Several hours later.
Academy training arena.
After dinner with my companions, I headed toward the academy's training arena. It wasn't because I wanted to practice—if anything, each step I took was laced with quiet irritation. But I had a good reason for forcing myself to go. There was a question nagging at me that needed to be answered.
— Oh, look who's here. The cripple finally showed up, — a cocky voice echoed across the hall, dripping with feigned surprise and barely concealed sarcasm.
The moment I stepped through the doors, the room turned as one. Dozens of eyes fixed on me like it was some unspoken command. Center stage as always. And as always, the clown of the show stood at its heart.
Arnon Grace.
A lean, wiry boy with perpetually narrowed eyes and that ever-present smirk glued to his face. One of the so-called leaders of Class Alpha—and, according to many, the most technical swordsman of his year… if you didn't count me.
