It had been another long, tiring day for Asha and Opel.

  Asha worked in the Central District, using her cold-type magic to help preserve meat for local shopkeepers. Several butchers relied on her to keep their unsold stock from rotting in the summer heat. Opel, meanwhile, worked as a helper at one of the busier inns, running food between kitchens and guests, scrubbing pans, keeping the fires steady.

  Their modest home sat in the commoner’s district—a simple place they had rented after moving to the capital. They weren’t born here. Life in the city was expensive and chaotic, but they came anyway, all because of one thing.

  Their daughter.

  When Yuri was accepted into the Academy, everything changed. She had shown real promise with her support magic—unique, helpful, quick-thinking. And when she got accepted into Gold Class, it only confirmed what they already believed: she had potential. Potential worth sacrificing for.

  Asha grunted as she collapsed into a chair, her joints creaking in protest. Opel stood by the stove, stirring stew and humming under his breath. She glanced at the table, raising an eyebrow.

  “You made too much food,” she said.

  “Weekends. Dear.”

  Asha blinked, then groaned. “Ah, right. Lost track again.”

  Weekends were their only chance to spend time with Yuri. Their daughter could only come home once a week—the Academy dorms were strict, and their house wasn’t close.

  She leaned back, rubbing her temples. “I can’t stop thinking about those three. The ones from the dungeon.”

  Opel looked up, puzzled. “Which three?”

  “Kana. And the two with her.”

  Opel scratched his head. “Maybe they’re from some private noble family? Or northern-born?”

  Asha frowned. “Northern kids are pale. Kana’s skin isn’t—”

  Before she could finish her thought, the door creaked open. A young girl stepped in, face flushed from the evening walk. Asha smiled. Her daughter looked almost exactly like her—same posture, same nose, same stubborn spark in her gaze. The only real difference was Yuri’s rounder cheeks, and Asha’s growing wrinkles and sunken eyes from sleepless nights.

  Yuri kicked off her boots and wandered into the kitchen. “Did I hear you mention Kana?”

  Asha narrowed her eyes. “You know her?”

  Yuri dropped into a chair. “Of course I do. She’s kind of famous—even as a Copper student. Especially with the boys. She and her friend, Suri? They’re considered the prettiest in our year. There are also weird things about Kana, they said she brought a child from a slum district to have it healed by Lady Elle. Why would she do that?”

  Asha and Opel exchanged glances.

  Asha’s breath caught for a moment. The description matched perfectly—black hair, red eyes, that unsettling calm. It was her. Kana.

  She leaned back, arms crossed, her mind racing. There was no mistaking it. That girl had been in the dungeon with them—silent, efficient, dangerous. And yet, she was just a Copper Class student?

  Why?

  Why would someone like that—those kids—be placed so low?

  She didn’t mention anything to Yuri about their encounter underground. That part of their lives was buried beneath too many risks. What happened in the underground district was meant to stay there.

  Still, Asha couldn’t shake the feeling. Something was off about those three. Power that shouldn’t be hidden... unless someone wanted it hidden.

  “Sweetheart,” she said carefully, “If you ever see that Kana girl again—her or her friends—keep an eye on them, will you? Just... whenever you have time. Let me know about their stories.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Yuri frowned. “Why? They’re just Copper students. There are some wild rumours that they are strong and someone is sponsoring them but why are they in the copper class?”

  “Just curious,” Asha said with a tight smile.

  She was just simply curious.

  …..

  Yuri had been watching the trio for days now. Envy and jealousy—those were the two words that clung to her every time she saw them.

  They overslept. Constantly.

  Their classroom felt less like a place of study and more like a lounge. Some students played cards. Others slept. A few boys wandered in and out like it was a tavern. And Professor Wor-en? The strictest instructor in the academy didn’t even bat an eye when he visited. He’d glance over the room like he was inspecting a garden and walk away, unconcerned.

  It wasn’t just the attitude. It was the structure.

  They were enrolled in more classes—twelve, compared to them, three was enough. Yet they were only required to attend once a week. Meanwhile, students in the upper classes like her were buried in requirements, training schedules, etiquette reviews… and for what? Shouldn’t the academy be pushing them—the struggling students—harder to improve?

  Unfair.

  Yuri was proud to be the only commoner in the Gold Class for this year. No noble blood. No fancy last name. Just her and her hard work. She thought all students were pushed to their limits, but clearly the Copper Class was a different world. According to records, most of them didn’t even make it past the first year.

  Did the Academy leave them because it will probably be their last year?

  She peeked into their classroom again. Kana’s eyes met hers.

  Caught.

  Yuri sighed, pulling back. They probably thought she was some kind of weirdo now. She clenched her jaw. Let them think what they want.

  Still… there was one thing she couldn’t understand.

  Why had her mother—of all people—wanted her to join them for the annual tournament?

  Would they even bother to participate?

  And if they did…

  Would they even win a single match?

  …..

  Suri stood alone at the finish line, arms crossed as the breeze teased at the edge of her uniform. Physical Enhancement I. A class meant to drill stamina and breathing control into every student. It was exhausting. Pointless, in her opinion. But necessary.

  Kana and Boris weren’t here today—different schedule. Late enrollment. If they were, they’d have lapped the rest of the class twice over by now.

  A few minutes passed before silhouettes finally emerged in the distance—students stumbling toward the line, gasping, drenched in sweat. Suri didn’t bother clapping. She simply watched, eyes narrowed.

  Andel, the Lancer, was one of the last to arrive. He bent over, hands on his knees, lungs working like broken bellows.

  Suri stepped forward, her shadow falling over him.

  “You’re too weak,” she said flatly.

  Andel blinked and straightened, confused. “What?”

  She exhaled, long and dramatic. “Ask Kana. About your class. Your class is more incredible than you thought. Everyone in copper class is.”

  Then she turned and walked away, leaving Andel standing in confusion.

  …..

  Boris moved with discipline, each thrust of his spear a reflection of Professor Fin’s instruction. The man was a master—an expert whose eye missed nothing. Every misstep, every fraction of a second in lost momentum, every misplaced weight transfer—Fin would correct it immediately.

  Except Boris.

  Not once had the professor corrected his form. And that… unsettled him.

  He had his share of battle experience—raids, ambushes, blood, and bruises—but even then, Boris couldn’t imagine winning in a real fight against Professor Fin. Not even Kana. Not even the shadow man. There was something about Professor Fin. Something dangerous.

  Two hours passed.

  Two long hours of the same movement. Over and over. A single thrust. Repeated like a mantra. Until his arms screamed and his shoulders ached. His fellow students faltered one by one, forms breaking down, stances wobbling. Still, Boris pushed forward, his expression calm, controlled.

  “Ha!”

  “Ha!”

  “Enough for today,” Fin’s voice cut through the air.

  Almost everyone collapsed to the ground. All except Boris and the other Gold class student—the one who always seemed to look at him like a rival. That look still lingered, half-exhausted and defiant.

  Fin stepped forward, expression unreadable. “Congratulations. You’ve completed one thousand thrusts.”

  Murmurs of relief rippled through the students. But Fin didn’t stop there.

  “That final stroke you just did?” he said, sweeping his gaze across them, “It’s not the same as your first.”

  He let that settle. Some groaned. One cursed under his breath.

  “Our next upcoming training sessions will fix that,” Fin continued, voice deep. “Because your thousandth strike must be exactly like the first. No sloppiness. No loss of form. If you cannot do one motion a thousand times perfectly, you will fail my class.”

  Another pause. Students had a worried look, murmuring about their other plans.

  Then he added, “If you can execute a thousand perfect strikes… then you won’t fear a hundred enemies.”

  Something in Boris stirred.

  That idea—that kind of mastery—set fire to his blood. Not fearing the number of enemies. That was it. That was the path. Not just to fight, not just to win, but to stand against a tide and remain unshaken.