The air in Kaizen Town was thick with a potent cocktail of sweat, hope, and fear. From every corner of the kingdom of Valtheria, they came—a river of youthful ambition flowing into a single, daunting delta: the gates of Shikai Academy. This was more than a school; it was the beating heart of the realm's power, a place where mastery over magic and the blade decided the fate of nations. Every year, over ten thousand hopefuls arrived, their dreams burning in their chests, only to have them extinguished by the academy's grueling two-part entrance exam.
Today, Year 753, Day 12 of the Frostmonth, was the day of the first trial. The massive courtyard before the academy's grand gates should have been a chaotic symphony of nervous chatter, frantic last-minute revisions, and the desperate prayers of commoners and low-tier nobles alike. But it wasn't.
A heavy, unnatural silence had fallen, smothering the usual din. The reason for this tense hush had a name, and he moved through the crowd like a shark through still water.
Lucien Valehart.
He was impossible to miss. His hair was a shade of light red that seemed to catch and hold the morning sun, creating a faint, almost imperceptible crimson aura that pulsed with latent power. His features were sharp and aristocratic—high cheekbones, a jawline that could cut stone, and eyes the color of molten gold that held a cold, piercing intensity, scanning the throng of students as if they were particularly uninteresting insects. He was dressed impeccably in formal noble attire, accented with sharp red stripes that mirrored the fire of his lineage. Over his heart, a silver emblem gleamed—the proud, unmistakable wolf's-head crest of House Valehart, a symbol that commanded instant obedience and fear across the continent.
His very presence was a physical weight, pressing down on everyone nearby. It was a demand, non-negotiable and absolute: Make way.
And they did.
A wave of frantic whispers rippled ahead of him, followed by a wave of terrified silence.
Student 1: (Elbowing his friend, his voice a hushed tremor) Oi... is that who I think it is?
Student 2: (Eyes wide, swallowing hard) Ya, that's gotta be him. Lucien Valehart. Can't you see that crest? By the gods, he's even more... intense than the stories say.
Student 1: To think he actually came to take the exam this year... He doesn't need to. His name alone is a pass. This is gonna be one hell of a year, I think.
People instinctively scrambled back, clearing a path as if his mere presence created an invisible, crushing force field. The crowd parted like the sea before a divine prow.
It was in this artificially created space that it happened. Lucien, his gaze fixed ahead on the academy gates with single-minded purpose, accidentally bumped shoulders with another student entering the grounds. The collision was minor, little more than a brush of fabric, a stumble of feet.
But for a Valehart, any slight, however small, was an insult. A stain on centuries of unimpeachable pride.
He immediately spun around, the motion fluid and lethally precise. His golden eyes flashed with instant, white-hot irritation, focusing on the offender.
Lucien: Watch where you're going, woman.
The words were ice-cold, dripping with condescension. Before the person—a slender figure with white hair—could even form a reaction, could open their mouth to apologize or retort, he raised his voice. The command cut through the tense silence, sharp as a blade.
Lucien: MOVE, I said!
He didn't wait for compliance. He shoved the person aside with a dismissive gesture, as one might brush away a bothersome fly. The figure stumbled back, catching themselves against the stone wall.
Lucien: (Muttering under his breath, the words dripping with contempt) So bold for a common woman. Know your place.
As he strode away, not deigning to grant the incident another thought, the white-haired student he had yelled at slowly turned their head. Their expression was not one of fear, or shame, or even anger.
It was pure, unadulterated disgust. Their blue eyes, half-lidded and utterly unimpressed, followed his retreating back with a gaze that could freeze fire.
Shiro: Who the hell does that guy think he is?