Meanwhile, in another wing of the dorms…
Zach sat alone on the edge of his bed, his Aetherplate on his chest shines, softly humming with ambient mana.
Though he's normally serious, this time even more so.
His smile is gone. Just quiet breathing and the faint sound of wind rustling the window curtains.
He taps through his stats again—not because he needs to, but because he has to. He stared at the number next to his name: 9th. Ninth out of all the first years.
Ninth place is not bad at all, considering there are so many people.
But that's just not good enough.
Not for him.
Not for what he was trying to accomplish.
He leans back against the wall, eyes flicking toward a half-burned photograph tucked into the corner of his nightstand—just the edge of a smiling face visible.
He does not reach for it.
He doesn't need to.
"I'll catch up to you," he whispered, to no one.
Then, quieter: "And I'll kill you."
The Aetherplate dims.
He closes his eyes.
…
I look out at the night sky, thinking about what happened today.
Paragon…Do I really have the ability to utilize the powers of every class?
Professor Griemore told me that this could be a double edge sword. Will I really have all these resources?
Even though I am 5th in my class rank, this is just not enough. I need to get to my father and brother before it's too late. I've always been thinking about them, especially after the day that demon was killed.
"No," I tell myself.
Stressing about this is no use right now. Every moment should be used to train and practice.
I then start painting again.
The night passed without a whisper.
When I blink awake, it's to the soft glow of the ceiling light strips auto adjusting to morning mode. Aetherplate hums quietly at my bedside, already synced with the school's time grid. 6:45 AM.
I sit up slowly, still a little sore from yesterday. Not physically but mentally; The ceremony, the Codex, the stats, the colors, the whispered awe of Paragon still ring in my ears like a storm that hadn't fully passed. But there's no time to process any of it now.
Another ping appears in the corner of my vision.
[Class: Vanguard Training (Practical). Uniform Required. Report to Training Sector 3B by 7:30 AM.]
I'm guessing this class will be teaching me how to use my vanguard abilities other than just abusing Spectator's Eyes.
I exhale. "Here we go."
Silence fills this dorm room except for the gentle movement of fabric and mana threads that shift as I put on the academy's standard black combat uniform with protective blue seams that emit a faint pulse. The outfit fits better than I expected. Tailored by enchantment, apparently. That's how the academy does it.
The last chest strap secures as the Aetherplate display reappears to monitor my vitals with subtle precision.
[Status: Stable. Mana: Rested.]
I step out of the tower. Other students are filing out of their rooms, some half-asleep, others already energized, chattering nervously about first impressions and instructors. I spot Claude farther down, walking like he's already done this a hundred times. Will leans against a wall, arms crossed, fully dressed and smirking as usual.
"Ready to get torn apart?" he calls.
I shrug, walking toward them. "Only emotionally."
Zach's not with them, but it makes sense since our classes are different. He is not a Vanguard.
The hall lights brighten. The scent of mana tea and conjured toast wafts in from the common area. Somewhere down the corridor, an alarm buzzes and someone curses at a spilled energy elixir.
And just like that, it's begun.
Our first day of official classes.
The training sectors are a short walk from the dorm towers, connected by a glass-covered skybridge that reveals the sprawling academy campus beneath morning light. Velmara looks like it was carved out of both ancient myth and cutting-edge magic—stone towers interwoven with glowing circuitry, trees that hum with runes, and distant floating platforms drifting like patient sentinels in the sky.
Claude walks ahead without much talk, while Will tosses a snack into his mouth and chews with the confidence of someone who already knows he'll ace whatever's coming.
Training Sector 3B looms at the end of the bridge—a fortress-like structure with reinforced walls and glowing sigils around its entrance. We file in with the others, a group of about thirty Vanguards, all first-years. Some try to look tough, others look like they're already regretting every decision that brought them here.
A loud clang silences the room.
The metal-paneled floor trembles lightly as a tall, broad-shouldered man walks to the center of the room. His hair is black and peppered with silver near the temples, trimmed close. A sharp-lined coat drifts just below his knees, and his presence carries authority.
But it's the eyes that lock the room: piercing and calculating like they've already measured every single one of us.
"I am Anthony Fonts. Vanguard division. You'll call me Instructor or Professor Fonts, depending on how respectful you're feeling."
[Fonts, Anthony. Faculty Rank: A+. Thought: "???"]
[This is someone you don't wanna mess with right now, Paragon.]
Crap
Silence. No one dares breathe too loud.
"I'm not here to baby you through your training. I'm not here to teach you how to 'find yourself.'" He starts pacing slowly. "I'm here to shape you into a weapon your enemies will fear. You've been labeled Vanguards for a reason. You're the ones who go in first, bleed first, and if necessary—die first."
A couple students stiffen.
He stops pacing and taps the hilt of the sword strapped across his back. It's massive, old, and runed to the point it looks like it might hum if you stared at it long enough.
"If you think being a hybrid means anything in this room, think again." His eyes find Claude and I. "Titles mean nothing if your bones are shattered."
[Warning: Elevated tension detected. Mana output rising unconsciously.]
Thanks, Codex.
Professor Fonts claps once. "Today, we begin with reaction drills and mana channeling. You'll be tested in simulated engagements designed to push your instincts past their limits. And don't think for a second this will be fair. Battle never is."
He raises a hand, and the floor below us shifts. Smoothly, silently, it transforms into a grid of square platforms that rise and lower to varying levels.
"The first evaluation begins now. When your name is called, step onto the marked plate. You'll be facing an Aether Sim. Don't worry—they won't kill you."
Pause.
"They'll just make you wish they could."
A student near the front audibly gulps. Will chuckles. Claude looks unmoved.
"Valendestine, you're up first."
Of course I am.
As I walk toward the glowing platform, another message appears in my vision:
[Codex 099: Recalibrating for Combat Observation Mode...] [Tips: Trust your body, let mana flow through it. Use your eyes. Don't hesitate.]
I step onto the platform. The air around me warps, mana crystallizing into a projected opponent—vaguely humanoid, faceless, with a shifting aura of red and silver. A construct, but one with teeth.
Professor Fonts crosses his arms. "Begin."