Chairs scrape against the floor as students gather their belongings. The five stronger students in the front rise as one, moving with the practiced coordination of people who've known each other for years.
The ice user—Liorra, if I remember correctly—pauses at the door, glancing back over her shoulder. Our eyes meet for a split second. Hers narrow slightly, evaluating, before she turns away and disappears into the corridor with her group.
Great. Just what I need. More people paying attention to me.
I start gathering my things—not that I have much. A standard-issue tablet, a stylus, and the campus communicator James gave me yesterday. I'm about to head for the door when Professor Vale's voice cuts through the ambient noise.
"Ardentis."
I freeze mid-step. Several students who haven't left yet turn to look, their expressions ranging from curious to smug. The girl in the yellow tactical jacket—the B-Rank one who scoffed at my wave earlier—pauses near the exit, watching with undisguised interest.
"Come with me."
No explanation. No context. Just three words delivered in that clipped, authoritative tone that doesn't invite questions.
I shoulder my bag and walk toward her. "Yes, Professor."
She doesn't wait for me to catch up, simply turns and strides out of the classroom. Her heels click against the polished floor in a steady rhythm that I struggle to match. The woman moves fast for someone who looks like she'd rather be anywhere else.
We turn into the main corridor, and I immediately feel eyes on me. Students pressed against lockers, chatting in small groups, all going quiet as Professor Vale passes. A few of them sneak curious glances my way—the new transfer student being escorted somewhere by the infamous Class 1-A instructor. I can practically hear the rumors forming in real-time.
The awkward silence stretches between us like a rubber band ready to snap. We turn into another hallway, this one emptier, the lighting slightly dimmer.
I can't take it anymore.
"Professor, where exactly are we going?"
She doesn't respond. Doesn't even acknowledge that I spoke. We pass three more doors before she finally stops in front of a reinforced steel entrance with rune-etched panels embedded along its frame. The symbols pulse faintly with dormant energy.
"Every cadet is authorized to possess their own weapon," Professor Vale says without turning around. Her reflection stares back at me from the polished metal surface. "The academy doesn't permit personal weapons brought from outside, too many potential security risks. However, we recognize that Awakeners must be trained in armed combat for their future careers."
She presses a button on the wall panel. A soft chime sounds, followed by the hiss of pressurized locks disengaging.
The door slides open.
My breath catches.
Beyond the threshold lies a vast chamber that seems to stretch impossibly far in every direction. Weapons line the walls in organized rows—swords, spears, axes, halberds, daggers, bows, staffs, and dozens of others I can't even name. Some gleam with modern alloys and enchanted edges. Others look ancient, their hilts wrapped in cracked leather, their blades etched with symbols from eras long forgotten.
Display cases hold specialized equipment: gauntlets with embedded mana crystals, chain whips that shimmer with residual energy, throwing knives arranged in perfect geometric patterns. The ceiling reaches high overhead, where racks of polearms hang like sleeping sentinels.
Professor Vale steps aside, gesturing toward the arsenal with one hand.
"You may select any weapon that suits you. It will serve as your primary armament for the duration of your enrollment at Valefort Academy."
I take a slow look around the armory, my eyes roving over every rack and display case. The sheer variety is staggering—weapons for every combat style imaginable, each one meticulously maintained and radiating latent power.
Should I stick with what I know? The longsword served me well at the orphanage, kept me alive when everything went to hell. Muscle memory already knows the weight, the balance, the way steel sings through air before biting flesh.
But maybe that's limiting myself.
I glance at the archery section—sleek recurve bows with limbs that shimmer faintly with wind enchantments, compound bows fitted with stabilizers and sights. Long-range combat. Pair that with the Eye of Space, and I could snipe targets from angles they'd never expect. Teleport in, fire an arrow, teleport out before they even register the threat.
It could work, it's something different.
My gaze drifts past crossbows and throwing axes, past weighted chains and twin daggers arranged in mirror formation. Then something catches my eye near the back wall, partially obscured by a rack of European longswords.
I move toward it without thinking, weaving between display cases.
As I get closer, the details sharpen. The weapon hangs alone on a simple wooden mount—no fanfare, no glowing enchantments, no ornate plaque declaring its lineage.
A katana.
Black steel, single-edged, slightly curved. The blade catches the ambient light in a way that makes it look almost liquid, like frozen midnight given physical form. The guard is simple iron, unadorned. The handle is wrapped in dark cord that's worn smooth from use, but not frayed. Someone carried this blade for years.
You know what? I've always wanted to use one of these.
Every anime protagonist worth their salt wielded one. Colin Williams, the college freshman who loved his manga and late-night watch sessions, would've killed for a chance like this.
Well. Colin's gone.
But Cael? Cael can make it happen.
I reach out and lift the katana from its mount. The weight settles into my palm like it was meant to be there—lighter than the longsword I'm used to, but perfectly balanced. I rotate my wrist experimentally. The blade moves like water, responding to the slightest shift in pressure.
I turn toward Professor Vale, the katana's weight comfortable in my grip. "This one. I'll take it."
Her violet eyes flick to the blade, then back to my face. One eyebrow arches slightly. "Interesting choice."
I can't tell if that's approval or skepticism. Probably both.
"If your weapon gets damaged in any way," she continues, already moving toward the exit, "take it to the Blacksmith's Hall. They handle all repairs and modifications." She pauses at the doorway, glancing back. "You'll pay with your credits, naturally."
Right. Credits. The academy's internal currency that I currently have exactly zero of.
"They also provide sword arts manual for cadets that don't have one," Vale adds, her tone neutral.
I shake my head. "Thanks, but I'm good."
The look she gives me could freeze molten steel. Her eyes narrow just a fraction, studying me like I'm a puzzle.
"Suit yourself," she says finally, turning away. "But don't waste the academy's resources with arrogance. Students who think they know everything rarely survive their second year."
Ouch.
We walk back through the corridors in silence. This time I don't try to make conversation. When we reach the intersection that leads to the dormitories, Vale stops and nods once—a clear dismissal.
"Don't be late tomorrow, Ardentis."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Professor."
She turns and walks away without another word, her heels clicking down the hallway until she disappears around a corner.
I exhale slowly and head toward the male dormitories.
The door to my room slides open with a soft hiss. I step inside and let it seal behind me, finally alone. The katana gleams in my hands, black steel reflecting the warm overhead lighting. I rotate it slowly, watching the way shadows dance along the edge.
Beautiful.
"I can't wait to use this," I murmur, running my thumb carefully along the blunt edge near the guard.
I smirk and glance around the small dorm room.
Wait.
"Odin, I can put this in my inventory, right?"
"Correct. Any non-organic object can be stored in your dimensional inventory. The space is currently limited to twelve slots, expandable through system progression."
I've never actually used the inventory feature before. Back at the orphanage, there wasn't exactly time to experiment with system mechanics between survival training and dodging cultists.
But now? Perfect opportunity.
"How do I use it?"
"Visualize the object entering your inventory. The system will respond to clear mental intent."
Simple enough.
I hold the katana horizontally across both palms and close my eyes. In my mind, I picture a void—dark, endless, empty—and imagine the blade sinking into it, disappearing into that space. I focus on the sensation of weight leaving my hands, the idea of the weapon becoming pure data.
When I open my eyes, the katana is gone.
"Whoa."
I blink at my empty hands, then mentally pull up the inventory interface. A translucent blue grid materializes before me, twelve empty boxes arranged in neat rows. The first box glows softly, displaying a miniature rotating image of the katana.
"Sweet."
I dismiss the interface with a thought. The grid vanishes as quickly as it appeared.
Okay. So I've got a weapon I can summon at will, stored in a pocket dimension tied to my soul. That's... absurdly convenient, actually.
"Inventory access time is instantaneous," Odin adds helpfully. "You can equip or store items mid-combat without delay."
"Good to know."
I drop onto the edge of my bed, running a hand through my white hair. The events of the day catch up to me all at once
My thoughts drift back to the Transcendental Swordsmanship skill sitting in my status window. It's powerful—ridiculously so—but I don't want to rely solely on blade work.
If I'm going to inherit the Warlock's power, I might as well follow in his footsteps properly right?
"I'm going to be a mage," I say i say to myself, "Sword skills are backup. My main fighting style is gonna be magic."
"A logical choice given your current Gift set and the Archive's contents. The Warlock specialized in arcane theory and all kinds of magic. Your Infinite Eyes provide synergy with those disciplines."
"Exactly."
I stand and stretch, rolling my shoulders. The room suddenly feels too small, too confining.
"Well, that wasn't a bad first day," I mutter. "Maybe I should do some training. I need to test out the Eye of Power anyway—see how it actually works in practice."
I grab the campus communicator from the desk and scroll through the map James showed me earlier. There—a training facility near the Octalis Arena, open to all students until.
Perfect. I still have a few hours until
I head for the door, adrenaline already starting to hum beneath my skin.
Time to see what I can really do.
To be continued….