Flowel’s fist slammed into the vault table so hard that the wood splintered, a sharp crack echoing through the chamber. He didn’t care. He wanted it to break. Everything around him felt like it deserved to break.

  Failure. The word throbbed in his skull like a curse. A simple task—kidnap a handful of pampered students—and yet his men had managed to botch it so spectacularly that the Royal Knights themselves had been stirred from their nests.

  He stalked across the basement room, boots grinding against scattered coins and broken pieces left from old raids. His breath came in ragged bursts, half-growl, half-laugh. “Royal Knights… in the field? For what? For children?” He dragged both hands through his hair until it hurt, nails scraping his scalp raw.

  The parchment report trembled in his grip. He read the lines again, eyes twitching as though seeing them for the first time.

  Only one survivor. Others died or captured.

  Pathetic. Worthless.

  And then the insult that made his teeth grind until his jaw ached—

  Reason for failure: Royal Knights backed up fast. Two copper-class students with power equal to silver adventurers. Another student from copper class first year reported it, possibly a skill that can deliver or pass a message very fast.

  A sound tore from his throat, laughter warped into something cracked and bitter. “Children,” he muttered. “Copper. And they defeated you?!” He hurled the parchment across the room. It fluttered uselessly against the wall, mockingly intact.

  He turned, pacing fast, the basement too small for the storm boiling inside him. His boot struck a chair, sending it clattering to the stones. “Excuses. Excuses! You lost to children and dared to blame them instead of your own weakness.”

  But then—his eyes narrowed. His pacing halted.

  Two names lingered in his memory..

  Kana of Saltrain Village.

  Boris of Saltrain Village.

  His lips peeled back into a jagged grin. Not because of their strength. Not because of their victory. But because of that single thread that tied them neatly to his true prey.

  Saltrain Village.

  The same village as her.

  He staggered back to the table, rummaged through the pile of sealed files, and seized one with trembling hands. Suri’s personal details written in a parchment. He tore it open, spreading it beside the other report. His chest rose and fell in erratic heaves as he compared the details, his grin widening with every word that aligned.

  “They’re together,” he whispered. Then louder. “The same class. The same village.” His laugh cracked the silence, sharp and hollow. “Fate puts them all in the same pen for me. All of them!”

  He slammed both parchments flat against the table, pinning them there as though he could crush the names into submission.

  No more relying on weaklings. No more excuses.

  If his men couldn’t deliver, then he would. Personally.

  He leaned over the table, eyes fever-bright, voice rasping like a blade dragged over stone.

  “They think they’ve survived. But survival was a gift. My gift. And now… I’m going to take it back.”

  …

  The grand hall of the academy had never felt so full. From the timid first-years to the sharp-eyed confident fourth-years, every student was packed shoulder to shoulder, their chatter filling the vaulted chamber. Winter’s chill seeped faintly through the high windows, but it was a blessing—at least the crowd wasn’t stifling under summer heat.

  Suri stretched with a yawn, slumping between Kana and Rin. “Why did they drag us here this early? They should’ve let us sleep in. Yesterday was exhausting.”

  Rin adjusted her glasses, ever composed. “I heard it’s for an announcement. Maybe they’re going to cancel the new subject?”

  “That would be better,” Kana murmured, eyes half-lidded. “It’s too dangerous to keep sending students outside.”

  Both Rin and Suri turned toward her, unimpressed.

  Suri smirked. “Coming from you? I think you’re more dangerous than anything waiting outside, dear Kana.”

  Rin chuckled, “I agree.”

  Before Kana could reply, a sudden clapping erupted. Boris had stood, his broad hands striking together, joined quickly by the other boys around him. The noise drew everyone’s gaze forward.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  On the stage, Elle York stepped into the spotlight. Her presence alone silenced the room. Silver-haired, serene-eyed, her voice carried with the clarity of bells.

  “For those who do not know me,” she began, “I am Elle York, your Student Council President. Third year, class [Priest], of the Gold class.”

  Her calm words rippled through the hall.

  “As most of you have heard, an ambush occurred yesterday. Students on the training field—including my own class—were put in mortal danger.”

  A murmur spread, nervous and eager, but Elle raised a hand and continued.

  “Some of you wonder why the Royal Knights appeared so suddenly to protect us. The answer… is because of them.” She turned, voice rising. “The ones who foresaw the danger, who warned

  Principal Light, and who helped ensure many of you are standing here today.”

  The hall grew still, the weight of her words sinking in.

  “In short,” she said with a radiant smile, “we are here to honor our heroes. If not for their actions, yesterday’s tragedy could have been far, far worse.”

  Kana’s stomach twisted. Her instincts whispered louder than the applause swelling around her. I have a bad feeling about this.

  “Please come to the stage—Kana and Suri of Saltrain Village. First year, copper class.”

  The hall erupted in clapping. Dozens, then hundreds of hands. It was deafening.

  Suri blinked, startled, then grinned and tugged Kana up by the sleeve. “Come on. Don’t make me drag you.”

  Together, they walked toward the stage where Principal Light stood, solemn yet proud, a pair of golden badges gleaming in his hands.

  ….

  Principal Light smiled warmly as he patted their heads, handing each of them a gleaming golden badge. The hall echoed with another wave of applause.

  Elle York, radiant under the light, leaned forward playfully. “Since we’re all curious—can you share what was going through your mind back then? Or maybe even now?”

  Suri was quick to step forward, sharp as ever to seize an opening. Elle handed her a small polished box—inside it, a glowing stone thrummed faintly. When Suri spoke, her voice carried loud and clear, filling every corner of the hall.

  Kana blinked at it. That’s… strange. Something about this feels familiar. The box, the way it made voices ring louder—on the tip of her tongue was a word. Micro…phone? But what was that? Why did it feel like a memory that wasn’t hers?

  “I don’t know,” Suri said with a shrug, voice echoing overhead as though she didn’t have a care in the world. She tilted her head toward Kana. “I just listened to her.”

  The crowd chuckled softly at her easy answer.

  Kana felt her jaw tighten. Of course. She had to go first. If she’d reacted a heartbeat earlier, she wouldn’t be standing here feeling cornered. Suri’s glance over her shoulder only made it worse—half teasing, half expectant.

  The applause started to die down. All eyes shifted toward Kana.

  She stepped forward reluctantly, feeling the weight of a thousand gazes. Her silence stretched for a moment too long. She could see how her hesitation was being read—not as confusion, but as thoughtfulness. Her stillness gave her an aura she didn’t intend, as if she were carefully choosing her words.

  I don’t have a choice. I’ll do what she did.

  Kana took the box in both hands, raised her eyes, and finally spoke.

  ….

  Wor-en couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride as he watched Suri and Kana receive their golden badges. Few students in the history of the academy had ever earned such an honor. Every name etched into that legacy had gone on to carve themselves into history—heroes, generals, leaders whose stories would never be forgotten.

  And now, two first-years from some remote village were standing under the same light.

  The hall burst into laughter at Suri’s nonchalant answer during the impromptu interview. Everyone could see her dodge; it was blatant, yet somehow charming enough to earn more amusement than scorn.

  Kana, however, stepped forward with all the enthusiasm of someone being dragged. She squinted her eyes at Suri as if to say, you planned this, before reluctantly taking the small recent invention of the fourth year students—the voice-enhancing box—into her hands.

  The laughter died down.

  Students began to shift in their seats, their smiles faltering. A hush spread, one ripple at a time, until even the fidgeting first-years stilled. It wasn’t fear—at least not exactly. It was pressure. The kind that couldn’t be explained, only felt, like the calm before a storm.

  Kana’s presence wasn’t loud, but it demanded attention all the same. She didn’t need words to hold them. Her silence was a command, and every heartbeat that passed only tightened the grip she had on the hall.

  Wor-en found himself sitting straighter without meaning to. This girl—this first-year—reminded him of generals on campaign, of the King himself when he strode through council chambers. That quiet authority that bent wills without ever lifting a weapon.

  It was absurd. She wasn’t royalty. She wasn’t a commander. She was barely even a student. And yet, in that moment, Wor-en could almost see the shape of what she might one day become.

  Finally, Kana lifted the box to her lips.

  And then, finally, she spoke.

  “It’s not about us,” Kana said, her voice carrying steady, unbroken, through the box. “It’s about the person who guides us. We’re all grateful to Professor Wor-en.”

  The crowd erupted into applause.

  Wor-en froze. Him? No. That wasn’t right. He hadn’t guided them—if anything, they had carried him through that nightmare. Yet all eyes turned to him, clapping, cheering. His face heated, and he could only wave a dismissive hand, muttering a curse under his breath.

  On stage, Suri grinned like a fox and high-fived Kana. Did they already plan all of this? In that short amount of time?

  Before he could even compose himself, Kana glanced over her shoulder, her voice cutting cleanly through the noise again:

  “Will there be a coin for reward?”

  The applause faltered. Principal Light, caught completely off guard, blinked, then forced a strained smile and nodded.

  Wor-en buried his face in his palm. Moments ago, pride swelled in his chest, watching his students command the hall like veterans, watching Kana radiate the presence of someone destined for greatness.

  Gone in an instant.

  Now, he could already imagine the questions that would come later, from colleagues, from nobles, maybe even from the king himself.

  And he wouldn’t have a single answer for them.