Chapter seven: The Divine World Academy
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[Name: Drake Primordia]
[Age: 15]
[Title: Transmigrated Revenger]
[Stats]
Strength: 62
Dexterity: 65
Endurance: 70
Perception: 60
Intelligence: 50/1000
Mana: 4500
[Skills](unlocked)
Swordsmanship Lv. 3
(More skills and authorities can be unlocked after completing quests)
"huh, Transmigrated Revenger?"
"Weird title…"
Anyways
This is actually quite impressive for a 15 year old who is about to enter an Academy full of stronger People.
The Divine World Academy was not merely an institution. To many, it was a crucible—a place where raw potential was burned and reshaped into monsters. It produced heroes and nightmares in equal measure. To the uninitiated it looked like a city of marble and spires, but those who knew its reputation called it something simpler: the place that taught people how to become forces of nature.
At the head of that place stood a woman whose name inspired as much fear as respect: Precious Domatias. An eleven-rank swordswoman, her fame had spread like wildfire across kingdoms. People whispered that any blade she drew was a sentence. Under her stewardship the Academy did not simply teach rote techniques; it taught craft—both magic craft and sword craft—an education in adaptability: how to wield mana like language and a blade like grammar. Students were taught to be flexible, to blend spell and strike until the two were indistinguishable.
In the novel Drake had read, the protagonist and his precious harem of six had attended the Divine World Academy to grow strong enough to stop the Apocalypse God. Drake remembered the scenes: late nights in the library, duels under moonlight, alliances forming and then splintering. He remembered how the novel's academy forged a path to godhood—how that path could be walked by those brave or stupid enough to try.
Drake—now a third-rank of his bloodline—did not want to repeat the protagonist's path. He had other designs. He wanted to build something new, something that had never existed in that story or in the world: an organisation under his command where he and his own harem would operate unchecked, doing whatever they pleased—(total evil deeds), as he phrased it in the dark hours when ambition tasted like ice cream
He planned revenge, yes, but he also planned power. The Academy was the perfect ground to recruit, cultivate, and transform people into loyal instruments. He would shape monsters like he had been shaped; he would make his own law. The thought tightened his lips into a smile with no warmth.
Two months. That was the timetable he and Drakelle set. Two months for final preparations, for discreet arrangements, for training that sharpened edges rather than healed scars. Drakelle was his mirror in many ways—also a third-rank—and they would go together. He trusted her with the kind of trust that wasn't blind: the trust of shared blood and shared hunger.
But fate, as it so often did in their circles, arrived early.
She appeared like a storm wrapped in silk.
Rin Primordia—the oldest daughter, the first child of the first wife, the current strongest among their siblings—stepped from the shadows of the corridor where nobles and servants flowed like rivers. She was a seventh-rank, and people stopped talking when she walked by. Even the guards tilted their heads in measured respect.
Drake saw her and, for a sliver of a heartbeat, was dazzled.
Jet black hair with streaks of purple fell over her shoulders. Her eyes were a deep, dark blood—so dark they swallowed the light. Rosy lips, a thin armor in black and red clung to her frame under a white coat, and a sword rested at her hip like a promise. She looked like war dressed for a court. Her attributes were spoken of in cautious tones: light, fire, and blood.
Blood.
That last attribute was rare and whispered about in taverns and training halls. It allowed its wielder to manipulate their own blood and the blood of others—but only if the target was weaker. The power had a cruelty built into its physics; it measured the soul's dominance and punished the weak. For Rin, the blood attribute was a weapon and a status, a reminder that she could make lesser people scream without touching them.
She approached without ceremony. "Hello, little brother," she said, voice smooth and almost amused. "How are you?"
Drake's face shaded into something colder, but there was a fluid respect in his answer. "How are you, big sis," he replied.
They talked—short talk at first, the ritual of family—but conversation drifted to Rin's travels. She spoke of campaigning with the Knights of the Lunar God, a guild of warriors who carried moon-worship banners and did not bother to smile when they cut down men. Drake listened as she described her missions; she had been a Knight of the Lunar God and, by her recounting, had ridden through chaos that smelled of iron and prayer.
From Drake's point of view, the Lunar God had once—during the times of upheaval—leaned dangerously toward supporting the Apocalypse God. That history gave the guild a shadowed reputation: heroic on banners, ambiguous in secret. Rin acknowledged nothing of that moral fog, only the clarity of victory and the weight of duty. She had grown into a thing both beautiful and dangerous.
Before parting, she placed a hand on Drake's shoulder. There was a softness there but also a blade of warning. "Good luck," she said. "You'll need it."
Drake blinked. "Luck?"
Rin smirked. "The entrance exam. I heard the rumors. "The first wife and the second wife—" Her eyes flicked away for a moment, "—they have plans. Old politics never dies. They're already scheming to remove you during the entrance exam. They fear you'll outgrow your siblings and threaten the patriarchal line."
The words landed like a slap.
Drake had known his enemies. He knew the 1st and 2nd wives were insecure, vicious in their protection of legacy. He knew branch children fantasized about impossible titles. But assassination planned during an entrance exam—cold—revealed a depth of paranoia he had anticipated but never desired to witness first-hand.
"They want me to be the matriarch in the future." Rin said, more softly. Her gaze fixed on the horizon as if she saw some future dance. "They think you'll surpass me in the near future. So they plot." Her fingers drummed a beat no one else could hear. "Watch yourself. Don't trust easily . Not even those that call themselves family."
Drake inclined his head. The grin that touched his mouth was not one of fear but of something colder. "I won't die."
Rin's lips twitched. "Good. Then make sure you don't die in arrogance either."
With that, she left like a shadow falling into night, the scent of iron and smoke lingering in her wake.
Two months. The time was a hammer. Drake and Drakelle trained harder, not just in technique but in preparation. They sharpened their wits, read likely scenarios, rehearsed ambushes and escape routes. And beneath it all, Drake drafted the early plans for his organisation—a nameless terror that would answer only to him and to the devils he would one day gather.
When the time came, they dressed not in ragged travel gear but in red, fancy noble clothes—a signal that they owned their place even as they walked away from it. The red suited Drake's mood; it stained less easily and advertised intent. Selene stood at the gate—his mother, the Dancing Sword Angel—watching them with that fierce, watery pride. They embraced briefly, whispered promises that were equal parts warmth and calculation, and then they boarded the carriage that would carry them north.
The journey took a day. In that time they joked and laughed, the way siblings do when the world is momentarily small enough for them both. They spoke of the Academy like boys speaking of a future hunt: maps of courtyards, rumor of rivals, the kinds of names that made men pause and think twice.
When the city emerged over the horizon it swallowed the carriage in towers and fire. The Academy rose above the city like a monument, a cluster of mansions jammed together, spires grafted side-by-side until the whole thing looked like a hundred palaces had been laid end to end and told to hold hands. It was larger than anything Drake had trained under, older than many of the families that envied its influence.
They stepped down. The air tasted different—charged, electric, ripe with expectation.
Drake felt something rise inside him: a familiar sweetness, a hunger. He grinned, not the small smile he gave to his mother, but the maniacal one that belonged to a sadist.
"This is the beginning," he murmured.
Drakelle nudged him, her own smile thin with excitement. "I disagree because this the end… for them"
.