As the last rays of dawn bled into the sky, the once thunderous stadium stood hollow and silent.
The dust of combat hung faintly in the air, undisturbed now that the aptitude evaluation trials had concluded.
The echoes of clashing steel, shouted commands, and the roar of the crowd had faded, leaving only the distant caw of birds greeting the new day.
Some students had risen above the rest — recognized not only by their instructors but by their peers.
Their performances had carved names into memory. Others, by choice or by fear, had remained on the sidelines — unnoticed, unremembered.
The trial had passed them by like a storm skirting a quiet village.
Far from the empty stadium, in a secluded wing of the academy, Renos approached a door open it and entered.The room was a relic of elegance. The walls were painted in soft dusk colors, etched with intricate golden lines that spiraled into delicate shapes, almost alive with movement. The furniture was antique — two deep, plush couches in royal blue velvet flanking a low obsidian table carved with lunar motifs. Soft light filtered through narrow stained-glass windows, casting fractured shadows across the floor.
On one of the couches sat a figure cloaked in stillness — the silhouette of a woman, regal and silent.
Without a word, Renos dropped to one knee. His forehead touched his other knee, one hand pressed against the polished stone floor in a gesture of deep reverence. As he knelt, a shimmer passed over his body — like the rippling of silk in the wind.
His masculine form dissolved, giving way to a leaner frame. Silver-lined boots receded, replaced by heeled black shoes. Long hair lengthened into a cascade of violet, spilling over her shoulders.
Shila raised her head slowly, though her eyes remained cast downward. Her glowing purple irises, half-hidden beneath her long lashes, reflected the amber hue of the setting sun.
From the folds of her sleeve, she withdrew a neatly folded piece of parchment. Her hand trembled slightly — not from fear, but from anticipation. She placed the paper on the table in front of the seated figure, never once meeting her gaze.
"You Majesty," she said softly, "I've obtained what you requested, as instructed."
A faint rustle of fabric followed. The figure leaned forward, and the light caught her face at last. The shadow slipped away like a veil, revealing the striking features of Princess Serenya.
"Good," Serenya said, her voice calm.
"It seems we've both gained from this… arrangement. Perhaps we might benefit each other even more in the future."
Her gloved hand reached beneath her cloak and drew out a small leather pouch. With a casual flick of the wrist, she dropped it onto the table. The heavy thud of gold cerda.
"And as promised," Serenya added, "here is your payment."
Shila lifted her gaze, just slightly, and reached for the bag. Her fingers closed around it, the weight grounding her like a chain she couldn't yet tell which.
Neither spoke further. No thanks were exchanged. No pleasantries offered. In that room, silence was currency too.
Meanwhile, in Elyon's dorm room…
Alan sat at the edge of his bed, eyebrows raised.
''Where were you durning the aptitude evaluation trail. I did not see you''
Elyon thought of and answer he did not want to that he went to the bathroom as that would be suspicious as to why he was there for so long.
Elyon answered ''Somethings are clearer from a distance ''
"I didn't see you at all in the stands," he said, tilting his head. "Where were you? What distance are you talking about?"
Elyon, who had been calmly arranging books on his shelf, paused for only a second. Without turning.
"Exactly."
Alan blinked. "Wait, what?"
Elyon smiled faintly, never meeting his eyes. "Some things aren't meant to be seen the same way by everyone."
There was a long silence before Alan, slightly unsettled but unwilling to press further, gave a small shrug.
"Right… okay then."
The sky above the academy had turned to dusk, painting the world in quiet shades of gold and violet. The air was still, heavy with the scent of trimmed grass and the faint hum of energy that always lingered after an event like the aptitude trials.
Elyon walked alone, his footsteps light on the cobbled path that wove through the dormitory gardens. The world felt oddly distant — muffled, as if wrapped in fog. His mind swam through fragments of the day: the shouts, the displays of power.
Everyone had been fighting for recognition, for status, for something. And yet, despite being surrounded by it all, Elyon felt as though he had watched it through glass.
He couldn't shake the feeling that something larger was at play, something just outside his reach.
It wasn't just confusion — it was like being deliberately kept in the dark, like reading a book with missing pages. Everyone else seemed to know the story, or at least think they did.
Finally, he stopped near a wooden bench beneath an old ash tree. It was a place where students sometimes studied or whispered secrets. Tonight, it was empty.
He sat down with a soft sigh, leaned back, and let his eyes fall closed. He tried to push away the questions, the what-ifs, the strange glances and the things that didn't quite add up.
He focused instead on what he did know: his friends, his family back home, the comfort of quiet days. Peace. Simplicity. Certainty.
But the quiet didn't last.
A soft footstep echoed on the path behind him — deliberate, slow.
Elyon's eyes snapped open. Standing just a few paces away was Charles.
He was dressed in polished silver garments — too elegant for casual wear, yet worn with an easy confidence that made them seem effortless.
As always, Charles wore that signature smirk of his, like he knew a secret no one else did. It wasn't just a smile — it was a posture, a presence.
Elyon's face remained calm, but his eyes sharpened, shifting back to their usual blue. He said nothing.
Charles met his gaze and spoke first, his voice calm, almost poetic.
"In life… many things happen," he said, slowly pacing as if walking through his own thoughts.
"There are wars. Betrayals. Miracles. People rise, people fall. And somehow, we're told there's meaning in it all. That it builds us. That it defines us. But in the grand scheme of things…" — he paused, glancing up at the twilight sky — "…nothing is truly pure or impure. There is only a mix. A blend of contradiction. And that… that is what we call living."
Elyon didn't respond, but he listened. Carefully.
Charles continued, his tone soft, almost confessional.
"Most of us live our lives looking up — watching someone else do the impossible. There's always that one person in every story, every classroom, every battlefield, who just… can. They shine. They conquer. And the rest of us? We stumble around, trying to catch up."
He looked at Elyon, his eyes unreadable now.
"Tell me… why is it like that? Why can't we all be something more? Why are we laughed at, dismissed, mocked — until the moment we succeed — and then suddenly, we're told it's not enough?"
He took a step closer.
"Isn't it exhausting? To try so hard only to be seen as average? To finally break through, only to be asked to do better? It's like we're trapped in a performance where the script keeps changing, and no one tells us the rules."
He stopped pacing and stared directly at Elyon.
"Wouldn't it be nice," he whispered, "if you could just… snap your fingers and start again? Bring everything back to before. Before the expectations. Before the masks. Before the failures. A clean slate. A second chance. Not just to redo things… but to become something entirely different."
A long pause followed.
Then Elyon finally spoke, quiet but firm:
"Why are you telling me all this?"
Charles's smirk returned, just slightly. But his tone didn't change.
"Because I want to ask you something."
He stepped even closer. The air around him seemed to still.
"Are you just like me? Are you willing to change everything? Or will you keep walking the same road and pretending it makes sense?"
He let the question linger — then delivered the final blow:
"Are you a Reincarnator?"