Morning at Hunters College did not arrive gently.
It struck the world awake with a low, resonant bell that rolled through the stone corridors, across the training grounds, and into the bones of everyone sleeping within the compound. The sound was not loud, yet it was impossible to ignore—designed to wake hunters not with kindness, but with inevitability.
Lunaria Vale's eyes opened before the echo fully faded.
He sat up slowly, sheets sliding down his slender frame, moonlight-colored hair spilling across his shoulders and back in a smooth, straight cascade that brushed his waist. For a moment, he simply breathed, hands resting lightly atop the blanket, posture serene as if he were greeting an old friend rather than a demanding day.
"…Good morning," he whispered to the quiet room.
[Sleep duration: insufficient.]
"I know," Lunaria replied softly, voice gentle and unbothered. "But I feel rested enough."
[Feeling rested is not equivalent to optimal performance.]
He smiled faintly. "You worry a lot."
[Correct.]
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, bare feet touching the cool stone floor. The chill traveled up his spine, making him shiver lightly, but he did not mind it. Sensations grounded him. They reminded him that he was present. Alive.
He washed, dressed, and groomed himself with meticulous care. Every movement was deliberate—washing his face slowly, combing his hair until it lay perfectly straight and smooth, fastening his hunter uniform so that it sat exactly right against his body.
The uniform framed him beautifully.
It did not try to harden him.
It did not try to make him look imposing.
Instead, it followed his natural lines—slender shoulders, narrow waist, long limbs—embracing his femininity rather than denying it. Pale pink mana threads shimmered faintly along the seams as he moved, responding subtly to his presence.
When he finished, he reached for the ribbon resting on the desk.
His fingers hovered above it.
Then, gently, he tied it loosely at the base of his neck—not tight enough to restrain, not symbolic of danger. Just… there.
A comfort.
A reminder of who he was before blood and blades tried to define him.
[Training schedule indicates weapon selection today.]
"…Yes," Lunaria murmured. "I remember."
He stepped out into the corridor.
The dormitory was already alive with movement. Male students emerged from their rooms, stretching, yawning, talking—until their gazes landed on him.
Conversations faltered.
Steps slowed.
Some stopped entirely.
Lunaria walked quietly through them, hands folded neatly in front of him, lashes lowered. He could feel it—the shift in the air, the tension, the way attention clung to him like heat.
[Multiple individuals exhibiting elevated stress and distraction.]
"That sounds troublesome," Lunaria whispered apologetically.
[It is not your responsibility.]
"…I know," he replied softly. "But I still feel bad."
He reached the armory courtyard just as instructors were organizing the students. Weapon racks lined the stone walls in orderly rows, each holding tools designed to kill—spears etched with runes, bows humming with restrained mana, heavy axes that radiated brute force.
And swords.
So many swords.
The instructor at the center raised his voice. "Today, you choose your primary weapon. This choice will follow you into dungeon breaks. It will define how you survive."
Lunaria listened attentively, head slightly tilted.
Until something tugged at him.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
His gaze drifted across the racks and stopped.
On a sword.
It was not large or intimidating. The blade was slender, slightly curved, forged for precision rather than power. Its surface gleamed softly, reflecting light without glare. The hilt was wrapped in pale leather, worn smooth by careful hands.
It was elegant.
Balanced.
Beautiful.
Lunaria's breath hitched just slightly.
"…That one," he murmured.
[Weapon resonance detected.]
He blinked. "Already?"
[Yes.]
[Your movement patterns, muscle memory, and mana flow align with bladed extensions of greater reach.]
"…That makes sense," he said quietly. "I do like… space."
He stepped forward.
When his fingers closed around the hilt, the sensation surprised him.
The sword was light.
Not fragile—but responsive. It did not drag at his arm or resist his grip. Instead, it seemed to adjust itself subtly, settling into his hand as if acknowledging him.
[Grip adjustment recommended.]
He shifted his fingers slightly.
[Correct.]
Lunaria smiled faintly. "Thank you for guiding me."
[That is my function.]
The instructor noticed him immediately.
"You," the man called. "F-rank Frontier. Step forward."
Lunaria obeyed without hesitation, sword held carefully at his side, blade angled downward in respect.
"You've been using a knife," the instructor said, arms crossed. "Why change?"
Lunaria considered the question seriously.
"…The knife felt like something I had to be close to," he said softly. "This feels like something I can move with."
The instructor snorted. "Words don't kill monsters."
"I know," Lunaria replied gently. "But movement does."
The instructor stared at him for a long moment, then activated a training construct—a humanoid mana-doll reinforced for impact testing.
"Show me," he said.
Lunaria stepped onto the training floor.
He exhaled slowly.
Then reached for the ribbon.
With delicate fingers, he untied it.
The ribbon slipped free and fluttered to the ground.
His hair fell.
Straight.
Unbound.
Moonlight spilling down his back.
The air changed.
Not violently.
Subtly.
Lunaria lifted the sword.
And moved.
His first step was light—almost soundless. His body rotated smoothly, hips leading, shoulders following, sword tracing a gentle arc through the air. He did not rush. He did not hesitate.
The blade sang softly as it cut.
The construct lunged.
Lunaria pivoted.
He spun—not wildly, but with control, skirted past the strike, blade sliding through a joint with surgical precision. His footwork was impeccable, each step placed exactly where it needed to be, as if the floor itself guided him.
Hair followed his motion like silk.
The construct collapsed before it could land a single hit.
Silence.
The instructor swallowed.
"…Again."
Lunaria nodded.
This time, he was faster.
Not aggressive—decisive.
The sword became an extension of his body, following the rhythm of his breath, the subtle sway of his hips, the tilt of his shoulders. Each strike flowed into the next, no wasted movement, no unnecessary force.
It did not look like combat.
It looked like a dance taught by danger.
When the final construct fell, Lunaria came to a stop, sword lowered, chest rising gently as he breathed.
He retrieved the ribbon and tied it around his wrist again.
"…Was that acceptable?" he asked softly.
[Combat efficiency increased by 37%.]
"That sounds… encouraging," Lunaria said, relieved.
The instructor lowered his clipboard slowly.
"…From today on," he said, voice rough, "you will train as a blade specialist."
The courtyard erupted into whispers.
"He's terrifying."
"That wasn't strength—that was control."
"I couldn't look away."
Lunaria bowed politely and stepped back into line.
Four familiar figures approached.
Noctis studied him with quiet intensity. "A sword suits you."
Caelum nodded thoughtfully. "Your balance improved immediately."
Riven's eyes were sharp, dark. "You're more dangerous with reach."
Ash grinned. "Still pretty. Still deadly."
Lunaria tilted his head. "I was worried it might look awkward."
Noctis smiled faintly. "It didn't."
[Weapon choice confirmed.]
Lunaria looked down at the sword resting in his hands.
"…I'll take good care of you," he whispered.
The blade caught the light.
And somewhere within Hunters College, something settled into place.
The boy who danced with a knife had chosen a sword.
And with it—
He chose distance, elegance, and inevitability.
A blade long enough to let the world see him coming.
And sharp enough to ensure it never underestimated him again.