust rose in their wake. No one looked back.
Except one.
A lean boy with short dark hair, green sash, dual daggers on his back.
He grinned at Raka.
Then vanished into the mist.
Raka watched the chaos unfold, mentally mapping the terrain: a triangular arena bordered by cliffs to the east, a dense forest to the north, and a stream to the west.
Three flags.
One in each region.
Only one rule: Capture them.
No teams. No mercy.
And they'd thrown him in with senior students. All higher ranked, more experienced, more dangerous.
Perfect.
He moved slower than the others, choosing the stream path. Not because it was safer, but because it was less obvious.
He needed time.
To plan.
To adapt.
To turn the game sideways.
Ten minutes later.
The first scream echoed from the forest.
Raka crouched behind a mossy rock near the waterline, watching through Ki-enhanced senses. Two students—axe-wielder and dagger-boy—were already fighting. Fast, brutal, no holds barred.
Dagger-boy ducked under a horizontal swing, planted his foot, and vanished behind the attacker's back. A thin slash of blood followed.
The axe dropped.
So did the wielder.
Dagger-boy took the northern flag.
One down.
Raka moved.
He didn't head to the flags.
He went to the center.
The intersection point.
Where everyone would eventually collide.
He dug quickly, hands scooping out dirt and wet leaves, burying a set of sharpened wooden spikes he'd prepped before the match. Then, using a trick from Coren, he gathered thick leaves and shaped a partial illusion. A visual deception using Ki reflection, not magic.
A trap. Primitive. But deadly.
Then he climbed a tree and waited.
Minutes passed.
The next combatant was the girl with the greatsword. She had the eastern flag on her back and blood on her knuckles. Alone, calm, breathing steady.
She moved with military precision. Short steps, high guard.
Raka held his breath.
She stopped near his trap, eyes narrowing.
Too sharp.
She stepped around the leaves.
Damn.
But just as she passed, another student—a boy with flame glyphs tattooed down his arms—launched out of the trees behind her, screaming with heat pulsing from his body.
She turned too slow.
The fireball struck her shoulder. She grunted, reeled, but didn't fall.
Instead of retreating, she charged.
Her blade met the fire user's neck in a single upward slash. Blood sprayed. The glyphs dimmed. He collapsed.
Two down.
But she staggered, wounded. Her Ki flickered.
She didn't see Raka.
He dropped silently behind her.
"Sorry," he whispered, and jabbed his elbow into the back of her neck.
She fell unconscious before hitting the ground.
Raka took the eastern flag and left her sword in place.
Two flags in hand. One to go.
But he wasn't alone.
As he crossed the central path again, heading toward the forest, dagger-boy dropped from a tree directly in front of him.
He clapped slowly.
"You're better than you look."
Raka didn't reply.
"You know," dagger-boy continued, "we could just split the prize. You take the flags, I take the win, and we both pass."
Raka raised a brow. "That's not how this test works."
"No," the boy said, unsheathing his blades. "But lying is fun."
He lunged.
They clashed in silence.
No fancy declarations. No shouting. Just footwork and precision.
Raka dodged the first slash, but the second nicked his sleeve. He parried with a broken branch, snapped it across the boy's face, then ducked under a knee strike.
Dagger-boy moved like a phantom. Almost no Ki leakage. Almost like he was trained in—
Assassination tactics?
That wasn't standard academy fare.
Who was this guy?
They separated.
Raka was breathing hard. The other boy was bleeding lightly from his lip but still grinning.
"You're holding back," he said.
"No," Raka replied, cracking his neck. "I'm thinking."
The boy rushed again, this time aiming for a feint.
Raka didn't dodge.
He let the dagger graze his side—painful but shallow—then caught the boy's wrist, twisted hard, and drove his knee into his ribs.
Crack.
The boy gasped and dropped to one knee.
But even then, he laughed.
"You really think this is over?"
Then he vanished.
Literally.
Vanished.
Raka spun around. No aura. No trace.
Illusion? No… teleport? What technique is that.
Then a whisper in his ear:
"You die now."
Raka reacted on instinct. He threw the eastern flag behind him and dove forward.
A blade whistled through the air where his throat had been.
The flag burst mid-air revealing that it had been wrapped around a pouch of explosive Ki powder.
BOOM.
Smoke filled the clearing. Dagger-boy screamed, blinded.
Raka didn't wait.
He sprinted toward the northern forest, where the third flag was planted.
By the time dagger-boy cleared his vision, Raka had already claimed the last banner.
---
Ten minutes later.
He returned to the starting zone.
Three flags on his back. Bruised, limping, one eye swelling. But alive.
Thalos stood there, arms crossed.
The other students lay unconscious or restrained behind him. Dagger-boy had a bandaged face and a look of smug respect.
Thalos raised an eyebrow.
"You don't look like a fighter."
"I'm not."
"Then what are you?"
Raka shrugged.
"A survivor."
As he turned to walk away, dagger-boy called after him.
"What's your name, really?"
Raka hesitated.
He wanted to say Raka. But in this life, that name was buried.
"Eren," he said quietly.
"Next time, Eren," the boy said, "don't hesitate when attacking me."
"I didn't," Raka replied without turning. "I just didn't see the need to waste the opportunity to learn from you."
---
The infirmary smelled like dried blood and burned herbs.
Raka sat on the edge of a cot, shirtless, bruised, his left arm tightly bandaged. His ribs ached when he breathed too deep. A cold compress rested on his eye.
The nurse—an older woman with glowing hands and a tired face—clicked her tongue. "You're lucky the dagger didn't go deeper. And even luckier that you didn't bleed out before the match ended."
Raka offered a faint smile. "Some people win with swords. I win with questionable life choices."
She didn't laugh.
"Next time," she said sharply, "lose earlier."
He didn't reply. Instead, he stared at the far wall, where a small plaque hung.
"Pain is the tax of progress."
Fitting, really.
---
A few hours later.
Master Lorr called him.
The summoning scroll didn't knock or burn—it just appeared under his pillow, glowing faintly.
Raka dragged himself across the courtyard, still sore, still exhausted. The late afternoon sun painted long shadows across the academy grounds. Birds chirped above, unconcerned with human rivalries.
The office of Master Lorr was a circular stone chamber with minimal furniture. Just a desk, a single chair, and a wide window that overlooked the training fields.
Lorr stood beside the window, arms behind his back.
He didn't turn when Raka entered.
"So."
"So," Raka echoed.
"You've drawn attention."
"Wasn't trying to."
"That's the problem."
Lorr finally turned. His eyes, cold and analytical, landed on Raka like a dissecting blade.
"You outmaneuvered six students, three of them in higher ranks, two with known combat records. You used traps, misdirection, bluffing, and controlled bursts of Ki. You defeated none cleanly but survived them all. And you evaded using lethal moves against a single opponent when you had the chance."
Raka shrugged. "I prefer debts over corpses."
Lorr raised a brow. "Dangerous philosophy in this world."
Raka met his gaze. "Still breathing."
A pause.
Then, Lorr held up a small silver tablet engraved with Raka's false name, Eren Veln, and a newly stamped emblem.
"Your preliminary evaluation."
Raka stepped forward.
Combat Rank: E+
Class: Hybrid Initiate (Unverified Specialization)
Evaluation Notes:
– Exhibits high tactical intelligence.
– Ki manipulation: basic.
– Magic affinity: unknown.
– Mental resilience: extreme.
– Potential threat level: watch closely.
He whistled softly. "That sounds ominous."
"You impressed someone," Lorr said. "Now they're watching."
"Who?"
Lorr didn't answer.
Instead, he walked to a bookshelf, withdrew a rolled parchment, and tossed it to Raka.
It landed with a clatter. A map.
"Optional assignment," Lorr said. "Group mission. Borderland ruins. Unexplored sectors."
Raka unrolled the map slightly. Coordinates. Strange symbols.
"What's the catch?"
Lorr smiled faintly. "No adult supervision. Four students. Three days. Retrieve a relic or come back with nothing."
"And if we die?"
"You'll die."
Raka raised an eyebrow. "Straight to the point."
"You want to survive here," Lorr said, "you need to understand something."
He stepped closer.
"This academy is not just for warriors. It's a crucible for future kings, rebels, assassins, and gods. Every faction on the continent plants their seeds here. Noble houses. Cults. Underground guilds. The moment you stood out, you became a piece on their board."
Raka swallowed.
"Then let me ask," he said. "What kind of piece am I?"
Lorr chuckled. "Too early to tell. But you're not a pawn. That's for sure."