The Academy gates stood tall and proud, glimmering under the afternoon sun, a symbol of prestige and discipline.
The students gathered near the entrance, whispering and pointing as a lone figure walked through.
There was something magnetic about him. Every step he took seemed deliberate, confident, almost regal. His piercing eyes scanned the courtyard with quiet indifference. The faint breeze caught the silver edges of his coat, revealing the crest of a dragon etched upon his chest — the mark of the Valcren.
The crowd murmured.
"Is that him… the Valcren heir?"
"He looks nothing like I imagined."
The Valcren — a name spoken with both awe and fear. A family known for their unshakable pride, unyielding strength, and their sacred vow to protect their own.
And now, standing before them, was Asher Valcren, the very man rumored to change the world.
Before the whispers could settle, a sharp voice echoed from behind.
"You must be Asher Valcren."
Asher turned slowly, his gaze meeting a young woman with emerald eyes filled with authority.
"Yes… and you are?" he asked, his tone calm, almost disinterested.
"Mira Aerthyn." Her voice was loud, proud, carrying a weight of command. "Student Council President."
She tilted her head slightly, looking down at him as if measuring the weight of his presence.
"You have business with me, President?" Asher asked, his expression unreadable.
"Yes. The Dean wishes to meet you. Follow me," she said sharply, turning on her heel with visible annoyance.
Asher followed, unbothered by her tone. Students and a few faculty members trailed behind, whispering curiously as the duo made their way through the grand marble corridors of the academy.
The Dean's office radiated an aura of history. Paintings of founding members lined the walls, their eyes seemingly watching every step.
"Welcome, Asher Von Valcren, the young Dragon." Dean Seravane's aged voice carried warmth and wisdom.
"Thank you, Dean Seravane." Asher replied with a faint, courteous smile.
"Let's get to business," the Dean began, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked toward an old painting of a man wielding a flaming sword. "I wanted to enroll you without any tests. After all, your ancestors and father contributed greatly to this academy's founding. The Valcren bloodline itself helped build these halls."
Asher leaned forward slightly, his tone curious.
"So… what's stopping you?"
The Dean sighed. "Rules and democracy. We held a vote among faculty and council. Half insisted you take the test. And," he turned with a knowing look, "the Student Council President was especially vocal about it."
Asher smirked faintly. "It seems the Student Council holds quite some power here."
"Indeed. The President is chosen through both faculty and student votes; they represent the academy's collective will."
"I see. So, what's my test?" Asher asked, resting his chin on his hand.
"There are options. You can duel a chosen opponent, demonstrate your abilities, or take a written examination crafted by the staff. The choice is yours."
Asher's lips curved into a faint, confident smile.
"I'll fight the Student Council President."
Dean Seravane chuckled softly, almost as if he had expected this.
"Very well. Prepare yourself. The duel begins in a few hours."
Asher nodded and left the room without another word.
Moments later, Mira entered. "You called for me, Dean Seravane?"
The Dean smiled knowingly. "Asher Valcren has chosen you as his opponent. Prepare yourself, Mira."
Mira's lips formed a cold smirk. "I was hoping he'd say that."
As she left, the Dean turned back to the paintings, his gaze heavy with nostalgia.
"So cruel of you, my old friends, to let history repeat itself."
A gentle knock disturbed his thoughts.
"May I enter?" a voice asked from behind the door.
"Yes, you may."
Professor Yena stepped in, her expression composed but her hands trembling slightly.
"You called for me, Dean?"
"Indeed." Seravane's eyes didn't leave the painting. "Tell me, Professor, what was in the letter you received from the Valcren household?"
Yena froze. "H-how do you—"
"Don't be alarmed." The Dean's tone softened. "I simply want to know. The letter instructed you to support Asher, didn't it?"
She hesitated, then sighed in defeat.
"No, Dean. The letter did not ask me to support him… but rather made a strange request."
The Dean turned, curious. "And that was?"
"To protect a girl named Seraphina Raymond at all costs. It warned me to ensure she never gets hurt or troubled."
The Dean frowned. "Seraphina Raymond? A low noble? That's strange. Who sent the letter? Michael? William? Or Lady Lilith?"
Yena swallowed nervously.
"It was Lord Samael himself."
The Dean's eyes widened. "Samael Valcren?"
"Yes. And the final line was terrifying. It said, 'If Seraphina Raymond is harmed, the capital will run red. Its plazas will turn to rivers, its streets soaked in blood, and none who caused it will be spared.'"
The Dean fell silent, his expression darkening. Why would the Valcren care for a low noble?
The Duel of the Decade
Another knock broke the silence.
"Dean, the test is about to begin."
Dean Seravane nodded. "Let's go. And Professor Yena, whatever you heard here remains a secret."
"Y-yes, Dean," she replied, her voice trembling.
The arena was overflowing. Every student, every teacher — all had gathered to witness what was already being called the Duel of the Decade.
Mira stood at the center of the stage, bathed in sunlight. Her battle armor, forged by the Empire's finest blacksmith, shimmered brilliantly. In her hand gleamed Crystal Edge, her family's legendary sword. Her posture was firm, confident — she was the very image of a warrior born for command.
When Asher stepped onto the stage, a hush fell over the crowd. He wore no armor, no crest, just the traditional Valcren uniform — a dark coat with silver embroidery. He looked as if he had come for a walk, not a duel.
Mira's eyes burned with fury. "How dare he look down on me like this…" she muttered under her breath.
The announcer's voice boomed through the arena.
"This duel will decide Asher Valcren's admission into the Royal Academy!
Lethal force and forbidden techniques are strictly prohibited. Begin when ready!"
Mira drew her sword in a graceful arc, its crystal blade catching the sunlight.
"Unsheathe your sword, Valcren!" she shouted.
But Asher didn't move. One hand remained in his pocket, the other hanging lazily at his side.
"Are you deaf? Draw your blade!" she snapped, her temper flaring.
Asher raised his gaze, eyes calm as still water.
"You're not worthy of my sword."
The crowd went dead silent.
Even the wind seemed to stop.
Mira's jaw tightened, her knuckles whitening around her sword hilt as the entire arena held its breath, waiting for what came next.