It was supposed to be the academy. A new chapter in Vaelrik's life. But fate… had other plans.
Morning, Enqul Manor
A sealed letter arrived at every noble estate, marked with the golden crest of the Imperial Academy. Dumen Enqul, head of the Enqul family, opened the scroll with a frown. His hands trembled as he read the words aloud.
[URGENT NOTIFICATION – IMPERIAL ACADEMY CLOSED]
A disaster has occurred.
Sixty percent of students are dead or missing.
The headmaster has fallen.
A professor was revealed to be a high-ranking demon.
A battle erupted. The Northern Tower collapsed in flames.
Until further notice, the Academy is permanently closed.
Stella gasped. Lucia covered her mouth in shock. Dumen crumpled the letter in his fist.
"I'll find another academy," he muttered. "It might not be as elite, but—"
"I want to go on an adventure," said a calm, young voice behind him.
They turned.
Vaelrik stood in the doorway, sword slung across his back, his golden eyes quiet.
"I want to train. Not with books or tutors. I want real experience."
Dumen's jaw tensed. "Absolutely not. You're just a child—"
"I've made my choice."
With that, Vaelrik turned and left the room.
The Next Morning
"AHHHHH!"
A scream ripped through the halls. A maid burst into the living room.
"The young master! He's gone!"
Dumen sprinted downstairs, cloak half-draped over his shoulder. A trembling servant handed him a folded note.
To Mother and Father,
I've left. I'll return in 10 years.
Don't follow me.
– Vaelrik
"…You little—" Dumen growled, clutching the letter.
Stella fell into the sofa, sobbing. "He's just ten… my baby…"
Lucia stood at the window, eyes glassy. "He didn't even say goodbye…"
Days Later – Beyond the Empire
Vaelrik traveled on foot. No guard. No guide.
Only wind, sword, and silence.
He passed forests, hills, and the broken remnants of ancient battlefields.
They would've locked me in a classroom…
But the world is the best teacher.
Village Between Two Hills
One night, he arrived at a nameless farming village, hidden between two bare hills. The people were simple and poor. Their walls weak. Their hopes weaker.
That evening… the sky burned.
A ten-man orc warband descended from the treeline, roaring as they charged. Blades clashed. Fires spread. Villagers screamed and ran for shelter.
And from the shadows—
He arrived.
A small figure stepped through the smoke, cloak fluttering behind him.
Just a boy. No older than ten.
The orcs laughed. One rushed forward, axe raised.
It didn't reach.
A single step. A single strike.
The orc's head hit the dirt before its body fell.
The others hesitated.
Vaelrik didn't.
Sword God Style – First Form: Tempest Breaker
He raised his blade and swung.
The air howled. A raging windstorm exploded outward.
Trees bent.
Flames were extinguished.
Orcs were ripped from the ground, dragged screaming into the blade's arc.
The wind obeyed him.
The storm answered his call.
By the time the wind faded, not a single orc remained standing.
The elder approached, shaking. "Y-Young man… who are you?"
Vaelrik turned his back and said softly, "…Just a traveler."
He disappeared into the night, alone.
The village cheered.
But he never looked back.