It had been three months since Klein's mana awakening.
Now fifteen years of age, he stood patiently before the grand gates of the Avalorian School of Arcane Blades, his crimson hair catching the early morning light. Around him, the atmosphere crackled with anticipation — the low hum of chatter, the rustle of parchment admission forms, and the nervous excitement of hundreds of young aspirants gathered for the academy's annual entrance examination.
The morning air smelled faintly of rain and steel — a fitting prelude for a place built to forge both mages and swordsmen into legends.
Klein tilted his head back slightly, his sharp eyes tracing the monumental sight before him.
The Avalorian Academy loomed like a relic— a vast Gothic structure of ash-grey stone and black marble, stretching across the horizon like a sleeping titan. Dozens of spires reached into the mist, each crowned with intricate statues of winged knights and robed sorcerers frozen mid-incantation. Long stained-glass windows depicted battle scenes from Avalorian history — dragons soaring above armies, archmages casting storms of fire, and swordsmen deflecting meteors with a single slash.
The architecture was cold, yet alive — a balance between the ethereal beauty of magic and the unyielding severity of discipline.
Behind its gates lay the most prestigious magic swordsmanship academy on the continent — an institution that drew aspirants not only from the Kingdom of Avalor, but from distant realms beyond its borders. Noble heirs, battle prodigies, and gifted commoners all converged here each year, their ambitions clashing beneath the academy's ancient banners.
Klein took it all in silently.
It was hard to believe he was standing here now. Just three months ago, he had been training under Lucien in the Garrison — blood, sweat, and broken ribs defining his days. The farewell had been… oddly sentimental.
Lucien had given him his usual half-smirk, patting him once on the shoulder before saying, "Don't get expelled for breaking something too early."
It wasn't much, but Klein knew what it meant.
Lyra, on the other hand, had been surprisingly emotional. She'd scolded him for growing taller again, then muttered something about not missing him "that much."
But when he turned to leave, she'd stepped forward and hugged him — quick, awkward, and utterly unlike her.
Klein had laughed the whole walk back to the carriage.
Now, standing before the gates, he exhaled and rolled his shoulders.
He had five hours before the entrance exams began.
He looked at the six gold coins Lucien had given him.
"Six coins," he muttered. "That's your definition of 'spend wisely,' huh?"
He sighed, then flicked his fingers.
He grabbed a sliver coin from his pocket, not just any sliver coin — as from it, Paros, the sentient coin spirit, bloated out with a yawn.
Paros stretched in Klein's mind, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Morning, kid, or should I say master? Anyways, you look like you're about to rob a cathedral."
Klein smirked. "Not yet. But I might have to, with how broke I am."
Paros spun lazily. "Six gold coins? You're not exploring anything with that. At best, you could afford a mediocre breakfast and half a boot polish."
Klein pocketed the coins and started down the cobblestone street leading away from the academy gates. "Oh, ye of little faith. You forget that I have you."
Paros floated closer, suspicious. "Why does that sound like a scam waiting to happen?"
Klein's grin turned sharp. "Because it is. We're going gambling."
Paros froze midair. "…Oh, I see where this is going."
"You flip perfectly every time," Klein said. "Always heads. You're basically a divine gift."
"That's cheating."
"That's strategy."
Paros groaned. "You're going to get us killed one of these days."
Klein's smirk deepened. "Maybe. But we'll be rich when it happens."
....
A short walk later, they found an inn — or more accurately, a den.
The sign read The Leaking Tankard, and the stench of ale, smoke, and poor life decisions wafted out the moment he stepped through the door.
Inside, the atmosphere was loud and chaotic.
Half-drunk men slammed mugs on tables while shouting about their exploits, and a few mercenaries were hunched over a makeshift gambling table in the corner — gold glinting in uneven piles between them.
Klein approached with his best disarming smile.
"Room for one more?"
The biggest of the drunks squinted at him, his beard soaked with beer. "Huh? Kid, you old enough to gamble?"
Klein shrugged. "Old enough to win."
The table erupted in laughter, and one of them slid a seat toward him. "Alright, pretty boy. Let's see your luck."
"..."
Half an hour later…
The laughter had died.
Klein leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, an easy grin on his face. Before him lay a mountain of gold and silver coins — all taken from the sorry men who now stared at him with disbelief and regret.
"Another round?" Klein offered innocently.
One man groaned. "I'm out."
Another slumped forward. "He's cursed. The coin's cursed."
Paros floated above the table, smug. "Tails never even exists in my vocabulary."
Klein scooped up the winnings, tucking them neatly into his pouch. "Gentlemen, pleasure doing business."
As he stood and turned for the door, a voice called from the back of the inn.
"Hey, red hair."
He paused mid-step.
The voice was soft but carried an unmistakable confidence — the kind that turned heads effortlessly.
Klein turned around.
She stood at the doorway, framed by the dim light filtering through the dust. Her hair was long and violet, cascading past her shoulders like a stream of silk. Her eyes — amethyst and sharp — seemed to take in everything at once.
She wasn't dressed like a noblewoman, but her attire betrayed quality — fine pink leather reinforced for agility, with faint runic stitches along the seams. The outfit was practical yet undeniably elegant, clearly tailored for both movement and battle.
She looked his age — perhaps fifteen, sixteen — tall, poised, and carrying herself with the easy grace of someone who knew her worth.
Klein blinked, half caught between curiosity and caution.
"Red hair," she repeated, tilting her head slightly. "You just scammed half the tavern, didn't you?"
Klein's grin returned, slow and lopsided. "Scammed is such an ugly word. I prefer won fairly with clever probability."
She smiled faintly, a mixture of amusement and disbelief flickering in her eyes.
"Hmm," she said, stepping closer, "we'll see how long your luck lasts, Red Hair."
Her gaze lingered for a heartbeat — sharp and assessing — before she turned away, walking out of the tavern as the crowd parted instinctively around her.
Klein watched her go, something in his chest tightening with a quiet, inexplicable pull.
Paros floated beside his ear. "Well, you've done it. First day in the capital and you're already marked by a beautiful woman. We're doomed."
Klein smirked faintly. "Nah. Just curious."
He pocketed Paros, stepped into the afternoon light, and looked down the street where the girl had disappeared.
The city of Ostina stretched endlessly ahead — wide roads, market stalls, spires gleaming in the distance. The crowd moved like a living current, and somewhere in it, fate was already shifting.
He had five hours before the exam.
Five hours to explore, to earn, to fight, to learn.
And maybe, just maybe —
to find out who that purple-haired girl really was.