Dawn barely touched the barracks when Modred's snoring rattled the wooden frame of his bunk. Taren kicked the side of the bed.
"MODRED-get up! We're late!"
Modred jerked awake, hair a wild mess. "Late for what-"
Taren dragged him off the bed. "For CLASS, idiot!"
They rushed out, half-dressed, boots barely tied. The crisp morning air slapped Modred awake as they sprinted across the training grounds toward the classroom building.
As they skidded through the door-
WHACK.
A wooden stick cracked down on their heads.
Instructor Sol stood there, round glasses sliding down his nose, sipping a steaming cup of tea. His expression was perfectly calm, except for the twitching on his forehead.
"Late already on your second day," he said flatly. "Wonderful."
Modred rubbed his head. "Damn four-"
Sol shot him a cold stare. Modred shut up instantly.
Modred and Taren quietly slid into a bench beside Dante and Arthur. Dante clicked his tongue.
"Nice entrance, idiots."
"Shut up," Modred muttered, rubbing his head.
As everyone settled, Sol turned to the crystal board behind him. With a flick of his finger, lines of light spread across it, forming the jagged mountain.
"Phoed Mountain," he said. "The ground where the rite of Ironblood will take place."
The light sketched in steep slopes, knife-thin ridges, and ravines like torn flesh.
"Cold air. Unstable arcana currents. If you're careless, the terrain will kill you before the beasts do."
He tapped a point near the center.
"These are the safer routes. Forested gullies, water sources, and cover. I say 'safer', not 'safe'."
Another tap. Red markings flared.
"These are kill zones. Places where beasts congregate. Places where another division with a brain will ambush you. Remember the map. Or die learning it."
He snapped his fingers. The mountain faded, replaced by the distorted outline of a creature.
"Chimera," he said. "You've heard the basics. Three heads, three cores, and a huge pain in the ass."
The outline shifted again. This time, the room seemed to grow colder.
The image sharpened on the board.
Long, rope-thick sinews ran down its arms, arms so long they nearly dragged across the ground. Its fingers tapered into curved, hooked nails built for ripping. A barrel-like chest rose and fell as if the creature was panting.
Its smile was the worst part.
A stretched, unnatural grin-lips torn thin around rows of irregular, needle-like teeth, each one jutting from dark, inflamed gums. Above that grin, two huge, rounded eyes stared outward, glowing a cold, red hue.
The creature stood tall, back hunched under knotted muscle. Black, wet-looking fur clung to its shoulders and spine in uneven patches, giving it a half-rotted, wolf-like appearance forced into a mockery of human shape. Its legs were long, bent wrong, ready to spring.
It was humanoid only in the way a nightmare tries to intimidate a man.
Sol tapped the image with his fingers. "And this," he said, voice flat, "is a Hoblim."
"A Hoblim is stronger than any normal man. Fast, too. If it closes the distance, it will tear you apart piece by piece, and it will smile while doing it. If you face one alone, you either fight it or run."
He then let that hang a moment, then let the image fade.
"Now. To keep you, idiots, from dying too quickly, the instructors proposed something."
He faced them again.
"An interclass competition. Before the Rite."
A ripple went through the room.
"It'll focus on warrior and scout roles. We'll measure you in physical ability, skill, tactical awareness, mental resilience, and Arcana capacity. The usual. But this time, we're watching not just who survives, but who can actually be useful."
He then started to move to the door, "All of you outside now."
The scrape of boots echoed as they walked out of the classroom and into the crisp air of the training grounds. The yard was silent, waiting, dust shifting under the faint wind.
Sol walked ahead of them, stopped at the center, and crouched. Without saying a thing, he pressed two fingers into the dirt and drew a perfect circle.
He stood inside the ring.
Hands behind his back.
Feet planted.
Expression flat.
"I want all of you to comprehend what real strength is," Sol said.
He lifted one finger and pointed down.
"Remove me from this circle."
A few cadets choked on their breath.
Arthur froze completely.
Lysara went stiff.
Modred took a step forward.
Taren-standing with Arthur and the other cadets-quietly said, "Here we go..."
Modred rolled his neck, shoulders loosening.
Sol raised an eyebrow.
"Very well."
Modred exhaled-smoke curling from his mouth.
The ground warmed under his boots. Heat crawled up his spine, down his arms; a pressure building like a stone crackling under fire. His fists clenched, and flame curled around his knuckles-wild, raw, unrefined.
Sol's glasses reflected the firelight.
"C'mon, don't keep me waiting."
Modred lunged.
The flame burst behind him-a violent flash that scorched the dirt black.
He came in fast, flames spiraled up his arm, licking his skin like living tongues.
His fist swung forward-the air warped with heat.
And Sol didn't move; he raised one hand and caught Modred's flaming fist.
The flame roared, tearing heat into his palm.
Modred's eyes widened-just a second late.
Sol's free hand clenched into a fist, slamming into Modred's gut.
THUD.
It sent Modred flying like a thrown stone, until he crashed into the dirt on his back.
Dante winced, "Goddamn..."
Sol dusted off his palm as silence sat heavy on the training grounds.
"Next," he said.
Not a single cadet moved
They all stared at the individual in the circle.
Then at Modred, lying in the dirt.
Someone whispered, "Hell no...."
Sol's eyes slid across the crowd. "None?"
Everyone shook their heads.
Modred pushed himself up, spat a mouthful of blood, and exhaled.
"Tch.... cowards,"
Arthur grabbed his arm, "Modred-stop. You're still-"
Lysara tried to help hold him back.
"Please think for once-"
Taren cut them off, pulling them back sharply.
"Let him go."
Modred rolled his shoulders and walked straight back, expression blank, eyes burning.
Sol raised one eyebrow.
"You again?'
Modred bowed to him with acknowledgement.
"Teach me," he said. "I want to get stronger. Strong enough to win the Rite. Enough to enter the Academy."
Sol looked at him for a long moment.
"Good," Sol said quietly.
Modred straightened.
Sol turned to the rest of the class.
"All of you. Move according to your designated roles. Warriors, tacticians, scouts—form groups. Get used to each other. The Rite isn't survived alone."
The cadets split, grouping themselves based on their abilities.
And as the crowd shifted, two cadets approached Modred.
He didn't get two breaths before a heavy slap hit his back.
"Damn, you hit hard," someone said behind him. "Thought your arm was gonna fly off."
Modred blinked, glancing sideways.
A broad blond guy grinned at him, eyes bright with a mix of excitement and complete lack of self-preservation. His build was insane—shoulders stacked, veins like cables, the kind of body only insane genetics or divine bullying could produce.
"Julius Liam," he said, offering a fist. "We're both in the warrior role, so try not to die yet."
Before Modred could answer, another presence stepped forward—quieter, colder, like a shadow stepping out from behind a lantern.
Dark hair. Warm but unreadable eyes. A calm expression that said he'd already evaluated Modred twice by the time he reached him.
"I'm Riven Valcrest," he said simply. "You fight recklessly. But you fight honestly. Worth respecting."
Modred raised an eyebrow. "You saying that after I got folded like laundry?"
Julius barked a laugh. Riven didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
"That wasn't folding," Julius corrected. "That was murder. But hey—you stood up again. That's more than I can say for half the class."
Modred shrugged, rubbing the bruise on his chin. "What can I say? I'm stupid."
Someone scoffed from behind.
Dante.
He crossed his arms, looking away as if pretending he hadn't been watching Modred the whole time.
"Tch. Acting like you did something impressive," Dante muttered,"You're just lucky ."
Modred didn't even turn.
"You still mad I beat you here?" he asked casually.
"I—WHAT?! SHUT UP!"
"Relax," Modred said. "If you train enough, maybe your legs will catch up to your mouth."
Dante lunged forward but Julius grabbed him by the collar and held him in place like lifting a cat.
"Oh, shut up!" Dante snapped, kicking in the air.
A shadow cut across the ground.
"Are you all quite done?"
The voice was deep — calm, but carrying the kind of authority that made everyone straighten automatically.
A man walked toward them.
Tall.
Built like a weapon.
Dark hair tied back.
Expression sharp enough to cut stone.
He stopped in front of them, boots planted firmly. His gaze swept over the cadets with pure disappointment.
"You speak too loud."
Everyone stiffened.
"I'm Kael," he said. "Captain Sol's second. Your new instructor."
He scanned their faces again.
"You all look weak. That irritates me."
Modred leaned to the side and whispered, "Another lunatic…"
Kael's head snapped toward him.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, sir."
Kael jabbed a thumb toward the training field.
"Line up."
Training began immediately.
Brutal didn't even begin toPush-ups until their arms buckled.
Sprints until their vision tunneled.
Lifting stones heavy enough to crush their feet if dropped.
Strikes on ironwood dummies until their knuckles tore open.
Julius tanked everything like a human boulder.
Riven moved with clean, efficient precision.
Dante pretended he wasn't struggling even when he was about to collapse.
Modred pushed through with stubborn fire, fighting the pain until it felt familiar.
Days blurred into weeks.
Modred noticed it first—
his arms cutting through the air faster,
legs coiled with new strength,
fire forming tighter around his fists instead of exploding outward.
Julius got even more monstrous.
Riven barely made a sound when he moved.
Dante's footwork finally stopped tripping over itself.
One night, after an especially vicious drill that left their limbs shaking, they wandered into the quiet clearing behind the barracks.
A small fire crackled in the center, sparks rising softly into the dark.
Julius flopped onto the dirt with a groan.
"My everything hurts."
Modred poked the fire with a stick.
"If I die tonight, bury me somewhere that doesn't smell like Kael."
Riven sat a few steps away, leaning back on his palms.
"You won't die," he said calmly. "If anyone does, it'll be Dante."
"HEY!"
Dante dropped down next to them, hugging his knees.
His face softened in the firelight, making him look younger, less irritated.
For a while, none of them spoke.
The stars hung low, bright against the black sky.
The flames washed their faces in warmth, casting long shadows behind them.
Modred leaned back, exhaling.
"Crazy, isn't it?" he said quietly.
Julius rolled his head to look at him. "What is?"
"We met by beating each other up," Modred said, "and now we're doing training-from-hell together."
Riven's voice was soft. "Strange beginnings make strong bonds."
Dante scoffed. "Don't get sentimental."
But he didn't move away.
The fire crackled.
A wind swept through the clearing.
For a moment, it felt like all four of them shared the exact same thought:
Whatever comes next… we face it together.