It was supposed to be a day like any other.
The bells of Rolando Military Academy rolled across the marble courtyards, calling the kingdom's elite dragon tamers to morning drills. Grand and exacting, the academy was a place where bloodlines measured worth and dragons decided fate. Gold and discipline gleamed everywhere—the pride of the realm.
Then the morning changed.
First, the wind stilled. Voices thinned. Something in the air tightened, like a held breath. A black car — sleek, polished, and humming with silent menace — glided through the gates as if it owned the place.
Guards snapped to attention. Students froze mid-practice. Water arcs caught in the air and hung. Flames guttered and died.
One question spread through the courtyard like lightning: Who dares arrive in a car like that?
No ministerial visit had been announced. No summons had been sent. And yet the vehicle threaded through the marble and stopped as if by right. The courtyard fell into a suspended silence.
Two men stepped out first — tall in black suits, gold rings flashing, faces masked behind dark lenses. Their steps were precise, practiced. Someone murmured, "Bodyguards."
But the deeper hush came when the back door opened.
A boy emerged. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. Raven hair. A suit trimmed in crimson. His eyes carried arrogance and the exhaustion of someone who had seen too much. Even the breeze seemed to hesitate around him.
Girls forgot to breathe.
"He's… gorgeous," one whispered. "What's someone like that doing here?" another asked, distractedly searching for lipstick.
A makeup kit clattered somewhere to the side as a girl bolted for the restrooms. Across the courtyard, a pale-haired girl with distant eyes looked up and locked onto him. For a heartbeat their gazes met. Something older than either of them stirred and answered.
Then a hand jerked her face away.
"Don't tell me you've fallen for that raven-haired scum," a boy hissed in her ear. "After everything I did for you… snake!" His voice was sharp, full of accusation.
She said nothing. Still, she turned her head back toward the stranger.
His name was Kyle Hunt — or at least that was the face he wore. Inside, Arthur smoldered.
A cold voice shattered the murmurs. "Welcome to your grave," said a woman in a tailored coat; her heels clicked like gunshots against stone.
It was Aunt Marie. Her crimson lips curved into a faint smile; her eyes were knives.
"Follow me. The Headmaster's waiting."
Arthur said nothing. He adjusted the collar of the suit and walked through the grand gates behind her.
The academy's beauty felt uncanny for a place that trained killers: white walls etched with dragon engravings, pathways of silverstone, flowers stubbornly blooming under military order. Everywhere Arthur looked, people wore identical golden watches — teachers, cadets, guards — a uniform gleam on every wrist.
Branding, perhaps. Or tracking. Back when I ruled a kingdom, he thought, I didn't need gadgets to test loyalty.
He let a small, bitter smirk ghost across his face. If I get out of this body, I'll rebuild an empire — drones, power… and no more snakes in perfume. He chuckled to himself, unaware that Marie had already disappeared inside the Headmaster's hall.
She returned with an expression harder than before. "You'll stay under your uncle Demos Hunt's supervision," she said, each word measured. "If we meet again, either you'll be dead or rotting in a cell."
Arthur's hands clenched. They blamed him for Kalimantan's death, for crimes he swore he didn't commit. Even trapped in another's face, their tongues spat his name as they always had in his kingdom. He said nothing — silence was a safer currency — and Marie smiled because silence was victory. Then her heels faded down the marble hall like a verdict.
Ozacus said Kyle was innocent, he thought. Not me. Not Kyle.
A new voice rolled out of the Headmaster's study: "Seems you've arrived." The Headmaster was all sharp angles and calm command. Before Arthur could answer, two instructors approached.
"New recruit," one said curtly. "Assessment first."
They walked him along a flower-lined stone path to a building where soldiers in matching uniforms and gold rings stood like carved figures. Inside, the teachers led him into a chamber dominated by a humming machine that looked disturbingly like an MRI.
"State your name," the woman at the console said.
Without thinking: "Arthur— I mean, Kyle Hunt."
She snorted a short laugh. "Noble boy already lost his name?"
Embarrassed, he apologized. She told him to remove his ring and change into thin assessment clothes. Moments later he lay inside the humming coil, lights playing across his face.
When the test ended he dressed again and faced the woman. Her easy expression had gone flat.
"You're… quite unlucky," she said. "No bloodline ability. And your dragon—support type. Regenerative only."
Arthur blinked. "Meaning?"
"No combat functions," she said. "You won't be allowed to wield dragon weapons until your second year."
She tossed him a watch — golden, engraved with Rolando's crest. He turned it over: no buttons, no seams, just a smooth face. Clearly technology masquerading as jewelry.
"What are you waiting for?" she asked, then reached for his wrist and fastened the device herself. Up close, he noticed, she was almost his age. Her face warmed in a way that surprised them both.
The watch blinked to life: 4,000. "Not bad," she said. "Four thousand mana points — just a bit below mine." She tapped her own watch. 4,500.
"I'm your instructor for a reason," she added with a teasing flick of superiority. "Since your dragon heals rather than fights, pick a battle and you'll just end up patching yourself back up. Useful sometimes, but useless in a brawl."
She double-tapped the face and the display shifted to read: 200 Days. "Days are currency here," she explained. "Lose them and you're expelled. You spend them on food, access, training—everything. Every morning you'll receive ten days. Use them wisely."
Her tone turned almost conspiratorial. "Honestly? I doubt you'll last a week. No ability, no combat dragon…" She shrugged, then stepped forward with sudden boldness and hugged him.
Arthur froze, the world narrowing to the warm press of her coat and the faint scent of lilac. "At least I got my hug before you're kicked out," she whispered against his ear, then stepped back and smirked over her shoulder. "Good luck, handsome."
Alone in the silent chamber, the golden watch pulsed faintly against his skin. No bloodline. No combat dragon. No allies. And more than a few people already wanted him dead.
He caught his reflection in the black glass — Kyle's face staring back at him like a mask.
Then Arthur smiled, slow and dangerous. "Let them try," he whispered. "If this academy is my grave…"
A shadow passed through his crimson eyes.
"…then I'll bury them with me."