"The Second Sword Saint is considered the strongest throughout the history of mankind," Vikel said, his voice carrying firmly through the spacious hall.
The classroom was vast, its arched ceiling swallowing echoes, yet the emptiness within made it feel almost hollow. Only seven students sat scattered among the rows of benches, their presence dwarfed by the size of the room. The sight gave the place a desolate air, as though it had been built for an army of scholars but abandoned to a handful of chosen ones.
At the front, Instructor Vikel Robert stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back as he paced slowly before the lectern. His gaze lingered on each student in turn, sharp and unyielding, before he continued with deliberate calm.
"Hm?" Vikel's brow furrowed as he glanced at the students, his voice steady yet edged with curiosity. "Although there isn't enough evidence—fragments scattered across time—what historians have managed to uncover points to one truth."
He paused, letting his words sink into the silence of the hall. The faint scratching of quills halted. All seven students leaned ever so slightly forward.
"The Second Sword Saint," he said at last, his tone sharpening, "was the strongest. Stronger than any who came after. And remember this—though countless generations have passed, though the mantle of Sword Saint was carried by many, and though the Eternal Mage himself rose to power—none ever dared to rebuke that conclusion."
A murmur flickered among the students but quickly died under Vikel's stern gaze. He resumed pacing, boots echoing faintly against the polished stone floor.
"As for what the Second Sword Saint was like…" His voice lowered, almost reverent, as though speaking of something sacred. "The records are few—mere whispers etched in brittle parchment, half-lost to decay. But those fragments paint a picture of a man whose very presence bent the course of history. Some say his sword did not simply cut flesh and steel—it cut through destiny itself. Others claim his eyes alone could silence warriors on the battlefield, their resolve shattering before a blade was even drawn."
"Some proclaim," Vikel went on, his voice deepening with a hint of intrigue, "that the Second Sword Saint defeated the strongest Demon King ever to exist. A being said to have bathed the world in fire and shadow, whose very name once struck terror into kings and mages alike."
He let the words hang, watching the flicker of unease ripple through the students. "However," he continued, narrowing his eyes, "there is no surviving evidence to prove such a feat. No record that states it as absolute truth. Only stories… tales passed from mouth to mouth, exaggerated by fear and reverence alike. And yet—" his tone sharpened suddenly, like steel drawn from its sheath—"not a single chronicler dared dismiss the possibility. Not one."
Vikel stepped closer to the front row, his presence pressing down on the young students. "Ask yourselves this: why would historians, scholars, even rival saints… leave such a claim unchallenged? Could it be because the truth, no matter how faint, was far more terrifying than fiction?"
The students shifted uncomfortably in their seats, a few swallowing hard. The vast hall seemed to grow heavier, the air itself weighed down by the shadow of that long-forgotten legend.
Tsk. Vern clicked his tongue quietly as he listened to the lecture. The instructor wasn't entirely wrong… but he wasn't right either. History, after all, was written in fragments, half-truths buried under dust and legend. In time, the world would discover the truth—that the Second Sword Saint had indeed slain the strongest Demon King ever to walk the earth. Not only that… he was said to be a man of unmatched kindness and compassion, a warrior whose blade was feared but whose heart was gentle.
Vern leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing. He was nothing like that man—not in temperament, not in spirit. And yet, if there was anyone in the long span of mankind's history whom he could truly admire… it was him.
In Vern's opinion, it wasn't simply the Second Sword Saint's kindness or his unmatched strength that made him admirable. What truly set that man apart—what Vern respected most—was his resolve.
And what kind of resolve was it? The unshakable vow to never compromise on what he believed. No matter the suffering, no matter the endless hardships that carved his path, the man never strayed from his nature. He never bent before despair, nor did he twist his heart to fit the world's demands.
He always followed what he deemed right, guided not by convenience or fear, but by the clarity of his own heart. He was, above all else, a man who refused to compromise, a man who never once lied to himself.
"He was the strongest human… or rather, the strongest being to ever walk this world—the Second Sword Saint," Vern muttered to himself, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"But after a certain battle," Vikel said, his voice lowering as though weighed with secrecy, "he disappeared… and was never seen again. The youngest, and perhaps the most mysterious, Sword Saint in all of history."
He let the silence linger for a moment, his eyes sweeping across the students as if daring them to ask for more. None did.
At last, Vikel straightened, his tone returning to its usual firmness. "That concludes today's lesson." With a simple nod, he turned and strode out of the hall, his footsteps fading into the echoing vastness.
As the heavy doors closed behind him, the atmosphere in the room shifted. Chairs scraped lightly against the stone floor as the seven students rose. The tension that had held them still during the lecture loosened, and soon hushed murmurs began to swell into conversation. Some debated the truth of the legend, others whispered about the Demon King, while a few glanced at one another with the spark of curiosity still lingering in their eyes.
"Edward, I heard the Zenithara house has some relation to the Second Sword Saint… is that true?" Vern asked as the two walked toward the classroom doors, his tone casual but his eyes sharp with curiosity.
Edward blinked, caught off guard. "Hmm? I… don't know for certain," he admitted after a pause. "But Father once said the Second Sword Saint might have been from our family."
He gave a small hum, clearly uncertain, his expression thoughtful. "It's never been proven, of course. Still… many believe he belonged to the Zenithara house."
It was already evening, the sky painted in fading streaks of crimson and gold, and the time had come for them to pick up the girls from where they were supposed to be waiting. Vern and Edward made their way toward the main gate, the soft crunch of gravel under their boots echoing faintly in the cooling air.
As they approached, they spotted the girls standing together, their figures outlined by the dying light. They weren't alone—someone else was with them. From a distance, the shape of the stranger was hard to make out, his posture casual yet faintly imposing.
Edward narrowed his eyes. "Who…?" he muttered under his breath. But as the gap closed, recognition struck.
"Kazik?" Edward's voice carried a sharp edge of surprise. His stride quickened instantly, boots striking the ground with urgency.
Kazik, who had been smiling faintly while speaking to the girls, froze at the sound of his name. His expression shifted in an instant—his brows furrowed, and his smile thinned into something awkward, almost forced. As Edward and Vern drew closer, Kazik instinctively took a half-step back, his hand brushing nervously against his arm as though bracing himself.
He definitely has some other intentions. Vern's gaze hardened as he watched Kazik from the corner of his eye. Every time I see him, he doesn't strike me as the type to flock around beauties. No… he's after something else.
His eyes flickered toward Salena, then Charlotte. Both girls stood stiffly, their polite smiles strained, their unease practically written across their faces. Salena's fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, while Charlotte's gaze avoided Kazik's entirely.
Could it be… marriage? Vern's thoughts sharpened. If he manages to tie himself to Salena, he'd secure the support of House Draken—and with that, a much stronger claim to succeed as patriarch of the Nathan House.
The possibility made Vern's jaw tighten. He studied Kazik's awkward smile again, and for a moment, the evening air seemed colder, the silence between them heavier.
Whatever it might be… as long as I can use him, then it's enough. Vern's eyes narrowed, thoughts spinning coldly. But whatever I do, I'll need to be careful when I make my moves on him.
Before his mind could wander further, Edward's sharp voice cut through the air.
"Hey! I told you not to stroll around her, didn't I?" His tone was harsh, filled with barely restrained fury.
Kazik flinched, his awkward smile vanishing. He raised his hands slightly in defense. "N-no, you misunderstand me. I didn't have any such intentions," he stammered, voice laced with forced calm.
Edward didn't budge. His glare was unrelenting, like a blade pressed against Kazik's throat. Then his eyes shifted, settling on Salena. She stood stiffly, her face pale, lips trembling as though she wanted to speak but couldn't. Whatever words Kazik had whispered earlier still lingered like poison, draining the color from her cheeks.
Edward's jaw clenched. I told her to go to Uncle. I warned her… but she didn't listen. And now, it's come to this. I'll have to set things straight myself.
His gaze flicked toward Vern. At that moment, Vern stepped forward, his footsteps slow and deliberate, each one carrying a weight that made Kazik instinctively step back.
"Kazik Nathan, right?" Vern's voice was calm, almost too calm.
Kazik swallowed hard, then dipped his head with a shallow bow. "Yes."
Vern's expression darkened, a dangerous smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Then listen carefully…" His eyes sharpened like drawn steel. "If you don't want to lose that worthless head from your pathetic body—"
He took another step, the air around him suddenly shifting, heavy and suffocating. His killing intent rolled out like a tide, unseen yet crushing, making the girls gasp and Edward's eyes widen slightly in approval.
"…then fuck off."
The words struck like a hammer, and Kazik's body stiffened. A bead of sweat slid down his temple as the invisible pressure pinned him in place, his throat tightening as if Vern's blade were already pressed against it.
"Wh… what is this…?" Kazik gasped, his knees buckling as he collapsed onto the stone path. His hands clutched desperately at his chest, as though trying to shield himself from an invisible blade pressing into his heart. Cold sweat poured down his forehead, dripping into his eyes as he looked around in panic.
Edward stood tall, unflinching, his expression unreadable. The girls clung to each other, pale and shaken, yet none of them seemed to feel the suffocating weight Kazik was under.
Why? Kazik's thoughts spiraled as his wide eyes locked on them. Why aren't they collapsing too? Is his intent… so refined that it can target a single person? Just me? His breath came in ragged gasps. H-how… how can this be possible?
A wave of nausea churned in his stomach. He bit down hard, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise, and with trembling limbs, forced himself back to his feet.
"O… o-okay… I… I will leave," he stammered, his voice breaking, his face contorted with fear. Without daring to meet Vern's eyes again, he staggered backward and all but fled through the gate, his retreating figure swallowed by the evening shadows.
Vern stood silently, watching him go, his expression calm and unshaken. Edward and the girls said nothing either, their eyes following Kazik's hasty departure until the gate shut behind him with a hollow thud.