The Academy had already finalized the list of participants for the new training program.

A few days after the announcement, all remaining arrangements were completed, and the first training groups began departing.

Since the Academy wanted its students to gain a real battlefield experience, where they could sharpen not only their combat abilities but also their judgment and adaptability, several locations across the kingdom in need of assistance were selected.

Students would be sent there alongside instructors, who would intervene only if necessary and evaluate their performance throughout the process.

This was an initial assessment phase. The results would determine the direction of future training.

The program had no rigid fixed curriculum. That was intentional. It was designed to be flexible, adapting from one evaluation to the next in order to provide the most effective training possible given the circumstances.

The fifty students had been split into ten groups of five, each assigned to a different destination.

One by one, the groups began to depart. Eventually, it was the turn of the last few groups.

In a third-year dormitory room, a young man with short black hair and refined features stood by the window, gazing outside.

His expression was calm, but his mind was somewhere else entirely.

’So she’ll be going there as well,’ he thought, his eyes drifting back to the finalized list spread open on his desk, names, classes, and assigned destinations, all laid out in full.

Among them was the first-year squad. Two names in particular stood out.

Percival. And Selena.

The squads were mixed across years, but not randomly. If a team was composed mainly of first-years, there was typically at least one second or third-year included to provide balance. Roles within each squad were assigned based on strength and other measured metrics.

As it happened, the young man by the window was the third-year assigned to that particular group of first-years.

[1st — Vincent Langthon - Class 3C] (Leader)

He stayed by the window for a long time before finally pulling himself away and crossing the room to the cabinet beside his wardrobe.

He opened it.

The compartment was largely empty. It held only one thing.

A bracelet.

Its appearance was simple yet elegant.

Though seemingly made of gold, the marks left by time had dulled much of its original beauty.

At its center rested a plain green crystal.

By any outward measure, it was unremarkable.

But the moment Vincent’s eyes landed on it, something complicated moved across his face.

He took a slow breath, held it, then let it go, steadying himself before reaching out and taking it.

He closed the cabinet, finished preparing, and moved toward the door. Before leaving, his gaze drifted back to the list on the desk. It lingered on one name in particular for a few seconds.

Then he stepped out.

"It’s time I got rid of this nuisance." he murmured, pulling the door shut and making his way to join the rest of the group.

When he arrived at the departure point, the first thing he saw was a creature roughly the size of half a house waiting in the courtyard.

The sight didn’t surprise him, and it didn’t unsettle him either.

It was the Academy’s mount, their means of transport for the journey ahead.

Traveling overland would have taken weeks. With this, the trip could be reduced to a matter of days.

He approached the assigned instructor without ceremony, confirmed his presence, and took his place with the others. The squad totaled five: himself, a second-year, and three first-years, two of whom he knew very well.

Once everyone had arrived, the beast spread its wings and took flight.

***

[Ravenhold]

A city situated in the eastern reaches of the Kingdom of Solren. Once an ancient fortress standing watch over the kingdom’s eastern border, it had in its time served as a bulwark against both magical beast incursions and the Hollow alike.

Its name had been carved into history as one of the seven most formidable human strongholds of the past, a designation that carried real weight in the era it was earned.

That era was long gone.

What remained today was little more than the shadow of that former glory. The city still stood, and its walls still held, but the legend had faded with the centuries, and few outside the region could name anything about it beyond the title it had once been given.

The Ravencrest family had ruled here for generations, centuries of dominance, prosperity, and influence that had once made their name synonymous with the city itself. Then, roughly a hundred years ago, the decline began. Gradual at first, then accelerating, until the family had faded so completely from wider relevance that even the city’s own residents had largely stopped remembering what the Ravencrests had once been.

Even so, the family had not disappeared. They retained their experts, their holdings, and enough quiet authority that the local barons still considered them a name worth respecting. No one sought conflict with them.

Or so it had been, until a month ago.

A single individual had arrived, and from that moment forward, the peace that had settled over the city vanished entirely. In the weeks that followed, the Ravencrest family had been pushed to the edge of ruin.

High above the city, atop the hill overlooking Ravenhold, the Ravencrest Manor, the symbol of the family’s lineage and authority, lay in ruins.

Bodies were scattered across every surface. Some barely clung to life. Others were in conditions impossible to determine at a glance.

Amid the destruction, two figures stood out.

Neither stood upon the ground. Instead, both floated above the skies surrounding the estate.

One was an elderly man clad in battle robes. An emblem decorated his chest, depicting a winged creature whose serpent-like tail coiled around itself.

His long gray hair flowed behind him. His expression was ashen. In his hand rested a refined spear that had clearly seen countless battles.

The second figure was a woman. Early-twenties in appearance, with long black hair and the plain, practical clothing of a traveling adventurer. Her eyes were a deep violet, and beneath their surface ran a faint glow, something hidden and dangerous, barely contained.

In her hand was a longsword, its blade an unnatural black that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the light around it. The sensation it gave off was one of dread, quiet, patient, and absolute.

It was Luna.

She had finally come to settle accounts with the family responsible for what had happened to her, and to her sister.