Principal Light sat at the rectangular long table in his office, the atmosphere was tense with deafening silence despite the number of people packed within. Professors lined both sides of the table, their robes brushing against the carved wood, their expressions grim under the pale glow of the stones fixed into the walls. The stones were temporary—rushed into service to ensure no corner of the room hid shadow. Their bluish hue gave every face a sharp, unnatural cast, as if the room were filled with specters rather than scholars.

  The week’s training field had already been suspended, the weight of the decision pressing on everyone present. Too many attacks. Too many close calls.

  Wor-en’s gravelly voice broke through. “After investigating, we found evidence that the attackers’ goal was to kidnap the students.” His tone was clipped, businesslike, but the faint twitch in his jaw betrayed his irritation.

  Murmurs stirred across the table, one professor shaking his head, another crossing her arms.

  “However,” Wor-en pressed on, “each group insists they were not working with the others. That it was coincidence—coincidence—that they all launched their attempts on the same day, at the same hour.” His lips curled in disdain at the word.

  The room grew colder as the implication settled.

  “The greatest concern is not who attacked,” Wor-en continued, his eyes narrowing. “It is how. How did they know our routes? Our timing? Every route of the students was provided by someone.”

  Principal Light didn’t move. His hands folded on the table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His eyes traveled slowly along the line of professors, one by one, cataloging every twitch, every glance, every breath too quick or too shallow.

  “We came to one conclusion,” Wor-en said at last, voice dropping like a blade. “Someone tipped them off. And that someone… is inside this very room.”

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  Principal Light inhaled, heavy. He had already been briefed, already steeled himself for this possibility. Yet looking now at the men and women who had shaped the academy, who had drilled discipline and courage into their students—he saw nothing. No crack in the mask. Every face was solid, unyielding. A handful showed anger, a few confusion, one or two amusement at the absurdity of the accusation. All were strong personalities. Some were eccentric. Others were arrogant. But none wore guilt plainly.

  If the traitor is here… they are good. Too good.

  He sighed inwardly. Looking would not give him the truth. Not yet.

  A low murmur rippled around the table, tension threatening to fray into arguments. Wor-en’s voice cut through again, sharp as his spear. “We will continue the program next week. This time with the support of the Royal Knights. They will remain unseen but will watch from a distance. The students will not be left exposed. We will also consider new suggestions that we received.”

  Principal Light rose from his chair, the scrape of wood on stone echoing like a strike of judgment. All eyes turned to him.

  “For now,” he said, voice calm yet carrying weight, “we operate under the belief that these attempts are deliberate. Someone seeks to disrupt the program. To prevent our students from advancing, from venturing north.” His gaze swept the room once more, lingering just long enough on each professor to unsettle.

  His jaw tightened. “But that will not happen.”

  The bluish glow flickered against his eyes, hardening them. Whether it was their resolve or the beginnings of doubt, no one could say.

  ..

  Kana let the shutters fall shut with a muted clack. The faint draft that had crept into the room stilled, leaving behind the soft rustle of parchment and the scratch of quill against paper. For a long moment she just stood there, palm resting against the wooden frame.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  She didn’t know what to feel. Shouldn’t there be guilt? Fear? Something. She could clearly remember the way the [Bowman] collapsed—the sound of her arrow piercing through, the sharp intake of his last breath, the way his bow slipped from his hand as if even his weapon had surrendered.

  Her hands tingled, as though they still held the string she had drawn. The release had felt too steady. Too practiced. Her aim had been instinct, not chance.

  It should have shaken her.

  Instead, it had been… natural. Too natural. The precision of her shot, the calm that steadied her fingers—it was as though her body had been guided by an old memory her mind couldn’t recall. This was supposedly her first time killing a human… yet no, some part of her was certain it wasn’t the first. Her hands clenched at her sides.

  So why can’t I remember? Who did I kill?

  She turned toward Suri, her voice lower than she meant it to be. “Do you think we’ll be able to find that painted man? He knows our faces. Probably our names too. He might come back.”

  Suri didn’t look up. She sat cross-legged on the bed, her quill scratching quick, neat strokes across the mana imbued parchment. The faint yellow light from the lamp made her red hair gleam faintly. She didn’t miss a beat before replying.

  “Great,” Suri muttered with a smirk, though her tone carried more weariness than humor. “First we have a shadow man stalking us. Now we’ve got a painted man who won’t stay dead. Lucky us.”

  Kana’s lips tightened, but Suri continued, dipping her quill again. “I can’t find him yet. My mana’s running too thin. Give me some time to recover, and then I’ll focus on tracking him.”

  The quill paused just briefly enough for Kana to notice the hesitation.

  Kana walked closer, her eyes on the parchment but not truly reading. She could see how Suri’s hand trembled slightly from fatigue. “Don’t push yourself too hard,” she said softly.

  Her tone carried more weight than she intended. Not just concern for Suri. But for herself. Because while Suri’s exhaustion was plain, Kana’s own unease ran deeper, buried under memories she couldn’t reach—memories that whispered she had loosed arrows before, perhaps not exactly arrows but she knew, killing men was as easy as breathing.

  …

  Balt didn’t know how long time had passed. Minutes? Hours? Days? It was a blur. His mind kept slipping in and out of focus, like smoke trying to hold shape.

  He sat there, slumped against broken branches, feeling the rubble of leaves and shattered trunks sliding off his shoulders. His head throbbed with every breath. He tried to reach for his [Mirror Clown] again, but it was gone and he had no idea when.

  “So… they figured it out?” he rasped to no one. His voice sounded alien to his own ears, cracked and broken. The skill had been his trump card, his safeguard. A replica of himself so real that even the sharpest of eyes and blades had been fooled. Few ever noticed. Few ever lived long enough to notice.

  And yet it had failed.

  He remembered the last moments. He dragged in a shaky breath, his chest heaving. His whole body screamed to lie down, to let the cold earth swallow him, but instinct kept him moving. Don’t stop. If you stop, you’ll never get up again.

  Lucky. That word made him bitter. Lucky to still be breathing, maybe. But luck wouldn’t last. He knew that much.

  His gaze blurred, and through half-lidded eyes he saw it—a thick mound of plants and broken trunks piled against a slope, tangled with overgrowth and bush. Clumsy, obvious cover. But to him, it looked like salvation.

  With a grunt that turned into a cough, Balt dragged himself forward. Each step was agony. His legs felt weighted with stone, his knees nearly buckling. When he finally slipped beneath the tangle of wood and greenery, the darkness there wrapped around him like a cold blanket. Hidden. Safe—for now.

  He leaned back, chest rattling as he breathed. His vision swam. He should close his eyes. Just for a moment. But no… if he did, he feared he wouldn’t open them again.

  And yet even in this wretched state, anger simmered hotter than his pain. He couldn’t let it go. He wouldn’t.

  Eventually, he gave up to drowsiness. But for some reason found himself still alive.

  “There were anomalies…” he whispered through clenched teeth. His mind flashed with images—the black-haired girl, her crimson eyes glowing like embers in the dark. The way she moved.. “That one… she wasn’t normal. Not human. And their [Spearman]…”

  He coughed again, the sound bubbling in his throat. Still, a twisted grin tugged at his lips, pulled half into a grimace by the pain.

  He knew their faces. He knew their names. And he knew where to find them. That was enough.

  “They’ll pay…” His voice cracked, dissolving into a broken laugh, half-growl, half-gasp. “All of them… will pay…”

  The sound echoed softly beneath the cover of leaves and bark—laughter mixed with the wheezing grunt of a man on the edge of collapse.