The dream always started the same way.
His knuckles. The cold floor. The boy beneath him.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
He didn't remember deciding to start. Only the first hit—and then the dull thud of each one that followed. The pain in his hands that was somehow never enough.
And Yui's voice.
"Stop. Please. Stop."
Arlen woke.
The bells hadn't rung yet.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling.
This dream again.
He waited in silence until the bells finally rang. Then he got up, dressed, and stepped out.
The dining hall was half empty at that hour.
Arlen spotted Nira and Sora from the entrance. He walked over and sat across from them.
Sora didn't look tired.
He looked defeated before the day had even started.
"What's with the face?" Arlen asked.
"I wish it was Friday again." Sora rested his cheek on one hand. "I need more sleep."
Nira glanced at him.
"You slept all day yesterday. You didn't even eat."
"That was necessary sleep. And twelve hours isn't that much."
"That's basically the whole day."
"It's recovery." Sora stared at his oatmeal. "My body needed it."
"Your body asks for things you shouldn't give it."
Sora looked at her.
"Was that an insult?"
"An observation."
Arlen ate in silence. His eyes moved across the room.
"Have you seen Min-jae?"
Nira shook her head.
"Hasn't shown up in days."
Sora lifted his head, something real flickering in his expression.
"Think he's okay?"
"Min-jae is always okay," Nira said.
"That's exactly what someone says when they don't know."
Arlen glanced at his schedule.
"He'll show up."
Sora didn't look convinced, but he let it go. He pulled out his own schedule, unfolded it, stared at it—then folded it back like he wished he hadn't.
"Magic theory." He sighed. "I need more than twelve hours to survive that."
"And you?" he asked, looking between Arlen and Nira.
"Swordsmanship and strategy," Arlen said.
"Swordsmanship and conditioning," Nira said.
Sora looked at both of them.
"That's it?"
"Yeah."
"Good." He stood, tray in hand. "I'm getting moving. See you at dinner."
Arlen and Nira nodded as he left.
They stayed a little longer.
The hall slowly emptied. Students getting up, leaving. The noise fading into something close to stillness.
Nira set her cup down.
"Let's go."
Arlen nodded.
The path to the training field cut through the Academy's inner courtyard.
The morning light was still low. Gray. Cold clinging to the stone underfoot.
Arlen walked beside Nira without speaking.
She didn't either.
When they reached the field, only a few people were there.
Some transported he recognized but had never spoken to. A couple of natives stretching near the weapon rack.
And Dae-hyun.
Standing off to the side. Arms crossed. Looking at the ground.
He didn't look up when they arrived.
Nira glanced at him. Then at Arlen.
"Does it bother you?"
Arlen shook his head.
"No."
She didn't push.
More students arrived. The field filled slowly, voices low, not fully awake yet.
Kaedor appeared without a sound.
He didn't greet them. Didn't wait for silence.
He just started.
The class was practical from the first minute.
Pairs. Attack. Defense. Attack. No long breaks.
Arlen and Nira paired again.
She was faster—finding openings before he could close them.
He lasted longer—absorbing hits, staying on his feet when she expected him to fold.
He took the worst of it.
Bruises already forming along his ribs and forearm.
Nira wasn't untouched either. Small cuts on her hands. A hit to her left forearm that forced her to adjust her grip.
Near the end of class, Kaedor raised his hand.
Everyone stopped.
He walked to the center. Looked at them.
"Most of you will die in your first real fight," he said. "Not because you're weak. Because you'll look for the fight instead of looking for the win."
No one spoke.
"The sword doesn't decide fights. The situation does. If you arrive prepared, you've already won half before you even lift it. If you arrive trusting your strength, you've already lost half before lifting it."
His gaze moved across them. Slow. Unhurried.
"I lost this—" he lifted the empty sleeve slightly "—because I thought I could win."
He adjusted it.
"I won the fight. But I walked in without knowing what I was facing. That ignorance had a cost."
He said it like a report.
No weight. No regret.
"Don't repeat my mistake."
Class ended just like that.
Arlen stayed where he was for a moment.
Walking in without knowing what you're facing.
They left the field together.
The sun had risen enough to warm the courtyard slightly. The cold was fading.
"I've got an hour before conditioning," Nira said. "We could walk a bit, if you want."
Arlen looked at her.
"I've got strategy."
She nodded.
"Right."
A short pause.
"Alright."
They split there.
Nira headed toward the north wing. Arlen toward the main building.
The strategy room was almost empty when he arrived.
Almost.
The messy-haired guy was already there, head resting on folded arms over the desk.
When he heard Arlen come in, he raised two fingers without sitting up.
Arlen nodded. Sat down.
Silence.
Then Yura entered.
She looked at the messy-haired guy. Then at Arlen. Stopped for a moment—like she was weighing something.
Then she walked over.
"After class. We need to talk."
Arlen looked at her.
"Why not now?"
"After."
The messy-haired guy lifted his head slightly. Looked at Yura. Then dropped it again.
Yura returned to her seat.
More people came in.
Torvald—the native with the scar—sat without looking at anyone.
Ren followed. Calm. Controlled.
Two more transported.
Cyrus entered last.
Sat down. Unfolded a map.
"No theory today," he said. "We have a problem."
A supply convoy.
Two routes.
Incomplete information on the enemy.
No time to wait for reinforcements.
Cyrus pointed at Torvald.
Torvald didn't hesitate.
"I split the force. Half each route. If one gets ambushed, the other makes it."
"And if both do?" Cyrus asked.
Torvald didn't answer.
Cyrus waited two seconds.
"Everyone dies."
No emotion. Just outcome.
Torvald clenched his jaw.
Cyrus looked at Ren.
Ren answered calmly.
"Scout first. Information before movement. If one route is clear, move everything through it."
"And if there's no time to scout?"
"Then I decide with what I have."
"With incomplete information."
"It's always incomplete."
Cyrus gave a slight nod.
"Possible. But dependent on variables you don't control."
He looked at the messy-haired guy.
Eyes still closed.
The guy lifted his head.
"Fake route."
"Explain."
"You leak information. Make them think the convoy's going north. It goes south. By the time they react, it's gone."
Silence.
Cyrus nodded.
"That works."
The guy dropped his head again.
Cyrus looked at Arlen.
Arlen thought for a moment.
"I abandon the convoy."
Everyone looked at him.
"If I can't win the fight, I don't take it. I empty the convoy before moving it. Critical supplies go out in small groups through different routes. The enemy hits an empty target."
"You lose the convoy," Cyrus said.
"Yeah. But the men live. Without them, there's no convoy on any route."
Cyrus studied him.
"Interesting."
That was all.
But it was enough.
Cyrus stood.
"A strategist from the west wrote something worth remembering: the victorious warrior wins first, then goes to war. The defeated warrior goes to war first, then seeks victory."
He looked across the room.
"It's not about how much power you have. It's about when and where you use it. A small force can destroy a larger one if it chooses the ground. A weak fighter can defeat a strong one if he forces the fight under the wrong conditions."
A pause.
"Know yourself. Know your enemy. The rest is detail."
He left.
Arlen stayed seated.
Kaedor's words. Cyrus's words.
Different paths.
Same conclusion.
Preparation wasn't cowardice.
It was the line between living and dying.
He stepped into the hallway.
Yura was waiting.
"Come with me."
Arlen looked at her.
"Where?"
"My room."
He hesitated.
"What is this about?"
Yura met his eyes.
"Something important."
Arlen activated Lie Detection.
True.
He nodded.
Followed her.
Her room was ordered on purpose.
Books stacked by size. Papers arranged in rows, not scattered.
She closed the door.
"Sit."
Arlen sat on the edge of the bed. Yura took the chair, turning it toward him.
"Before we arrived, there were others."
Arlen said nothing.
"I checked the library records. Some sections are missing pages. Others are edited badly—you can tell something was removed." She ran a finger along a book's edge. "I also asked natives. Most said they couldn't talk about it."
Lie Detection.
True.
"You knew?" Yura asked.
"I heard something."
She nodded. Not surprised.
"There's more." She leaned forward slightly. "The refugees. The ones outside the city. They come from destroyed kingdoms—we know that. But think about it. There are a lot of them. They come from far away. And they all choose this city."
Arlen waited.
"Why this city?" she asked. "Why not the closest one? Or the largest?"
Silence.
"Maybe there's no other choice."
Arlen didn't answer immediately.
If Valenrith was the only place left…
They weren't choosing it.
They had nowhere else to go.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.
Yura hesitated. Then spoke.
"Because you're an anomaly."
Arlen looked at her.
"You're the only one with no affinities. No marked potential." She held his gaze. "Don't take it personally. But the Gods wouldn't bring someone useless. So either you're a mistake… or there's something we're not seeing."
True.
Arlen swallowed.
He thought about the system.
Guest mode.
"User not qualified."
Titles. Skills.
He thought about telling her.
Didn't.
"I think we should work together," Yura said. "Share what we find. The important things, at least."
Arlen considered it.
"Alright."
She nodded.
"I'll let you know if I find anything."
"Same."
That was it.
Arlen took the long way back.
The outer corridor, overlooking the courtyard.
Afternoon light on the stone. Few students around.
He walked slowly.
Kaedor. The missing arm.
Cyrus. Interesting.
Yura.
Anomaly.
He entered his room. Sat on the bed. Lay back.
The stone ceiling.
The same as always.
An anomaly.
Or a mistake.
He had the system.
He knew Guest Mode meant something he didn't understand yet.
He knew titles existed. Skills worked. Something had chosen him.
But he also knew he had no power. No affinity. Nothing visible.
So the only thing left was what he did with what he had.
Kaedor: arrive prepared.
Cyrus: win first, then fight.
It didn't matter what stood in front of him.
If he understood how it worked, he could find a way to beat it.
Not head-on.
Another way.
He closed his eyes.
And the memory came back without asking.