Ace paused for a second. Then a slight nod.
"Lead the way," he said.
The guard turned immediately, falling into a precise pace, neither hurried nor slow. Ace followed behind, hands in his coat pockets, white hair catching the sunlight that peeked over the academy rooftops.
They passed students beginning to gather for morning lectures, many stepping aside instinctively at the sight of the white-haired noble. None dared to speak. Some tried to sneak a glance but looked away just as quickly.
Soon, they reached the outer corridor of the principal's office. The heavy wooden doors stood closed ahead, framed by two more guards standing perfectly still.
The guard who led him stopped just short of the doors, turned, and bowed again.
"He is waiting inside."
Ace looked at the doors for a moment, then walked forward without hesitation.
Inside the spacious office adorned with imperial banners and tall bookshelves lined with ancient tomes, Principal Adalf Valmor sat behind a mahogany desk, reviewing a stack of official documents. The morning sunlight filtered through the tall glass windows, casting long shadows across the room.
As the doors creaked open, Adalf looked up—and immediately rose to his feet.
"Lord Thornevale," he said with a respectful nod, placing the papers aside. "Thank you for coming."
Ace stepped inside without a word. The faint thud of his boots echoed as he approached the desk. Adalf gestured to the seat across from him.
"Please, take a seat."
Ace sat down calmly, crossing one leg over the other, his expression unreadable.
Adalf gave a warm but professional smile. "First, let me extend the academy's gratitude. Your actions in the dungeon incident likely saved many lives. We owe you thanks."
Ace gave a slow nod but didn't respond.
Clearing his throat, the principal continued, carefully choosing his words. "There is another matter. A professor—on request from the Hero himself—has proposed a cultural and political expedition. The goal is to tour the various noble territories across the empire. To study governance, structure, and gain practical understanding of our realm's workings."
Ace remained still, listening.
Adalf added gently, "So far, all noble houses have given their consent to allow brief visits—except one. The Thornevale Duchy."
He folded his hands atop the desk. "Since you are here, and given your position… I wished to respectfully ask if you would permit this expedition to include Thornevale territory."
Ace's gaze narrowed slightly.
A moment of silence followed. Then, his voice cut through the stillness, calm but cold.
"I accepted your request to meet," Ace began, "because I am a student of this academy. I assumed the discussion would pertain to academic matters."
His white eyes locked with the principal's.
"But if you sought an audience with the future Head of House Thornevale…" Ace leaned back slightly in the chair. "Then how dare you make me walk here?"
Adalf's face paled ever so slightly, the calm demeanor slipping for a heartbeat. His lips parted to speak, but no words came.
Ace stood.
"If you want a response from the head of my house," he said quietly, "send a formal letter. Through the proper channels."
He turned, cloak trailing behind him.
"I may be a student here," he said as he walked toward the door, "but don't forget my position, my authority."
"I respect teachers and only because of this, I won't pursue this matter. But there shouldn't be a next time. "
And without waiting for a reply, Ace exited the office—leaving behind a stunned principal and a silence heavy as stone.
The second-year training grounds stretched wide under the pale morning light, the air thick with the smell of churned dirt and iron from the weapon racks. At the center stood a massive iron cage—bars thick as a man's arm, reinforced with runes that shimmered faintly.
Inside, a monster paced.
It was a bear, but no ordinary one. Its hulking frame was nearly the length of a city bus, each muscle rippling under shaggy, matted fur streaked with deep gray and mud-brown. Scars crisscrossed its hide, evidence of countless battles survived. Its claws, each the size of a short sword, gouged furrows in the ground with every step. The creature's eyes glowed with a dull amber light, its breath steaming in heavy, hot gusts that carried a stench of blood and wild earth. When it growled, the deep, rumbling sound vibrated through the air, rattling the cage bars.
Around it, a group of students stood with their instructor. He gestured toward the beast with a spear, voice carrying over the restless shifting of boots and nervous murmurs.
"This is a Stonehide Grizzly," the trainer said. "A solitary specimen here, but in the wild, they rarely travel alone. Expect at least two to four in a hunting group, sometimes more during their mating season."
He paced slowly, eyes sweeping the students. "Weaknesses—its eyes, the joints between the armor-like plates of bone under the fur, and its neck when it rears. Strong points—everything else. Its bite can crush metal. Do not attempt to block its charge head-on. If you're surrounded, aim for crippling one and forcing a retreat."
He tapped the cage with the spear. The grizzly roared, slamming a paw against the bars, making the runes flare brighter. Several students flinched.
"That," the trainer said with a sharp grin, "is why you don't hesitate."
Quietly, Ace stepped into the gathered group. His presence was like a cold wind—subtle yet heavy enough to shift the air. He came to a stop beside the prince, his white hair catching the light.
The cluster of noble-born students who had been crowding the prince immediately shifted away, glancing between each other nervously. None dared to stand near Ace; it was as if an invisible boundary had formed around him.
The prince glanced at him, his lips curling into a polite, amused smile. The constant attention from the other nobles had been irritating, buzzing around him like bees—Ace's silent arrival, and the sudden space it created, was a rare and welcome relief.
Ace's gaze lingered on the Stonehide Grizzly, his expression unreadable. In the back of his mind, he recalled a passage from one of the Thornevale family's ledgers—records detailing how nearly every monster housed in the academy's training grounds had been captured and delivered by his own duchy.
Most people underestimated the difficulty. Killing a monster was one thing; bringing it in alive was another entirely. The risks, the manpower, the resources—it was a task that broke lesser houses. The royal family occasionally contributed to the academy's stock, but their captures rarely matched the size or ferocity of what the Thornevales supplied.
Dravon Lutharge, the academy's combat instructor, stepped forward and swept his gaze across the gathered students. "Today," he began, voice deep and clear, "we have some who are ranked first, and most of you are nearing it. Since there is only one monster, none of you will be allowed to use mana. You will defeat it using the weapons provided by the academy."
A ripple of surprise ran through the group, followed by murmurs of excitement.
Lutharge gestured toward the far side of the grounds, where several weapon racks stood in neat rows. Gleaming blades of good steel lined them—these weren't the dulled training swords used for sparring. Each had been forged for real battle, their edges keen enough to bite through hide and bone.
"Those will be enough," the instructor said simply.
The students wasted no time. Abandoning their own weapons, they rushed toward the racks, hands closing eagerly around the polished hilts. The clink of steel echoed as they tested the weight, their expressions a mix of thrill and anticipation.
At the trainer's nod, the cage door creaked open, heavy hinges groaning. The grizzly snarled, but a thick chain fixed to one of its massive hind legs kept it tethered to the cage's frame. It could lunge, swipe, and bite within a certain range—but not close the distance completely.
It was still enough to kill anyone careless.
The prince stepped forward, his polished boots crunching over the gravel. His voice carried clearly across the grounds, calm but firm.
"If this were the wild," he said, "there would be no comrades to shield you, no mages at your back, no instructor to intervene. Danger often comes when you are alone. So today, each of you will face this beast alone. Approach it. Test it. Strike if you can. If you find you cannot win, retreat before you're torn apart. There is no shame in surviving."
The murmurs that followed were tinged with unease. A few students tried to laugh it off, but the sound was brittle. Others gripped their swords tighter, the steel biting into their palms as if to anchor them. Even the more confident among them kept darting glances at the grizzly—its hulking frame, the way its breath steamed in the morning air, the deep rumble in its chest that was less a growl and more a warning.
The first volunteer—a boy with more eagerness than sense—stepped forward. He drew in a deep breath, raised his blade, and charged. The bear's chained leg scraped the ground as it pivoted, swiping a paw the size of a shield. The boy barely dodged, the force of the air alone knocking him off-balance. He managed a shallow cut to its flank before the beast wheeled around and slammed its weight into him. He flew back, landing hard enough to rattle his teeth. Lutharge strode forward without hesitation, hauling the boy clear before the bear could press the attack.
The next student—a girl this time—kept her distance, testing the range of the chain. She darted in for a strike, but the grizzly lunged faster than she expected, claws raking across her side. Her scream cut the air, and the instructor again moved in, pulling her away while another student wrapped an arm around her to help her stand.
One by one, they went. Some were quick and clever, managing a hit or two before retreating. Others froze entirely, their courage faltering the moment they felt the beast's killing intent. The weakest fell first—sometimes injured, sometimes just rattled beyond fighting spirit.
By the fifth or sixth attempt, the students' earlier excitement had soured into tense silence. No one wanted to admit they were afraid, but it hung over the group like a storm cloud. The bear's roars echoed across the yard, and every time its chains rattled, shoulders flinched.
Even with the chain restraining it, the monster's presence was suffocating. Its eyes glimmered with raw, predatory intelligence—this was not a mindless beast, but a hunter.
The line thinned. More students limped away clutching wounds. Lutharge had to step in three more times, each time faster than the last. The smell of blood was in the air now, sharp and metallic.
And then, there were only two left.
The prince.And Ace.