The automated system did not recognize that the letter was a flat-out rejection. To the system, the head of the Donovan House had verified Aren Rayne's identity. In her haste to cast him out, Beryl had granted him the highest level of authorization the Kingdom recognized.
[APPLICATION SUBMITTED]
Aren leaned back, the terminal's azure glow washing over his satisfied expression. Beryl had intended for him to vanish into the shadows of poverty. Instead, she had pried open the gates of the Kingdom's most prestigious academy for the very son she had tried to erase.
"Thank you for your kindness, Mother. I promise to use it well."
The moment he withdrew his finger from the command, the holographic panel flickered and went dark. Silence reclaimed the NX-Net stall, broken only by the faint hum of static brushing against his skin.
The system was still working, threading its way through the Donovan family's high-security encryption — the last tether to a lineage that had already cast him out.
The seconds stretched agonizingly slow. Then, the screen erupted in a burst of golden light. The emblem of Soren Academy materialized: a sword cleaving a heavy tome in two.
[APPLICATION STATUS: APPROVED]
Data scrolled beneath the crest in rapid, clinical lines:
LOCATION: Atocha District, Grand Council Square–South Gate Portal
TIME: Tuesday, 06:00 (two weeks from today)
PROTOCOL: Phase One–Open Field Operation
Aren exhaled as the haptic chair creaked beneath his weight. Atocha. Even the name felt jagged.
On the Holy Kingdom's western frontier, the region was nothing but a graveyard of broken basalt and dust-choked stone. Its only worth lay in the mana crystals buried beneath the soil — treasures that existed because of the relentless monster waves that swept across the wasteland.
Atocha wasn't a mere location for Soren Academy; it was a proving ground. "Open-field operation" meant exactly what it implied—no controlled environments, no safety barriers, and zero guarantees. Candidates were expected to endure, adapt, and survive.
Or disappear.
Aren exhaled a slow, measured breath.
Two weeks.
According to the Academy's metrics, he was Rank C—an unremarkable, safe mediocrity.
A useful advantage.
He brushed his thumb across the surface of his aureus bracelet. The account balance flickered to life—stable and absurdly large. It was enough to buy equipment, influence, and options; things far more reliable than raw talent alone.
There wasn't a trace of fear in him. Instead, a restless, razor-edged excitement flickered behind his eyes. For Aren, calculation wasn't a burden; it was a high-stakes game. He wasn't just planning to pass the exam—he was already wondering how to break the internal logic of the test itself, just to see what would happen.
Beryl Donovan had written that letter to erase him. Instead, her gold would become the foundation of everything that followed.
Aren stepped out of the café. The midnight air bit sharply into his lungs, cold and clean, and he welcomed the sting. As he lifted his gaze toward the horizon, there was no hope in his eyes, nor any hesitation—only the cold focus of a man who had already reached a verdict.
Everything was finally in motion.
This time, he would be the one to make the first move.
***
Thick waves of white steam billowed across the station, swirling around the passengers as the roar of the approaching train stirred the platform into motion.
The rhythmic, metallic clash of pistons echoed through the terminal, leaving a strangely refreshing resonance in the air.
As the departure call rang out, travelers gathered their luggage, moving toward the iron beast in a slow, steady stream.
Among the crowd, one figure naturally commanded attention.
Clad in a long coat over a black turtleneck and dark trousers, the young man resembled a knight stepping out of the night itself.
A small black gas lantern hung from his belt, its amber flicker a striking contrast against his obsidian attire.
Beneath dark-blue hair tipped with frost-white, his golden eyes shone—cold and piercing, like winter sunlight reflecting off ice.
His broad shoulders and the lean muscle visible beneath his layers marked him not just as well-built, but as a dangerous combatant.
Slung across his back was a long black staff, thick enough to challenge any ordinary man's strength.
Spiraling patterns and cryptic carvings covered its surface, as if it originated from a distant, forgotten cosmos.
Felix came to a halt, his indifferent gaze sweeping over the bustling crowd. He took a slow breath, welcoming the sharp, clean sting of the winter air.
Above, soft white clouds shed a gentle snow—not harsh or biting, but a light dusting that felt strangely fresh against his skin.
The train, bound for the western Atocha region through the northern Seplika Mountains, hissed in final preparation. When the boarding whistle blew, Felix stepped onto the carriage with the steady, quiet confidence of a predator.
A small black suitcase rested in his grip. As he crossed the threshold, a conductor intercepted him.
"Ticket, please."
Felix withdrew the slip from his coat and handed it over without a word. The conductor scanned the name and compartment number, then offered a quick nod.
"Confirmed. Have a pleasant journey, Mr. Felix."
Retrieving his ticket, Felix moved past him in silence. He navigated the corridor, his eyes tracking the numbers until he reached his destination.
Cabin 7, Compartment 507.
The narrow corridor stretched ahead, lined with windows on the right that blurred with the passing winter grey, while the heavy cabin doors stood like silent sentinels on the left.
504... 505... 506...
507.
Felix slid the door open and stepped inside. His attention was instantly seized by the figure lounging by the window.
The stranger wore a long white coat with a sea-green collar, its sleeves embroidered with dark blue clouds—a garment that looked as if it had been plucked from an ancient Eastern ink wash painting.
Beneath it, a marbled shirt patterned like shifting ink was cinched loosely with a white sash, layered over a black high-neck top with a silver zipper at the throat.
The stylistic mismatch was loud and entirely intentional. One glance was enough to confirm the man had no interest in the ordinary.