The grand hall of Atlas Academy was a sea of silence. Rows of students sat stiff-backed, their eyes drawn toward the elevated stage where the faculty filed in one by one. Each wore the charcoal-gray military uniform of the Academy, crisp and formal, but what truly commanded attention were the gleaming star badges pinned to their chests. Those stars were more than decoration—they were proof. Proof that these men and women had ascended to the pinnacle of power.
Every student seated in that hall carried the same unspoken dream: that one day, their uniform would bear the same glittering stars. That one day, they would stand where their predecessors now stood—tasked with defending the world from whatever shadows threatened it.
The murmurs quieted as an older man stepped forward. He wasn't imposing in the way some of the instructors were, standing at a modest 179 centimeters, but there was a quiet strength to him. His hair, neatly groomed and streaked with silver, framed a handsome face still sharp despite the years. His eyes were a piercing blue, steady and calm, and his smile was warm enough to soften the stiff formality of the occasion.
But there was something unusual about him—his uniform bore no stars. Not one.
Mason leaned forward slightly, brow furrowing at the detail, but before his thoughts could take shape, the man's voice filled the hall.
"Good evening, Atlans. My name is Paul Lewis Atlas, and I am the Headmaster of this institution. I welcome you all."
The voice was everything his smile promised: calm, steady, confident.
"Today marks the fiftieth annual orientation of Atlas Academy," he continued. "That, in itself, is a momentous occasion. I am proud to share it with each and every one of you."
A ripple of applause broke out before he raised a hand and the hall fell silent again.
"This Academy is unlike most others," Atlas said. "Here, we do not simply cultivate academic excellence. We prepare the next generation of warriors—men and women who will protect our world from threats that few beyond these walls can imagine."
His words hung heavy, stirring something restless in the audience.
"Our initial curriculum focuses on two elements: practical skill and tactical mastery. The first two classes you'll attend, beginning next week, will sharpen your combat ability and strategic knowledge. To guide you, we have assembled some of the most capable instructors in the world. They will pass down not only their lessons but the weight of their experience."
Atlas's gaze swept the room before he spoke again.
"Our class structure is simple. There are four divisions: Omega, Delta, Beta, and Alpha. These divisions do not reflect your skill but rather your age." He paused for effect, then listed them out.
"Omega: ages eighteen to nineteen.
Delta: ages twenty to twenty-one.
Beta: ages twenty-two to twenty-three.
Alpha: ages twenty-four to twenty-five."
The neat organization drew nods from students who had been uncertain of their placement.
"I am sure," Atlas went on, "that many of you have already noticed peers bearing stars upon their uniforms. Most of you understand what that means, but for those who do not—allow me to explain."
His voice deepened, the tone of a man about to deliver something important.
"These individuals are known as Legacies—the children of charismatics, those rare few who have inherited what we call Authority."
A hush swept the hall. Even Mason, who had read the term in passing, straightened.
"Authority," Atlas said, "is a unique ability granted to an awakened individual. It cannot be replicated or stolen; it belongs to the user alone. Most of you will never acquire such a gift. That is the truth. But do not let this discourage you." His smile returned, softening the blow. "Within each of you lies potential—talents yet undiscovered. Whether in combat, in strategy, in research, or in service, Atlas Academy will bring those talents to light."
He paused, letting the words linger, then concluded, "And so, I say again: do not despair if you are not among the awakened. Your journey is far from over."
The applause that followed was louder this time, students encouraged by his steady faith.
"Now," Atlas said, "I will hand over the assembly to my daughter—Commander Melinda Atlas."
The Headmaster stepped back as a new figure strode forward. Melinda Atlas cut a striking figure: tall, long-legged, every step measured yet graceful. Her uniform fit her like armor, sharp and immaculate, and though she carried herself with composure, her presence radiated authority.
"Good evening, Atlans," she said, her voice firm and unwavering. "I am Melinda Atlas, head instructor here at Atlas Academy. My team and I will be responsible for your training, your education, and your discipline."
Her crimson gaze swept across the hall, and students straightened involuntarily.
"It is true that many of you will never awaken. But do not mistake this for failure. The Academy opens doors far beyond awakening. Whether you are a charismatic or a graduate, this institution will shape your future. We take care of our own."
Her words, though strict, carried reassurance.
"One matter you must remember," she continued, "is the exam period. We will test you rigorously—combat, tactics, academics. Those who demonstrate excellence will be considered candidates for the Awakening Program."
The room erupted with whispers at the mention of the program, a phrase that carried both allure and dread.
Melinda raised a hand and silence fell again.
"We expect nothing less than your best. Classes begin Monday. Until then, enjoy your weekend, because once next week begins, so too will the real work."
With that, she stepped down, signaling the end of orientation.
---
The heavy atmosphere lifted. Students shifted, exhaled, whispered to one another. Mason turned to his friends.
"Wow," he said at last. "That was… a lot."
"Yeah," Travis muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
"At least we get the weekend off," Emily added, sounding more relieved than either of them.
Mason stood, stretching with a groan. "Man, all that talk made me hungry."
The face he pulled sent Emily and Travis into laughter, and the tension broke.
---
The trio made their way to the mess hall, where long rows of tables stretched beneath bright lights. The smell of fresh food was thick in the air, and the chatter of students filled the space.
"So," Emily said softly as they grabbed their trays, "what do you two think about the orientation?"
Mason shrugged. "Honestly? I'm excited for combat training, but that whole exam thing… yeah, kinda nervous about it."
"Same," Travis agreed. "Especially with the awakening stuff. Feels like they're trying to weed out the weak."
Emily frowned. "But you heard Commander Atlas. There's more here than awakening. We'll all find something valuable if we push ourselves."
"She's right," Mason admitted. "Even if you don't awaken, if the Academy endorses you, your life changes. Opportunities open up everywhere. But…" He hesitated, then smirked. "Still, imagine the power if you do awaken."
Emily nodded, though her expression tightened. "That's what scares me. I'm a Legacy. Everyone expects me to succeed. To perform. To be flawless."
For a rare moment, Travis's voice softened. "Then don't think about it now. We've got a weekend to breathe. We'll face everything when it comes."
Emily gave him a grateful smile. Mason grinned too.
"In that case," he said, his eyes gleaming, "let's make a promise. We're gonna be candidates for the Awakening Program. All of us."
Travis chuckled and clapped his shoulder. "You got it, bro."
---
They found a table near the corner, but Mason quickly noticed the stares. Dozens of students' eyes flicked toward Emily—some admiring, others resentful. The stars on her uniform glimmered like a curse as much as a blessing.
"You okay?" Travis asked.
"I'm fine," Emily said quietly. "I just need to get used to it."
Mason leaned forward, grinning. "Don't sweat it. Once Travis and I awaken, we'll be right there stealing all the attention." He pulled a ridiculous face that made Emily chuckle despite herself.
"Idiot," she muttered, smiling now.
"Good," Mason thought. "She needed that."
But before the moment could stretch, the room shifted. Conversation dimmed. The air thickened, heavy with a pressure that pressed faintly against their shoulders. It wasn't physical—it was presence, like the whisper of a storm before it breaks.
The door opened, and three figures entered.
The first was a towering man, nearly two meters tall, his black hair falling neatly around violet eyes that seemed to burn with quiet intensity. His steps were measured, commanding the space without effort.
Beside him walked a blue-haired man with piercing light-blue eyes. He was shorter, though still tall, and there was a scholarly sharpness to his expression, the kind of seriousness that demanded respect.
But it was the third figure who drew every gaze. A woman of striking beauty, crimson eyes gleaming with intelligence and mischief both, her presence radiating danger and allure in equal measure. At 170 centimeters, she was far from the tallest, but her aura filled the room like fire catching dry wood.
Mason felt his throat go dry as whispers rippled through the hall.
Ariel Von Grace.
The Blood Saint.