Dawn had just broken over the Aethelgard sky, leaving a skin-biting frost. However, in the dusty and abandoned outdoor training area, that cold evaporated from body heat.
I stood bare-chested in the middle of the field, sweat flooding my body, dripping from the tips of my hair onto the hard ground. In my hand, I gripped the Blood-Iron sword I had just acquired last night.
Without dipping my blood to trigger its magical resonance, this black sword was nothing more than a giant chunk of iron with an absurd weight. Swinging it purely with ordinary muscle power was torture. Every swing forced the muscle fibers in my shoulders, arms, and back to tear, screaming for rest.
Yet, I kept swinging it.
Nine hundred and eight. Nine hundred and nine.
Torn muscles would grow back thicker and stronger. If the Sanguine Core was hot lava and my body was the glass cup, then the only way to keep myself from shattering completely was to continually heat and forge this glass until it turned into a vessel of pure steel.
The sound of heavy footsteps approached. I did not need to turn my head to know who was coming. The sharp scent of Jager root preceded him.
Ragnar Holt stepped into the training area. Initially, he just leaned against a half-destroyed stone pillar, crossed his arms over his chest, and watched me while chewing his bitter root casually.
However, his keen eyes began to realize the intensity of my training. He saw how the veins in my arms bulged like tree roots, and how my breathing remained steady even though the sword in my hand could break a grown man's spine if swung carelessly.
The street fighter's pride rebelled.
Ragnar snorted softly, spitting the remains of the Jager root onto the ground. Without saying a word, he took off his uniform, threw it onto a pile of straw, and showed off his massive body covered in street fighting scars.
He walked toward a large mountain stone usually used for building foundations. With a suppressed groan, Ragnar lifted the stone onto his back, then began doing extreme squats and push-ups beside me.
We did not speak to each other. There were no good morning greetings, no small talk. Only the sound of ragged breathing and masculine grunts competing in the silence. A wordless language where neither of us wanted to be the first to stop and give up.
The sun began to crawl upward, illuminating the academy with golden light.
Just as the training area brightened, shrill laughter and crisp chatter were heard, contrasting sharply with the smell of sweat and dust in this place. From the path at the edge of the field, a group of noble female cadets from the elite class was taking a morning stroll.
They wore silk dresses layered over specially modified academy uniforms, carrying small lace umbrellas to block the sunlight. The stinging scent of rose and lavender perfume immediately ruined the morning air.
A few of them pointed at Ragnar and me, whispering, then laughing behind their hand fans as if we were a monkey spectacle in a street circus.
"Disgusting. Even this early in the morning the commoners are an eyesore," I faintly heard one of them sneer.
I ignored them, keeping my focus on the one thousand two hundredth swing. However, my gaze accidentally caught a figure walking at the very back of the group.
My steps hitched slightly, almost imperceptibly.
The girl had light brown hair tied with a blue silk ribbon. Her face was beautiful with a gentle expression that I once considered the center of my world.
Elara Sam.
The Sam family was formerly middle-class nobles who had fallen into bankruptcy. To maintain her social status at the academy and avoid my fate, Elara forced herself into the circle of the Nightbane faction, becoming a follower and "ornament" for the high-ranking noble girls.
Elara walked with her head slightly bowed, trying to laugh when the others laughed, trying hard to hide her insecurities.
As if sensing someone watching her, Elara turned toward the field.
Our eyes locked across the distance of dozens of meters.
Instantly, flashes of past memories assaulted my head. I remembered how her sweet smile used to always greet me in the academy library. I remembered our teenage promises under the old oak tree.
However, right after that sweet memory appeared, a far darker shadow overlaid it. A memory permanently imprinted behind my skull.
It rained heavily that day. My face was forcibly pressed into a cold mud puddle by Orvelis Nightbane's gold-plated boots. Blood flowed from my nose, tasting the earth. And among the crowd of nobles laughing at me that day, I saw Elara's shoes.
The girl stood there. She watched me being stepped on like an insect. She watched her lover humiliated, yet her lips were sealed tight. There was no defense or intervention. Only cowardly silence to save herself from Nightbane's wrath.
In my first life, after I was expelled from the Academy. Thrown to the battlefield. I never saw her again for ten years.
Did I hate her? I used to, yes. Did I still love her? A ridiculous question.
Ten years of sleeping with piles of corpses, enduring hunger by eating trench rats, and watching my comrades explode into shreds of meat had killed all forms of puppy love in my heart.
Now, looking at Elara's beautiful face again, I realized one absolute truth.
My heart did not pound, nor did it ache. This heart was truly empty. She was merely a stranger from an irrelevant past.
Without changing my breathing rhythm, without showing anger, longing, let alone hatred, I stared at Elara as if she were merely a dead wooden pole that happened to enter my line of sight.
My face was one hundred percent flat as I looked away, raising the Blood-Iron sword again and continuing my training. As if her existence was not even worth wasting one second of my time.
In the distance, I could see from the corner of my eye how Elara's body jerked violently.
The absence of my reaction hit her harder than any harsh curse. If I looked at her with anger, she might be able to justify her guilt. If I looked at her with longing, she might feel at ease.
But that empty stare... that stare tore through all her defenses.
Elara's face turned deathly pale. Her hands gripping the edge of her dress trembled violently. She bowed her head deeply, an expression of bitter regret covering her beauty, before she finally turned around and jogged to catch up with her group, disappearing from sight.
"One thousand two hundred and six," I mumbled softly, resuming counting the swings.
Thud!
Ragnar dropped his giant stone to the ground, making dust billow around him. His breathing was ragged. He took a rough towel, wiped his sweat-drenched face, then smirked cynically at me.
"The ex-lover who threw you away to lick Nightbane's boots, eh?" teased Ragnar in his raspy voice. His eyes radiated sharp curiosity. "Are you still going to cry over her, Kael? If your hands are trembling from a broken heart, you had better not join the forest trip."
I swung my sword one more time, cleaving the air with a heavy hum, before finally lowering it. I turned to Ragnar, looking into his eyes calmly.
"Crying over someone who chose their own safety is foolishness, Old Bear," I answered coldly. My breathing was regular, completely unaffected by his teasing. "On a real battlefield, a comrade who runs away when cornered is not someone to be cried over, but forgotten."
Ragnar fell silent, his eyebrows rising slightly hearing my military metaphor.
I stared at the black blade of my sword, rotating my wrist to stretch stiff muscles. "I do not hold a grudge because she left. That was her rational choice. But, I never forget the boot that stomped my head into the mud that day. She owes me nothing, but Orvelis Nightbane..." I smiled thinly, a smile devoid of warmth. "That blood debt is still piling up, and remains unpaid."
Hearing an answer based purely on tactical logic, without the typical melancholic whining of a teenager, the smirk on Ragnar's face slowly faded, replaced by a rare look of respect.
He snorted in satisfaction, nodding his head slowly.
"Good thinking," said Ragnar shortly. He bent down, grabbing his giant stone again. "In that case, we have to make sure your arms are strong enough to chop off Orvelis's legs before we handle anything else."
The insane physical training continued, this time with a more brutal intensity than before.
Meanwhile, as sweat and iron dominated the lower training area, a far more graceful and quiet atmosphere enveloped the upper floors of the Main Tower.
Inside the Student Senate's private room, the aroma of Earl Grey tea leaves and candied peaches filled the air. The room was decorated with beautifully carved mahogany bookshelves, silk rugs, and large stained-glass windows offering a view of the entire academy grounds.
Lysandra Morcant, the Ice Flower of Aethelgard, sat gracefully behind her desk. Her slender fingers flipped through a stack of disciplinary report parchments.
However, her focus was not on those writings. Occasionally, her gray eyes glanced toward the window, where another girl stood with her back to her.
Selena Lune.
The girl with hair as black as the night stood silently looking out the window. From her position, she had a clear vantage point toward the dusty outdoor training area in the distance.
Lysandra put down her quill, breaking the silence of the room.
"You know, this is a very strange anomaly," said Lysandra, her tone a mix of astonishment and pure curiosity. "You are someone who even rejected a tea invitation from the Crown Prince. You never care about the academy's power dynamics, let alone men."
Lysandra leaned her back against the chair. "So, tell me. What makes that outcast dog named Kael Draven so interesting in your eyes, Selena?"
Selena did not answer immediately. She kept staring at the figure of the young man swinging the giant black sword in the distance. Slowly, the corners of Selena's lips curled. A small smile formed on her face. It was a mysterious, cold smile, yet full of strange anticipation.
A smile that somehow made Lysandra feel the air in the room suddenly drop several degrees.
Selena turned around gracefully, stepping closer to Lysandra's desk. Instead of answering the question about her interest in Kael, her pale white index finger tapped gently on an official parchment sheet on the Senate President's desk.
It was the Middle Class group formation list.
"My reason is not important, Lysandra," whispered Selena, her voice as soft as a swan feather's caress yet carrying an absolute authority that could not be denied. Her crystal blue eyes stared intently at Lysandra. "What is important is... make sure the Senate approval stamp is on this paper today."
Lysandra looked down, seeing the name pointed to by Selena's index finger.
"I want to be placed into Group 4 for the Forbidden Forest Expedition next week," continued Selena, her smile widening. "I have a feeling, that forest will be a very... fun place."