The bells tolled at dawn, their bronze throats echoing across the valley like mournful giants waking from slumber.

  Morning mist still clung to the cobblestones of Eldhollow, a village steeped in the final breath of mankind’s legacy. It sat nestled in a natural cradle of mountains—snow-peaked guardians that ringed the land like a crown of fate. The air, though crisp, carried a weight to it. A sense of old things dying slow, and new ones trying, with blood and fire, to be born.

  The villagers stirred early, as they always did. Cloaks swished and boots clattered, and every man, woman, and child gave a subtle nod of reverence toward the grand spires that rose at the village’s heart like the spine of a god. There it stood—The Academy.

  A bastion of stone and glory, it soared above the thatch-roofed homes and timber inns like a relic of another age. Stained glass windows glinted in the rising sun, catching the light in a symphony of color that bled across the cobbled paths. Gargoyles perched on the archways, silent watchers with broken wings and chipped fangs, their grotesque faces weeping with age. Its walls were white limestone, veined with silver from ancient mines, and its towers crowned with banners so tattered they whispered the names of forgotten kings.

  To reach the academy, one had to climb.

  Up the winding village path, past the smith’s forge that spat sparks into the street like rebellious stars, past the market square where dried herbs hung in fragrant bundles and children sparred with sticks pretending to be knights. The path was steep and cruel, chiseled through the mountain rock by hands that had long since turned to dust. But to reach the pinnacle of humanity’s hope, one had to sweat for it.

  And Alicia did.

  She climbed with armor that shone like frost in sunlight, each plate kissed by meticulous care. The sun played lovingly across the polished steel—shoulder guards sculpted in the shape of angelic wings, a breastplate etched with the crest of a sword wrapped in ivy, and gauntlets that hugged her forearms like second skin. A silver cloak trailed behind her, light as mist but threaded with moonweave, a rare gift from a wandering tailor. Her golden hair was tied back in a tight braid, though strands had escaped to kiss her temple with sweat and rebellion. Her physique was that of a trained warrior—not bulky, but athletic, honed, controlled.

  She reached the gates of the arena, breath caught not from fatigue, but anticipation.

  The Battle Arena—open to the skies and ringed with ancient columns—stood like a wound in the earth, carved by war and blessed by tradition. Marble seats lined the inner ring, where students gathered like hawks, eyes sharp with calculation and pride. At the center of the sandy floor, two figures danced the cruel dance of trial: swords clanged, boots scraped, and each grunt and swing echoed like a hymn.

  Alicia stood at the gate, unmoving.

  Her gaze locked on the fighters—one wielding a broadsword, the other a curved blade, both equally lethal in the right hands. They moved with the desperate grace of those with everything to prove. Sweat flew. Steel rang.

  “You planning to just stand there and watch, newbie?” a voice drawled behind her.

  Alicia didn’t answer at first.

  The voice huffed. “Hey—steel-for-brains.”

  Still no answer.

  Then a firm hand touched Alicia’s shoulder.

  She flinched slightly, pulled from her trance, and turned. Her eyes were like twin lakes struck by moonlight—focused, unreadable.

  Behind her stood a girl clad in armor the color of midnight. It drank the sunlight greedily, matte and marked by use. Where Alicia’s armor gleamed, this girl’s bore the scars of training—nicks, dents, and the unmistakable mark of a fighter who didn’t just polish for show. She had dark brown hair tied into a low ponytail, eyes the color of burnt sienna, and a crooked smirk that hinted at trouble. Her posture was casual—too casual.

  “You done staring?” the girl asked, one brow raised.

  Alicia blinked. “Sorry. I was… observing.”

  “Oh, I noticed.” The brunette crossed her arms. “What were you watching? The muscles or the moves?”

  Alicia glanced back at the fighters. One had just feinted a low swing and pivoted with a flourish that drew an impressed gasp from the onlookers.

  She turned back, a slight smile playing on her lips. “Both.”

  The girl in black armor let out a short laugh. “Well, at least you’re honest. But you better do more than stare if you want to survive this place.”

  “I plan to,” Alicia said, standing straighter.

  The girl gave a nod of approval. “Good. Then train like your life depends on it—because here, it just might. You ready for that?”

  Alicia hesitated.

  Not in uncertainty, but in thought. Then her expression softened as if remembering something. “Of course. It’s just that… I never introduced myself.” She extended a gauntleted hand. “I’m Alicia.”

  The girl looked at the hand like it might bite her, then took it with a shrug. “Marie. Don’t forget it, princess.”

  Just then, a roar broke from the crowd.

  A figure at the judge’s table stood up, robes flowing, voice amplified by an ancient rune embedded in the stone.

  “FIRST BLOOD! Marcus wins!”

  The arena erupted.

  Cheering, clapping, stomping—fists thrown into the air and banners waved by giddy students on the benches. The victor, a tall boy with soot-dark hair and a sword now stained with crimson, lifted his weapon in salute, face stern with pride and exhaustion.

  Marie scoffed as the victor, Marcus, raised his blood-slicked sword in triumph. The crowd around them roared, but Marie’s voice cut through it, dry and unimpressed.

  "And Lui bites the dust. I actually expected better from him," she muttered, arms still crossed as if the outcome had personally disappointed her.

  Alicia quirked an eyebrow, lips twitching. "He did get one hit in."

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  "On the sand," Marie replied. "So who's next?"

  Before Alicia could reply, the commentator’s voice boomed across the arena with the gravitas of a warhorn.

  "Next challenger—Alicia Moores!"

  Marie turned, smirking like a cat spotting a cornered mouse. "Oh. You are."

  Alicia gave a wry smile, a quick flutter of nerves betraying itself in the way her fingers drummed against her thigh plate. "Sadly, yes. But it was nice talking to you."

  Marie nodded, stepping aside with a casual air. "Good luck out there, shiny. Try not to trip over that dramatic cape."

  Alicia chuckled under her breath, but her eyes were already shifting toward the arena

  Where legends were not born—they were forged. In sweat, in blood, and in silence.

  Alicia walked forward, each step echoing beneath her in the tunnel that led from the staging area into the open arena. The air grew heavier the closer she got. Lit only by the torch sconces on the stone walls, the shadows wrapped around her like cloaks. Flickering firelight danced off her silver armor, painting moving patterns across the metal as if the spirits of past warriors were sizing her up.

  This was it.

  Here, in this place, dreams either died with a whimper… or blossomed with a roar.

  Alicia could feel her heartbeat in her palms. Steady. Too steady.

  She closed her eyes for half a second and was ten years old again, watching knights from a crumbling rooftop in her dying village. Watching them shine. Watching them fight. Swearing to herself she'd wear armor like theirs one day—not because she wanted to be them. But because she wanted to surpass them.

  She took another step, and the memory fell behind her like shed skin.

  The sunlight spilled from the open archway ahead, flooding in like golden war drums. The crowd's cheers washed over her as she stepped from darkness into brilliance.

  For the first few seconds, she just stood there.

  Letting the noise fill her lungs.

  Letting the heat of the sun hit her brow.

  Letting herself be there.

  She turned slowly, taking it all in: the coliseum’s stone rings, the endless eyes watching from above, the wind tugging at her cloak.

  She slid the heavy shield from her back. It landed with a thunk against the sand, an anchor at her feet. Her hand dropped to her sword. One clean pull, and it sang free.

  "I'm ready," she whispered to herself.

  Then silence.

  It didn’t come gradually. One second the crowd was a storm, and the next… nothing.

  Alicia blinked. Looked up.

  The crowd still watched. No one moved. No sound.

  What?

  She glanced around. Were the judges already judging her? Was it something she did? Did her stance look off? Was her armor too tight?

  She tried to subtly tug at her breastplate. No use. Maybe it was the shield. It was massive, she knew that. But was that a bad thing? It gave her coverage. Maybe too much coverage. Was it overkill?

  Her hand gripped the sword tighter.

  Then the commentator cleared his throat, the sound magically amplified to break the suffocating silence.

  "Ahem. Due to unexpected absence, her opponent—rank nine hundred and ninety-six, Rolf Wisor—will be unavailable for this match. We are currently seeking a replacement."

  Alicia’s shoulders sagged just a little. She lowered her sword, turning halfway toward the judge’s podium.

  "Huh. Well," she muttered, voice low. "If they can’t find one, maybe I just get an automatic pass. That’d be nice."

  She paused. Then frowned.

  "But... what if I’m a terrible fighter? They wouldn’t know. No one would know. I’d just be that girl who walked in and lucked out. That’d suck."

  She ran a hand over the crest on her shield. Her mind raced through a dozen hypothetical scenarios, each worse than the last.

  What if she finally got an opponent and froze up? What if she fainted? Could you faint before a fight and still be respected?

  The narrator—older, calmer—slipped into the silence like the echo of a legend.

  At Sianguis Academy, all students were ranked—one to one thousand. The lowest of them, the ones hanging on by sword-edges and bruises, were tasked with a final chance: defeat a newcomer in open combat. Draw first blood, and retain their place. Lose, and be cast out.

  A simple task. Or so it seemed.

  That was Alicia’s trial. That was the test.

  A single cut. One drop of blood.

  The sand shifted beneath her boots as she paced slightly, sword resting against her shoulder. Waiting. The anticipation was worse than the idea of battle. She looked up again, searching the entrance across the ring. The crowd had grown restless, the murmurs rising.

  The tension hummed like a taut string.

  She inhaled deeply, calming her breath.

  The moment would come.

  And it did.

  "We apologize for the delay," the commentator’s voice rang through the enchanted amplifiers, laced with a peculiar tension. "But we have found a replacement. Rank 325... Tessa Blanc."

  Gasps erupted across the coliseum like scattered thunder. From the shadows of the opposite gate, a figure stepped into the sunlight, calm and deliberate. Unlike Alicia’s polished silver armor, which caught the light in bright, resplendent flashes, the woman walking forward wore no armor at all. She was clad in a simple black tunic belted at the waist, her limbs lean and toned, moving with an eerie grace. In her right hand, she carried a sword—long, slim, elegant. It shimmered, but not with showmanship. With lethality.

  Marie, halfway to the stands, paused. Her eyes narrowed.

  "Tch. She stands no chance," she muttered, shaking her head. With a quiet grunt of resignation, she quickened her pace toward the fighters’ gallery.

  Alicia blinked, once, twice. Her stomach twisted in an instant knot.

  "What?" Her voice cracked, raising an octave as she turned toward the judges’ platform. Her brows knit in genuine horror, eyes wide. "She’s rank three-twenty-five. You can’t possibly expect me to—"

  Tessa halted, just ten paces away, and raised her sword slowly until it pointed at Alicia’s chest. She wore the smallest smile.

  "Oh, don’t worry," Tessa said, her voice silken, confident. "No one will blame you for losing."

  It was not taunting. It was worse—sympathy.

  Alicia’s spine straightened like a steel rod. Her hand clenched around the hilt of her sword, her other fist closing around the thick handle of her shield. She inhaled. Sharp. Measured.

  Then, with a sudden surge of force, she slammed the rim of her shield to the ground, the echo ringing like a war drum.

  "I’m not losing."

  The audience responded to the display with a rumble of approval. In the judge’s box, the commentator cleared his throat.

  "The rules remain as ever. Draw first blood by any means possible. By hook, but not by crook. If neither succeeds in fifteen minutes, the match is considered a draw."

  He paused for breath, then added, with gravity: "May the gods be with both of you. Begin!"

  For a heartbeat, the arena was utterly silent.

  Then they both moved.

  Alicia surged forward, her armor clanking rhythmically with each step. Her shield raised before her chest, sword angled beside it, she advanced like a storm front.

  Tessa moved too.

  But then—

  She vanished.

  Alicia gasped and staggered to a stop. Her eyes darted left, right, above—

  Then she felt it. A breath. A flicker of movement to her left.

  Instinct screamed. She twisted her body just in time to bring her shield up—

  CLANG!

  Steel met steel. Sparks flew from the impact like fireflies in daylight. Tessa had appeared in her blind spot, her sword descending in a clean, surgical arc aimed for Alicia’s shoulder. The shield caught it—barely.

  Alicia stumbled back two paces, her boots grinding against the sand. Her eyes darted again, this time more focused. Sweat beaded on her brow, tucked beneath her blonde fringe. Her heart thundered in her chest.

  She didn’t disappear.

  She’s just that fast.

  Alicia lowered her stance, adjusting her shield to protect her flank, and began to move in a cautious circle.

  Tessa stood motionless now, her sword hanging loose at her side, her chin dipped. Watching. Waiting. Her eyes glinted like frost under the sun.

  Alicia’s thoughts swarmed.

  How am I supposed to land a hit on her? If she’s ranked 325, and I’m just... nobody. What kind of academy pairs a newcomer with that?

  Her mouth felt dry. But her grip didn’t waver. She shifted her sword hand slightly, flexing her wrist. Her fingers tingled.

  Focus.

  She advanced again, not charging this time, but inching closer with her shield up. Tessa responded by shifting her stance—sideways now, sword drawn slightly behind her like a dancer preparing to spin.

  Alicia feinted to the left.

  Tessa didn’t bite.

  Then Alicia lunged—sword high, shield low.

  Tessa spun.

  The blade came not from the front, but from Alicia’s right hip, slicing horizontally.

  Alicia’s shield was still too high.

  She twisted her torso, caught the edge of the blade on her vambrace—

  It slid off with a shriek of metal.

  No blood. Yet.

  Tessa stepped back, her expression unreadable.

  Alicia exhaled sharply, nearly wheezing.

  The crowd was silent. Even the birds above seemed to pause.

  She felt her arms shake.

  Tessa hasn’t even broken a sweat. Meanwhile, Alicia was fighting like a knight in a tavern brawl.

  She adjusted her footing again. The sand was softer than she liked. She couldn’t trust her balance on a hard pivot.

  And yet...

  A flicker of an idea.