"Peace through words is an agreement, whereas peace with a sword marks a stance," Headmaster Zara quoted Auther Pendragon, her voice calm yet commanding. The room fell silent. King Argal raised an eyebrow and asked, "Why open with a quote, rather than a briefing?"
Headmaster Zara stood. "Your Majesty, in recent years, the quality of soldiers has decreased overall. Powerful warriors are still born among the elite, but the number who reach advanced levels of combat ability is dwindling."
Argal ran a hand through his beard. "Headmaster, your concern joins the many that clutter my thoughts. Unless you also bear a solution, I fear this meeting may be fruitless."
"I do have one," Zara replied. "Lift the restrictions on the Imperial Academy. Let any qualified individual apply—regardless of status."
Argal smirked, amused. "Why train country bumpkins who've never seen a sword when we have nobles who've trained since birth?"
Zara smiled softly. "When the Academy closes for the holidays, I travel. I explore, and I meet people. Talented ones. Some... rival even our most prominent ones."
She placed a thick book on the table—her personal journal of gifted individuals. She flipped to page thirteen.
Argal's eyes widened. He looked possessed.
"So, he's the one who caught your eye," she murmured.
"His name is Leywin," Zara said proudly. "The elemental wielder of Chaos."
Argal shivered. "Chaos? A primordial element? Are you sure it's not a variant?"
"At first, I thought so too. But when I saw him use basic augmentation for a lumberjack swing, I noticed it. Unrefined mana outlining him—colors of blood red, dark gray, and midnight purple."
"Was it restrained? Or wild?"
"I couldn't tell. We'd need to study him further."
The monarch rose and went to his royal record book. He tore out a parchment after penning new admission rules and handed it to his raven.
"This will go to the Elders for approval. Thank you, Headmaster. Be among the judges. Choose the next Defenders of the Realm."
"Gladly," she replied, leaving with purpose.
Behind closed doors, courtiers whispered. Some nobles looked outraged. Opening the gates to commoners? Heresy. But Zara's influence—and the fear of falling behind—silenced opposition, at least for now. A storm of reform was brewing.
In the countryside, a boy screamed, "ARRAHHHHHH!"
Leywin swung his axe with ferocity. Though of average build and height, his crimson eyes and chaotic black-and-white hair made him unforgettable. His tanned skin bore sun-worn marks of labor.
He looked at his two large piles of firewood. "Should be at least four silvers..."
He joked about burning the forest down to inflate the price, a sinister smile spreading until—
WHACK!
"OWW! What was that for?!"
Mrs. Skye, the village chief, scowled. "How long will you waste your talents here?"
"I'm amazing at this, thanks!"
"Leywin," she softened, "a headmaster came two weeks ago. She said you're unmatched. She's trying to open the Academy to people like you. Isn't it time you did more than chop wood?"
Leywin snorted. "The capital's 100 kilometers away. That's four days of walking. Food, water, wizz breaks—you get the idea."
"Four days of hardship for a lifetime of success."
Leywin scoffed. "No, once I get there, I'd have to pass their tests, survive their training, maybe get lucky enough to graduate. Then maybe, just maybe, I get surrounded by money and success."
"If you stay here," Skye countered, "spring will settle in. People won't need firewood. Your business tanks, and you'll be back to odd jobs."
"Those odd jobs keep me afloat."
Skye's expression darkened. "Doing jobs for bandits isn't staying afloat. It's digging your own grave."
Leywin looked away. "They pay well enough."
"Until you cross the wrong line. One day, you'll work for someone who sees you as expendable. And when you outlive your usefulness, you'll be nothing more than a liability."
She turned away, voice cracking. "Or dead."
Leywin understood. He hugged her. "Then I'll go. Not for me. For you."
As they loaded the sled, she went ahead. Leywin stayed behind, deep in thought.
He passed the village's shacks—wooden, fragile homes, sweltering in summer and freezing in winter. Merchants lined the streets, selling what little they could. Leywin shouted, "Dry firewood! Twenty coppers per stack!"
An old man approached. "I'll take two stacks for ten coppers each."
"Boss, I'd starve if I did that."
"You always say that. But I know your dirty secret."
"What secret?"
"You ate the orphanage's chocolate cake."
Leywin nearly collapsed. "Okay, okay, five coppers it is. But you didn't hear it from me."
"Don't worry," the old man winked. "My hearing went out back when I was 32... same day my taste in fashion died."
"That explains the pants."
"They're vintage!"
"They're a war crime."
The old man laughed until he coughed himself dizzy. "Still think you're too smart for this village, huh?"
"Nope. Just pretty enough to know it."
Suddenly, he felt it—an unwelcome presence.
Chad.
Blond, tall, cruel—the local bandit leader
"LEYWIN! Lost weight? You look like the skid mark on my boot."
"What do you want, Chad?"
"Big job. You're coming. Now."
Leywin packed his gear... then paused. Skye's words echoed.
He stood. "Nah. I'm done. That last job set me for life."
Chad's smile faded. "You owe me. I fed you, saved you—"
"When I was seven. I'm sixteen now. Nine years of service. Debt's paid."
"I took you in! You think this village did?"
Leywin looked him dead in the eyes. "No. Skye did. You used me."
Furious, Chad punched Leywin. Blood splattered. He kicked him down, then pressed a boot to his throat.