"Lena! Stop running, you're going to hurt yourself!"
The voice was lost amid the clatter of carriages and horses moving along the luxurious street of Danzig. The iron wheels cut through the cobblestones violently, splashing dirty water from the gutters, but the girl kept running, unfazed.
People looked away, sometimes with concern, sometimes with irritation — after all, it wasn't common to see someone so young risking themselves in the midst of the high nobility's traffic. Still, everyone immediately recognized the fine linen uniform, dyed in red and yellow, swaying as she ran: the uniform of Sigurd School.
Sigurd was not just a school. It was the forge of the elite. The place where heirs of the most powerful families were molded to rule, to think, and to win. There, each student was a rare gem. Almost all were children of great names. Almost all.
Because, on the rarest of occasions, an exception appeared — an unlikely star that escaped the mud of the outskirts to shine in the heart of the city.
And that year, after almost two decades, this star had a name: Lena Vogel.
In the narrow alleys where she was born, the news of her acceptance spread like wildfire through dry straw.
The girl who was supposed to have been just another worker in the gunpowder factories — or, at most, a craftswoman of clothes and jewelry — now wore the colors of Sigurd.
"Lena!"
shouted someone from the doorstep of a bakery. The baker, a sturdy man with a face scorched by the oven, tossed her a still-warm fresh loaf.
T"ake this for the road. Good luck, girl!"
She caught it mid-air without breaking her stride, clutching the bread to her chest like a trophy.
"Thank you, Mr. Otto!"
And she kept going, swift. The girl ran as if the city itself were a maze to be conquered. Her quick steps dodged horses and carriages with near-instinctive precision, as if she were dancing between iron wheels and heavy hooves. To the passersby, Lena wasn't just a late student — she was a vision breaking through the urban chaos with surprising lightness.
And then, suddenly, the scenery changed.
From the tight streets to the central region of Danzig, the roads widened, becoming spacious and open, the traffic thinning. It was like stepping out of a tornado into the silence of a savanna after the storm. Her heart, however, didn't slow down. Lena knew she was out of time. She pushed her legs harder, the warm air burning her lungs as her blonde hair flew like a golden flame in the wind.
Five minutes later, her eyes lit up at the sight of the golden gate. For many, it was just the entrance to a school. For her, it was the symbol of victory over all the walls that fate had erected. The metallic shine reflected the morning sun like a promise of an unreachable future — now, just meters away.
Panting, Lena crossed the final stretch under watchful gazes. The delicate perfume mixed with the sweat of her run seemed to intoxicate some of the boys watching her.
"The class leader… and, as always, just on time."
murmured one of them, between stifled laughs.
She pushed open the door to the oval hall, still with her backpack on her shoulders. The teacher, with his back turned, was writing on the board. He didn't even need to turn around to recognize her steps.
"Miss Lena Vogel"
his voice was firm, but with a slight tone of irony.
"This time, you're on time. Take your seat, quickly."
Lena walked down the narrow aisle between the desks, feeling the stares upon her like invisible arrows. She sat in the second row, where Frida, her friend, was already waiting with a complicit smile.
"You really need to start waking up earlier."
Frida whispered.
Lena sighed, setting her backpack on the floor.
"Sorry… I had to help my mom. Ended up going to bed really late."
She didn't go into detail. It wasn't worth it. Those classmates would never understand. Their schedules were set by tutors, their uniforms pressed by staff, their meals prepared by servants and chefs. For Lena, every morning was a battle. For them, a routine without obstacles.
And yet, there she was. Sitting in the same row, wearing the same colors.
Hans adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose and, with a brief smile, tried to break the tension forming in the room.
"As you know, this semester we'll have an additional class with me: History."
"Don't expect just dates and names — I want you, by the end, to be able to understand the past, the present… and even try to glimpse the future of our glorious Empire."
He gestured in an exaggerated, cheerful manner.
Soft chuckles echoed, and the tension eased a little.
Hans continued:
"I'll ask you to read the books I'll add to your portfolios this week. But before we dive into the texts listed there, I want to talk to you about something special."
Everyone's curiosity seemed to ignite something in their youth, awakening what was most pure in them: the thirst for knowledge.
"Can anyone tell me something about the northern barbarians?"
The question caught everyone in the room by surprise. After all, the Empire rarely deigned to speak of anything that didn't involve its own glories and achievements.
Hans, however, was not an ordinary person. To everyone there, he had always seemed somewhat… apart from the Empire. Curious, critical, and always interested in what lay beyond the imperial borders.
"The... northern barbarians are the people who fled and hid in the frozen region, north of the Empire..."
The speaker was a shy girl, with deep-set glasses and barely transparent lenses. She looked nervous — speaking in a full classroom was a challenge in itself. Even so, she dared to share what she knew.
"Very good, Miss Emília.
I would just like to point out that although the Empire did indeed win the conflict and forced them back to their original territory, we were never able to invade that region."
Hans knew the weight of his words. Sometimes, it was necessary to challenge certain ideological "truths" that had been relentlessly imposed by the Empire.
After all, the Empire hadn't always won.
In fact, Hans knew by heart how many times the Empire had been defeated or, at the very least, held back. This, of course, didn't make it weak. Quite the opposite. The truth was that all peoples — including the Empire itself — had uniquely adapted to their own territory, which always made total conquest by any nation difficult.
The difference between the others and the Empire had a name: Winged Ones. Without them, the Empire likely would never have expanded so far.
As he pondered how to deconstruct the mistaken concepts repeated by imperial propaganda, another student spoke up:
"My father said they... tame giant bears."
Hans was surprised. That was a rare piece of information — and not widely circulated.
The Empire was refined in manipulating, omitting, or altering facts about what existed beyond its borders. Seeing a student acknowledge that the northern peoples possessed a real advantage was, at the very least, surprising.
"Very good, Hannah. You are absolutely right.
In fact, they are one of the few peoples of our race who managed to form a perfect symbiosis with the most powerful dungeon in their territory."
Hans knew he was being modest — almost excessively so. He was still an imperial teacher, after all.
But by saying that the northern people had created a symbiosis with a dungeon, he avoided revealing a much more uncomfortable truth:
That dungeon was not ordinary.
It was an S-level dungeon — one of the few in the entire known world.
And that supposed perfect symbiosis? He also chose not to go into detail.
Because that was something exclusive to the northerners.
In fact, any other people had, at most, achieved something similar only through forced submission or artificial breeding outside of dungeons — stealing eggs or younglings.
While the Empire had chosen to seal its own entrance, the "barbarians" of the North had mastered it and incorporated it into their culture in such a unique and fascinating way that, even after years, it still made him wonder how it was possible.
"Professor Hans… have you ever been there?"
The question came from Lena, visibly surprised by her teacher's knowledge. What he said was something she had always suspected, but had never found in any book — and that, in itself, was strange and fascinating.
Hearing someone speak positively about peoples the Empire usually only scorned was rare. Even in that school, only Hans seemed to allow himself to give credit to others.
Hans was caught off guard by the question, and for a brief moment, seemed to hesitate.
Fortunately, another voice rose, diverting the class's attention:
"And what good are their little teddy bears...? We've got the Winged Ones. When I get mine, I'll go over there and piss on those bears."
Laughter filled the room. The comment, said with an air of superiority, wasn't surprising. That kind of arrogance was standard among the Empire's youth — raised to believe that only absolute power deserved respect.
And in that regard, the Empire was unmatched.
Hans, however, remained impassive.
"Very well, Max. Now, allow me to return the favor with a question..."
He leaned slightly toward the desk, arms crossed.
"If you climb the mountain in search of the Egg and fail... what happens to you?"
Max found the question odd. The answer seemed obvious.
"Well… I climb again the next year. After all, we have two more years to try... right?"
His voice came out uncertain. It seemed too easy, as if there were a trick hidden in the question. Still, seeing his classmates nodding in agreement made him feel more confident, and he puffed out his chest.
"Perfect, Max. Great answer.
But... what if, instead of getting another chance, you were swallowed alive by the creature that refused to give you the Egg?
Would you still climb?"
The question caught everyone by surprise. After all, the answer now seemed equally obvious: without a guarantee of success, it wouldn't be worth it — at least, not under normal conditions.
"Complicated, isn't it?"
said Hans, watching as the class fell silent.
"Well, know this: everyone in the North goes through a ritual inside their dungeon, which they call Vybor.
And if they are not chosen... they are killed by the bears themselves."
The revelation made the room hold its breath.
It sounded like madness. What kind of people would let their youth die for something like that?
"The word "barbarian," in their case, comes precisely from this eccentric — and unique — custom they practice. But aside from this unbridled madness... they're just like us. Only more... courageous."
Another smile from Hans closed the discussion, leaving Max visibly unsettled.
Now, he no longer knew whether he had the right to look down on a people who faced death head-on, while the Empire offered second chances.
Many in the room were children of wealthy families — whose parents, in their youth, had failed to obtain a Winged One, but lived to try again.
If they were still alive, it was because the Empire forgives.
In the North, on the other hand, failure costs blood.
"Very well"
Hans resumed, a mysterious glint in his eyes.
"I think I've piqued your curiosity. Let's get to what matters."
He paused, clearing his throat.
"I must apologize… my mana reserves aren't the best — after all, I'm just a scholar. Luckily, we have someone here who can help me. Miss Lena, come to the front."
A murmur passed through the class. Lena had been expecting this — being the class representative meant, among other things, taking on certain extra responsibilities. She sighed, discreetly wiped the sweat from her forehead, and stood up.
"Of course, Professor Hans."
She walked up to him. The teacher placed a crystal sphere in her hands, heavy despite its size.
"Please, Lena. Channel your mana into the image crystal and aim it at the board."
Her heart raced. But there was no turning back now. Lena closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and focused. She felt the heat rise from her chest to her arm until it finally ignited the palm of her hand. When she touched the crystal to the board, the magic reacted.
And then, the room gasped.
A vivid image appeared: a snowy field, surrounded by mountains rising like ancestral walls. The landscape stretched out in detail before them all.
"Gentlemen, anyone care to guess what we're seeing?"
asked Hans, folding his hands behind his back.
Silence lingered. Then Lena herself, still straining to maintain the mana flow, answered:
"Isn't it the Gargantua Strait?"
The teacher smiled.
"Exactly. Very good, Lena."
The children leaned forward, gripped by curiosity.
"And those tents in the distance?"
Hans prompted.
This time, the answer was unanimous, almost shouted:
"The northern barbarians!"
Hans clapped his hands, pleased.
"Perfect. So you're already immersed in the context. What I'm going to show you now is… extraordinary. Pay attention."
Lena kept the crystal steady in her hands, her fingers already numb from the effort of maintaining a constant mana flow. The image that bloomed on the board was vivid enough to make the whole class hold their breath.
On the snowy horizon appeared a near-mythical sight:
A colossal bear, white as polished ivory, but streaked with golden veins that shimmered like rivers of lava beneath the ice. Each step of the creature seemed to shake the earth; its sheer presence radiated an aura of both dread and reverence. It was beautiful. Terrible and beautiful.
On its back, an old man — but still as straight as a spear.
The armor he wore had once been golden, now stained by time and corroded by blood the metal seemed to have absorbed. Even so, it still gleamed in places, as if struggling not to die along with the body it clad. In his hands, an immense halberd, absurd in proportion.
"That must weigh a hundred kilos…"
murmured someone, barely realizing they'd spoken aloud.
But the old man didn't waver.
He carried the weapon with ease, as if it were part of him.
Beside him walked another figure — a giant.
His body bent the horizon itself. And, ironically, what hung at his waist was just a short sword, ridiculously small for his stature. The scene looked like a cruel joke: if the two swapped weapons, it would make much more sense. But no. They marched side by side, each carrying the weapon they seemed born to wield.
They moved calmly toward the center of the plain.
The ground was not white like the rest of the snow. It was red.
A wet, vivid red that gleamed in the light like blood-stained mirrors.
Blood.
So much blood that the entire field looked like a coagulated sea.
No student dared laugh.
No one dared speak.
They knew what they were seeing: it wasn't just a battle scene. It was a living scar of history.
Professor Hans, standing motionless beside Lena, let the silence stretch for a few seconds. Then, in a low voice, heavy with something between respect and fear, he murmured:
"Gentlemen… commit this vision to memory. Not everyone has the right to look upon such figures and remain alive."
"Look at the size of that white bear…"
one student whispered, barely breathing.
Hans raised his hand, signaling for calm:
"Relax, children. Most White Armoreds don't come close to that size. What you're seeing is something rare… they're called Deviants."
The word fell heavily in the room.
"Technically, it's a congenital mutation in the species they tame. Most of these deviations are born useless, fragile, or unstable… but sometimes, the best ones carry this trait. And that's when everything changes."
Hans pointed to the colossus projected in the image, its golden veins shimmering over the white fur like rivers of fire beneath the snow.
"This one, in particular, is a Deviant named Stribog, and the man riding him is Pavel Morozov. Pavel isn't just a regular tamer… He was the general of the region where the northern army is entrenched — many of ours fell to his halberd."
A shiver ran through the classroom. Reading about the barbarians in yellowed pages or hearing them sung by bards was one thing; seeing them, even through magic, was something else entirely. The force that emanated from those two — the bear and the old man in corroded armor — seemed to pierce through the illusion itself. It was impossible to measure, but easy to feel: a crushing weight the heart refused to bear.
Lena, mesmerized, kept the mana flowing into the crystal, cold sweat dripping down her nape. Her eyes didn't blink. Every detail was etched into her mind like a brand of fire.
Hans cleared his throat, breaking the suffocating silence:
"Very well, everyone. Now, I want you to pay attention to the other side. To whom they are about to fight. That will help you understand why I chose to show you this."
The image trembled slightly, then shifted, focusing on the opposite horizon.
And the shock was immediate.
Mouths opened silently, eyes widened in disbelief. No explanation was needed. They recognized it the moment the figure appeared, outlined against the endless white.
They knew exactly who was coming from the Empire's side.
Hans watched in silence, and what he saw wasn't just surprise — it was pain.
The students' expressions twisted as if a red-hot iron had passed through them. The metallic, bitter taste seemed to dry everyone's throats, leaving behind only a suffocating emptiness.
No one needed to ask, no one dared to speak. The image projected said everything.
Then Hans broke the silence. His voice was no longer didactic or calm. It was heavy, dragging, as if spitting out a sentence too bitter to swallow.
"Traitors."
The word fell like a blade — cold and precise — cutting through the air in the classroom.
There was no other definition.
No justification, no poetry to soften it.
Those who now marched in chains at the Empire's side had once been children of the same land. Blood of the same blood. Raised under the same sunlit sky and nourished by the same bitter culture.
Over time, however, they had become the shadow that wounded their own people, turning into sharp blades against the land that bore them. Traitors. And for that crime, there was no absolution. Only confinement to an endless war — condemned to fight to the death against the North.
The crystal in Lena's hands faltered. Her mana wavered, as if she herself wanted to reject that unbearable reality. Her fingers tingled, her eyes burned, but the image remained — firm, cruel, inescapable.
And for the first time in her life, Lena felt her heart cry out in silence for a simple, pure — and relentless — wish:
"That the men of the North would massacre them."