The tension in the training hall was palpable, a storm waiting to erupt. Ever since the mixed classes began, the air between nobles and commoners had grown thicker with unspoken animosity. On the surface, training sessions were orderly, overseen by instructors barking out commands. But beneath that structure, there was an undeniable current of division.

I watched from the sidelines as nobles clustered together, their gazes sharp with disdain whenever they turned toward the commoners. Their whispers weren’t subtle either—mockery disguised as casual conversation, drifting through the hall like smoke.

“She’s hopeless,” one noble boy muttered, loud enough for a struggling commoner to hear as they sparred. “You’d think they’d have better candidates than this.”

The girl flinched at his words, her guard faltering just enough for her opponent to land a decisive hit. She collapsed to her knees, clutching her stomach, as the noble who spoke smirked in triumph.

It wasn’t just words, though. The petty sabotage was becoming more frequent. Misplaced practice swords, tampered training gear, and subtle “accidental” strikes during sparring matches were all taking their toll on the commoners. Some students were too weary to notice, too beaten down to care, while others seethed quietly, their frustration simmering just below the surface.

I clenched my fists as I witnessed another incident. A commoner boy had just stepped onto the training platform, ready to spar, when his opponent—a noble who looked far too smug—mockingly offered him a sword with a splintered hilt.

“Don’t say I’m not generous,” the noble said, tossing it over.

The boy hesitated, his jaw tightening as he stared at the damaged weapon. He turned toward the instructor, but the man was busy overseeing another pair of students and hadn’t noticed the exchange. With a resigned nod, the boy took the sword, stepping into the match already at a disadvantage.

I didn’t step in. Not yet. I couldn’t. Not until I was sure it would mean something.

Instead, I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, keeping my anger hidden behind a calm exterior. Lorian stood beside me, his eyes darting across the hall like a hawk.

“They’re pushing too far,” he muttered under his breath.

I nodded. “It’s deliberate. They know what they’re doing.”

The commoners were improving—there was no denying that. For all the nobles’ claims of superiority, the reality was that their advantage was thinning. Many commoners, despite lacking noble training, were catching up through sheer grit and determination. That scared the nobles. I could see it in their eyes, the way their confidence faltered when a commoner landed a clean hit during sparring or displayed unexpected skill.

Their fear was driving their actions now. Sabotage. Mockery. Anything to remind us that we were “beneath” them.

But fear could only drive them so far before it consumed them.

“It’s going to come to a head,” I said quietly, my gaze fixed on the training floor.

“Soon,” Lorian replied, his voice grim. “And when it does, they won’t hold back.”

Neither would we.

For now, though, I remained still, observing, calculating. Let them underestimate us. Let them think their little tricks and taunts were enough to break us. They’d see soon enough that resilience was a sharper weapon than any Aura-powered blade.

**

Illiad’s Progress

The weeks that followed saw a sharp divide among the first-year students. The nobles continued to dominate the classes in numbers, and their innate advantage with Aura mastery was evident during the practical lessons. Many of them displayed seamless control over Core, their proficiency a reflection of years of private tutelage.

For the commoners, however, Aura training was a new and daunting challenge. Their frustration was palpable—some struggled to even grasp the Core stage, let alone attempt to manifest the First Stage Aura, Ignis. I watched them labor with an intensity that mirrored my own past struggles in another life. Though the circumstances had changed, the weight of proving themselves remained the same.

In contrast, my own progress was more deliberate. Drawing on knowledge from my previous life, I approached the training sessions with precision. During the lessons, I feigned some difficulty in mastering Core, making sure not to draw too much attention to myself. I practiced alongside the commoners, encouraging them as they fumbled their way through the exercises. Lorian, as expected, picked up the Core stage faster than most. His agility and focus worked in his favor, and though he masked it with his usual sarcasm, I could see the quiet satisfaction when his Aura finally ignited during one of our group training sessions.

Still, I had to tread carefully. At night, in the privacy of my dormitory, I dedicated myself to refining the blood vessel method, a technique far removed from the academy's teachings. Instead of relying solely on the heart as a reservoir for Aura, I allowed my energy to flow through the intricate network of veins and arteries in my body, creating a more fluid and potent system. This was a revolutionary approach from my previous life, one that enabled faster breakthroughs and greater control—but it was also dangerous to reveal. If the wrong people found out, it would draw attention I wasn’t ready to handle.

Despite the secrets I harbored, the sessions with my peers served as a grounding experience. Lorian often mocked me, calling me out for appearing too "calm" in the face of what he deemed overwhelming odds. “Are you a machine, Illiad? Normal people sweat when they're learning something like this,” he quipped during one particularly grueling training session.

“Some of us just sweat less,” I replied, wiping imaginary sweat from my brow.

The banter was a welcome distraction, and it eased the growing tension that lingered in every corner of the academy. Yet, beneath the surface, I could feel the weight of what lay ahead. Veylor’s influence was ever-present, his disdain for the commoners fueling a divide that Aura training only seemed to deepen. If he sensed the extent of my capabilities, he’d surely view me as an even greater threat. For now, I had to remain in the shadows—an unseen player in a game where power dictated survival.

For the commoners, though, my progress became a quiet symbol of hope. They noticed how I refused to yield in the face of noble arrogance, how I pushed them to persevere despite their struggles. Unspoken but understood, a bond of solidarity was forming.

And with it, so was my resolve.

**

An Unofficial Duel

The challenge came on a clear afternoon, the kind of day where tension brewed just beneath the surface, waiting for the right spark to ignite. I had just finished a group training session with the commoners, guiding them through basic Aura exercises, when I noticed the group of nobles gathered near the sparring arena. Their laughter echoed across the grounds—sharp, mocking, and directed squarely at us.

At the center of it was Derren Marlow, a second-tier noble known for his arrogance and knack for causing trouble. He wasn't as cunning as Veylor, but what he lacked in subtlety, he made up for with brute strength and a flair for theatrics. It didn’t take long for him to stride across the training grounds toward me, a smirk plastered across his face as if he’d already won whatever game he was about to play.

“Well, well,” Derren began, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of every student within earshot. “I’ve been hearing a lot about you, Illiad. Top of the commoners, isn’t that right?”

I straightened but kept my expression neutral. “Fifth overall,” I replied, deliberately emphasizing the broader context of my ranking.

“Impressive... for someone like you,” he sneered, earning a round of chuckles from his companions. “But tell me, how far do you think all that book smarts will get you when it comes to real combat? Surely, you’ve heard that Aura isn’t just about theory.”

I could see where this was going before he even said the words. He wanted a duel—a public spectacle to assert dominance, to remind everyone of the so-called natural order between nobles and commoners.

Lorian stepped forward, his eyes sharp. “You’ve got a lot of talk for someone who hasn’t even proven he can handle his own Core properly,” he said, his tone light but with a clear edge.

“Stay out of this, runt,” Derren snapped. “This is between me and your fearless leader here.”

My hand rested lightly on Lorian’s shoulder, a silent gesture to hold back. I met Derren’s gaze, letting the tension hang in the air for a moment before speaking. “If this is your way of proving something, I’ll oblige. But if you’re looking for a fair match, I’d suggest picking someone at your level. Unless you’re afraid that I might actually win.”

The crowd erupted with murmurs, and Derren’s smirk faltered for a brief second. “Watch your mouth, commoner,” he growled, stepping closer. “You want a match? Fine. Let’s make it official. First to disarm or incapacitate wins.”

“Agreed,” I said, my tone calm but firm.

The students quickly gathered around the sparring arena, the energy buzzing with anticipation. It was rare for unofficial duels to happen in such an open setting, but the faculty often turned a blind eye as long as things didn’t escalate too far. This wasn’t just about Derren and me anymore—it was about the growing rift between nobles and commoners, an unspoken war being waged in every classroom and training session.

As I stepped into the arena, I felt the weight of dozens of eyes on me. The commoners looked hopeful, almost desperate for someone to stand up against the constant belittlement. The nobles, on the other hand, were watching with thinly veiled amusement, confident that Derren would teach me my place.

“Don’t hold back, Illiad,” Lorian muttered as I passed him, his voice low but steady.

“Don’t worry,” I replied. “I have no intention of losing.”

Derren unsheathed his training blade, twirling it in a showy display as he stepped into the circle. His Aura flared faintly—a hazy, uneven glow around his weapon and limbs. It was clumsy but powerful, a brute force approach that matched his personality.

I drew my own blade, keeping my stance relaxed as I let my Core hum faintly beneath the surface. I wouldn’t reveal my full strength—not yet. This wasn’t just about winning; it was about controlling the narrative.

As the signal was given to begin, Derren lunged forward with an explosive burst of speed, his blade cutting through the air with the weight of raw strength. I sidestepped smoothly, my movements economical and precise.

The duel had begun.

**

Illiad’s Tactical Victory

The clash of steel rang through the air, reverberating off the stone walls of the academy's sparring grounds. Derren charged at me with relentless aggression, his strikes heavy and forceful, each swing aimed to overwhelm. His Aura flickered unevenly, a crude manifestation of power that screamed of brute strength over finesse.

I let him come, retreating step by step, my blade moving in a measured dance to parry his strikes. To the untrained eye, it might have seemed like I was on the back foot, barely holding my ground. But in truth, I was watching, waiting—studying the rhythm of his attacks, the gaps in his form, the flaws in his stance.

Derren’s Aura sputtered as he overcommitted to another wild swing, the weight of his blade dragging him off-balance for a fraction of a second. That was all I needed. I stepped into his attack, my blade gliding along his to deflect the momentum before twisting sharply. His sword veered wide, and I pivoted to his exposed side, landing a swift tap of my weapon against his ribs.

The crowd gasped. It wasn’t a decisive blow, but it was enough to rattle him—and to show everyone that his raw power was no match for precision.

“Lucky strike,” Derren spat, backing away with a scowl. His Aura flared brighter, his frustration fueling his energy. He came at me again, this time faster, his movements erratic and fueled by anger.

I kept my breathing steady, letting my Core hum beneath the surface. While Derren funneled his Aura into his strikes haphazardly, I channeled mine with precision, reinforcing my reflexes and agility without wasting energy.

He brought his sword down in a heavy overhead slash, aiming to crush through my defenses. Instead of meeting his blade head-on, I sidestepped at the last moment, his sword smashing into the ground with a deafening clang.

“You’re wasting energy,” I said evenly, my voice low but cutting through the noise.

Derren growled, yanking his sword free and spinning into another attack. This time, I didn’t just dodge—I moved forward, closing the distance between us. My blade flashed in a controlled arc, tapping his wrist lightly before retreating.

“Focus matters more than force,” I added, loud enough for the audience to hear.

The nobles shifted uncomfortably at my words, their confidence in Derren visibly wavering. The commoners, on the other hand, began to murmur among themselves, their earlier apprehension giving way to something that felt dangerously close to hope.

Derren roared, his face red with frustration. His Aura surged wildly, crackling around his limbs as he launched into a desperate flurry of strikes. For a moment, it looked like he might overwhelm me—his sheer speed and power forcing me to retreat once more.

But then, his movements began to slow, his breathing ragged. He had burned too much Aura too quickly, and his stamina was crumbling under the strain.

“Your strength means nothing if you can’t control it,” I said, my voice calm as I stepped into his faltering attacks.

With one smooth motion, I parried his blade aside and brought mine up to his throat, stopping just short of contact. Derren froze, his chest heaving as his eyes widened in disbelief.

The sparring ground fell silent, the tension so thick it felt like the air itself had stilled.

“Yield,” I said, my voice steady but firm.

Derren’s jaw clenched, his pride warring with the reality of his defeat. After a long, tense moment, he dropped his sword to the ground, the clatter echoing in the silence.

The crowd erupted—commoners cheering loudly, their voices carrying a mixture of relief and vindication. The nobles were quieter, their whispers charged with unease as they glanced between me and their fallen champion.

I lowered my blade and stepped back, keeping my expression neutral despite the surge of satisfaction coursing through me. This wasn’t just a victory for me—it was a statement. A reminder that skill and discipline could triumph over privilege and arrogance.

Derren stumbled out of the arena, his head bowed and his shoulders stiff with humiliation. As I turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of Veylor in the crowd, his cold eyes watching me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The duel had been won, but I knew this was far from over.

**

Veylor’s Intrigue

Even before the duel had ended, I could feel Veylor’s gaze on me, like the cold prick of a blade brushing against my neck. It wasn’t just casual observation—it was predatory, calculated, and unnervingly intense. While others were caught up in the aftermath of the match, I glanced toward him, meeting his icy stare.

He stood at the edge of the sparring grounds, a faint smirk curling his lips. It wasn’t the smirk of someone who’d been entertained by a spectacle; it was the smirk of someone who was already plotting their next move.

I returned his gaze without flinching, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking away. Veylor Rithane wasn’t the type to celebrate a mere skirmish. For him, every interaction was a calculated maneuver, a chess move designed to set up something larger.

As the cheers of the commoners echoed around us, Veylor’s smirk faltered for a brief moment, his expression hardening into something far darker. He leaned toward one of his entourage—a fellow noble with a fawning demeanor—and whispered something too quiet to hear. The lackey nodded quickly, slipping away into the crowd like a shadow.

What are you planning, Veylor?

The air between us was taut, a silent war waging across the space. He tilted his head slightly, almost as if to mock me, before turning on his heel and disappearing into the throng of nobles.

Lorian nudged me, pulling me out of my thoughts. “You saw that too, didn’t you?” he asked quietly, his tone uncharacteristically serious.

“Hard to miss,” I replied, my eyes still scanning the crowd, searching for any sign of what Veylor might have just set in motion.

Lorian frowned, his usual playful demeanor replaced by a sharp focus. “He’s not one to sit still after a loss. Be careful.”

“Always,” I said, though the words felt more like a promise to myself than to him.

As the crowd began to disperse, the commoners celebrating their symbolic victory and the nobles retreating to nurse their wounded pride, I noticed subtle shifts in the atmosphere. Groups of nobles huddled together, their whispers carrying an edge of urgency. They cast sidelong glances my way, their expressions ranging from disdain to open hostility.

Veylor had planted the seeds of something—what, I couldn’t be sure yet. But it was clear that he wasn’t going to let this duel go unanswered.

Later that evening, I found myself in the training hall, running through basic sword forms to steady my mind. The rhythmic movements helped, but my thoughts kept drifting back to Veylor’s expression and the way he had left the arena.

He wasn’t just angry—he was calculating. He’d already begun setting his pieces in motion, and I had no doubt that whatever he was planning would be both subtle and ruthless.

For all his arrogance, Veylor wasn’t a fool. He didn’t rely on brute force alone like Derren. He understood the value of strategy, manipulation, and timing. And now, I had become a problem that he couldn’t ignore—a symbol of defiance that had to be dealt with.

But this wasn’t my first encounter with his kind. In my past life, I had seen nobles like him—people who thrived in the shadows, pulling strings and weaving webs to maintain their grip on power. I had fought against them before, and I’d learned one crucial lesson: the moment you became their target, the real battle began.

As I finished my last form, I steadied my breathing and wiped the sweat from my brow. Veylor’s intrigue was a storm gathering on the horizon, but I wouldn’t let it catch me unprepared.

This time, I wouldn’t just survive his schemes—I’d turn them against him.

**

Faculty’s Concern

The following days were heavy with the whispers of faculty and staff, their concern palpable in the halls of the academy. Despite the outward calm, the tension simmered beneath the surface. The incident in the sparring grounds was far from forgotten, and its consequences stretched beyond the bruises and scrapes from the fight.

I could see it in the eyes of the professors as they passed by me, their gazes laden with unspoken thoughts. Some were quick to avert their eyes, as if acknowledging the clash would make it real. Others watched me too closely, their expressions tight and unreadable. But it wasn’t just the professors—other students, both noble and commoner, seemed to act differently around me as well.

It wasn’t just the duel itself that unsettled them. It was my position now, the sudden rise from obscurity to someone worthy of notice. Veylor’s fury, the way he’d glared at me during the match, had turned into something else in the days that followed. His network of nobles, a quiet web of influence that touched nearly every corner of the academy, was now carefully observing my every move.

But it wasn’t just Veylor who had taken note. The faculty were, too. They had to be.

The instructors I had once passed in the corridors with casual indifference now seemed to linger near the doors to classrooms, eyes scanning the students as they filed in. It was subtle, but I couldn’t ignore the change. The air was thick with the weight of unspoken expectations. There were murmurs behind closed doors, brief exchanges between faculty members that I couldn’t quite catch. They were talking about me.

One afternoon, as I was heading to the student commons after a particularly grueling training session, I caught a glimpse of one of the senior instructors, Master Fennor, watching me from the corner of the hallway. His sharp eyes followed my movements, calculating, as if waiting for me to slip up.

Fennor had always been a hard-nosed instructor, his reputation for being harsh and unyielding well known. But this was different. This wasn’t just the scrutiny of a teacher preparing to grade an exam or evaluating performance—it was something more personal, something deeper.

And I wasn’t the only one feeling it. Lorian had mentioned it too, his usually lighthearted demeanor becoming unusually tense.

“You’ve noticed it, haven’t you?” Lorian had asked quietly one evening as we both sat in the dimly lit dormitory. “The way they’re looking at you. It’s like they’re trying to figure out whether you’re a threat or... something else.”

I nodded grimly. It was clear that my actions had caught the attention of the faculty, but more importantly, it had caught the attention of those who held power behind the scenes. I wasn’t naïve enough to think this wouldn’t be the case.

What worried me most wasn’t the potential for backlash from students, or even Veylor’s inevitable retaliation—it was the quiet weight of the faculty’s watchful eyes. They didn’t have to show their cards. They didn’t need to make a spectacle of their intentions. But I knew they were watching me carefully, trying to assess my value and my future potential.

This scrutiny was dangerous.

For now, I played along. I’d continue to perform in my classes, keeping a low profile where necessary, showing just enough skill to appease the faculty without making myself an obvious target. But even as I moved through the motions of daily life at the academy, I knew that the more I excelled, the more they would expect from me. I had to be careful not to attract the wrong kind of attention.

But in the back of my mind, I knew this wouldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, the tension would snap. And when it did, I would need to be prepared—not just for Veylor’s schemes, but for whatever the faculty had planned for me, too.

**

Field Training Announcement

It came as a surprise, though I should’ve expected it—field training. The announcement rang through the academy like the toll of a bell, and the weight of it settled heavily on the shoulders of every student. As the bell sounded for the start of the midday assembly, a hush fell over the courtyard. The air, previously filled with the bustle of chatter, stilled. Every pair of eyes turned toward the center of the training grounds, where Head Instructor Darius stood, his voice carrying the authority of a man who had seen battle himself.

"Field training," he announced, his tone firm and unyielding, "will begin next week. All students are to report to the southern training grounds at dawn. Prepare yourselves for rigorous exercises. No excuses, no exceptions."

The air crackled with tension as the words sank in. Field training was not something to be taken lightly. It meant weeks of grueling physical exertion, long hours spent in the harsh elements, and most importantly, the expectation of performance under pressure. This wasn’t just another classroom exercise. This was where the academy separated the truly capable from those who could barely keep up.

I had participated in similar field exercises in my past life—nothing compared to the intensity of real warfare, but enough to push students to their limits. The academy’s training grounds weren’t just meant to test our endurance and strength. They were designed to simulate real combat situations, with instructors taking on the role of adversaries, testing our ability to think, act, and survive under duress. They’d throw us into the deep end and see who could swim.

The announcement sparked murmurs among the students. The nobles, of course, were less concerned. They carried with them an air of confidence, a certainty that they would emerge unscathed, if not triumphant. For them, the academy was simply a stepping stone—a place to refine skills they had been taught since childhood.

But for the commoners? The mood was different. Field training would be a true test of our abilities, our resolve, and most of all, our survival. We didn’t have the same upbringing, the same privileges. We hadn’t been bred for combat. For us, the field training would be a harsh reminder of how far we had to go to even stand on equal footing with the nobles.

Lorian, who had been unusually quiet throughout the announcement, finally spoke up as the assembly broke and the students began to scatter.

"This is it," he muttered, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. "This is where they separate the wheat from the chaff."

I glanced at him, noting the tension in his usually playful eyes. He wasn’t wrong. There was no hiding from field training. No fake smiles, no excuses. It was where our strengths would either shine or crumble under pressure.

I had my own reservations. Field training was more than just a test of physical strength—it was a test of mental fortitude, strategy, and teamwork. The commoners, despite our shared struggles, didn’t have the same sense of unity that the nobles did. Our groups were often fractured, our alliances tenuous. I had my friends, sure—Lorian and the others—but it wasn’t enough to stand against the nobles, who had already formed their tight-knit factions. Their bonds were forged through years of shared history and privilege. Ours were still in the process of being built.

But even in the face of that reality, I couldn’t help but feel a stirring of determination. I had learned to fight before, in my past life. I knew what it took to survive when the odds were stacked against me. The question now was whether I could lead my peers, whether we could come together to face the coming challenge.

And as I turned away from the crowd, my mind began to race. Field training would push us all to our limits—but it was also the perfect opportunity. If we could rise above the divisions, if we could prove ourselves, it could shift the balance of power at the academy. If we could win here, in the eyes of the faculty, it might give us the leverage we needed to confront Veylor and his nobles.

But it wasn’t going to be easy. We’d have to be sharp. We’d have to think faster, move smarter, and, above all, we’d have to fight as one. I could already feel the weight of the responsibility on my shoulders. But I wasn’t about to back down. Not now.

“Next week,” I murmured to myself, looking out over the academy grounds as students continued to disperse. “We’ll show them what we’re made of.”

And in that moment, I knew that the stakes were higher than ever. Field training wasn’t just a test of strength—it was the first real step in forging our path forward.

**

A Cryptic Warning

As the announcement about field training echoed through the academy grounds, I felt a strange shift in the air. The usual buzz of nervous excitement among the students had been replaced by an unsettling silence. It was as if everyone could sense that something more was at play here—something beyond the grueling trials we’d face in the training grounds.

I had just turned to head back to the dorms, my mind already racing through strategies and possible training regimens, when a familiar voice called out to me.

“Illi—wait up.”

I glanced over my shoulder and saw Lorian approaching, his usual carefree grin replaced by a more serious expression than I’d ever seen on him. The sight gave me pause. He had been unnervingly quiet during the announcement, and now, his words carried a weight that didn’t match his usual playful tone.

“What's up?” I asked, my brow furrowing in concern.

Lorian’s eyes flicked around, ensuring no one else was close enough to overhear. Then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he leaned in slightly.

“There’s something you need to know about field training. It’s not what it seems.”

His words hit me like a cold splash of water, and my instincts immediately kicked in. I knew Lorian well enough to understand that he wasn’t the type to spout out baseless rumors. He was clever, and he always had an eye for details that others might miss.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, my voice low, matching his tone.

Lorian hesitated for a moment, looking down the corridor as if ensuring no one could hear us. When he spoke again, his voice was tinged with caution.

“Have you heard the rumors about the ‘extra’ tests they sometimes throw in during field training?” He paused, letting his words hang in the air like an unspoken threat. “The stuff they don’t tell us about. Some students have... disappeared, during past training. Not many, but enough for it to be strange.”

I felt my stomach tighten at his words, and a chill ran down my spine. I had heard whispers about strange occurrences in the past—students who never returned after field exercises, injuries that seemed too severe to be a mere accident, and odd accidents happening when certain groups of students were involved. But it had always been brushed aside, seen as nothing more than rumors. At least, that’s what I’d assumed.

“Disappear?” I echoed, my voice a little rougher than I intended. “You mean... like, just vanish?”

Lorian nodded solemnly, his expression grim. “Yeah. Some of the faculty are... connected to it. I don’t know all the details, but I’ve heard that some students who’ve made waves—either because of their skill or their... politics—have ended up ‘missing.’” His eyes locked with mine. “They say the instructors are more than just teachers—they’re part of a larger system, one that deals with things in ways we won’t even understand.”

The air between us seemed to grow thick, and for the first time since entering the academy, I felt a sense of true dread creeping up my spine. Field training was supposed to be just a test of physical ability and teamwork, right? But this? This wasn’t about pushing students to their limits—it was about something else. Something darker.

I swallowed, trying to push down the knot of unease that was growing in my stomach. “And you think they’ll pull something like that on us?”

“I don’t know,” Lorian said, his voice uncertain. “But after everything that’s happened since we’ve gotten here, don’t you think we should be prepared for anything? These people—Veylor, the instructors—they’ve got their own agendas, and we’re just pawns in their game.”

The weight of his words lingered in the air between us. My mind was already racing, connecting the dots between the subtle tensions at the academy, the ever-present manipulations of the nobles, and now this cryptic warning. Lorian had a point—nothing at the academy had felt entirely genuine since I first stepped foot here. There was always something beneath the surface, a layer of secrecy that everyone seemed to understand but was never spoken about openly.

I looked at him, meeting his gaze with the same determination I had when I’d made the decision to fight back against the nobles. “Thanks for telling me, Lorian. But don’t worry. We’ll make it through. We’re not here to be anyone’s pawn.”

He gave a half-smile, but there was no humor in it, just a knowing look that seemed to acknowledge the weight of what was really at stake. “Just be careful, Illiad. I’m not saying to be paranoid, but... you never know with these people.”

I nodded slowly, trying to shake off the unease that had settled in my chest. I didn’t want to believe that this place was as dangerous as it seemed to be becoming, but deep down, I knew that nothing here was as simple as it appeared. Whether it was Veylor, the instructors, or whatever dark undercurrent was influencing the academy’s operations, I had no doubt now that I had to be prepared for whatever lay ahead.

As Lorian turned and disappeared into the crowd, I stood there for a moment, my thoughts swirling. The academy had already become a battleground in many ways—but now, it seemed as though the stakes were about to rise even higher.

And I wasn’t about to let anyone, especially Veylor and his noble cohorts, dictate my future.

**

Foreshadowing Danger

I stood in the hallway, my mind racing from everything Lorian had just told me. The warning was clear, though cryptic—it felt like the calm before a storm I could neither see nor fully understand. The weight of it pressed down on me, making the air seem thicker, as though the entire academy had been holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Even with everything swirling in my mind, there was a lingering feeling that I couldn't shake, like a faint whisper just at the edge of hearing, telling me that the upcoming field training wasn't just going to be a test. It was more than that. But more than what? The rumors were unsettling, but they could have been exaggerated. This was the academy—the training ground for future soldiers, after all. It was supposed to be hard, intense, and rigorous. The disappearance of students could easily be chalked up to bad luck or accidents.

Yet, my instincts kept telling me that something was wrong.

I moved through the corridor with a sense of urgency, like I had to get to my next class or just away from this suffocating atmosphere. But my steps slowed as I turned a corner, my eyes catching a few figures who were lingering near a set of open doors. Veylor and his group stood at the end of the hall, speaking in hushed tones. As always, he exuded an air of confidence, arrogance even, that grated on my nerves. But something felt off this time—something in the way they were gathered, their posture more rigid than usual.

I could sense the undercurrents of their conversation even from a distance. There was no laughter, no casual exchange of words. Only harsh, clipped sentences that echoed in the stillness of the hallway. It wasn’t just the usual scheming or posturing. There was a level of seriousness in their tone that I hadn’t seen before.

I couldn’t help but watch as Veylor turned his head, as if sensing my gaze. His eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something darker behind them. It wasn’t just the usual disdain or arrogance. It was colder, more calculating. As if he knew something that I didn’t, and he was just waiting for the right time to strike.

The moment passed quickly, and Veylor turned back to his group, but the unease in my stomach remained. Something about his gaze made my skin crawl. It was the kind of look someone gives when they know something dangerous is coming, and they're simply biding their time.

I kept moving, my steps now feeling heavier as the tension in the air seemed to grow thicker. This wasn't just the pressure of upcoming training. This was something deeper, more sinister.

As I neared the training halls, I overheard fragments of other conversations—noble students, their voices hushed and conspiratorial, speaking of “preparation” and “consequences.” They spoke of the field training in a way that sent a chill through me. There was talk of “tests” and “eliminations,” and not just physical ones. The words were vague enough to be dismissed as idle chatter, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were preparing for something more than just a simple exercise.

As much as I tried to push these thoughts aside, they refused to leave. They clawed at the edges of my mind, gnawing at my focus, reminding me that the academy—this institution—wasn’t just a place to hone our skills. It was a battlefield of its own, where every alliance, every gesture, and every move could be a calculated step in a much larger game.

Lorian’s warning echoed through my mind once more. Disappearances, manipulation, dangerous games played in the shadows.

I couldn’t afford to ignore it anymore. There was more at stake here than just passing the training exercises. My fight, as I’d known it, was not just against the noble elites like Veylor. It was against a system that allowed their power to fester in the dark corners of the academy.

I stopped at the door of the training hall, my heart pounding, my breath steadying. I knew what I had to do. I had to stay focused, keep my wits sharp, and ensure that whatever came next didn’t catch me off guard. But more importantly, I had to keep an eye on Veylor and his group—because I was starting to realize that their “tests” weren’t just for the students’ physical strength. They were testing something else. Something darker.

A trap was being set, and I needed to be ready to step around it, before it was too late.