The dormitory room lay in silence, except for the shallow breaths of the mercenary sprawled on his bed. His body was drained, as though the earlier ordeal of group classes had beaten every ounce of strength out of him. Yet even with exhaustion threatening to pull him into sleep, his gaze drifted toward the phantom figure that shared his soul—Kyle, the regressor who had returned from a doomed future.
Kyle stood still, parchment in hand, ink flowing in neat, unwavering strokes. His presence was calm, cold, and absolute, a mirror that reflected not the current self but the man Connor McCloud might one day become. In the dim light, the paper he wrote on almost seemed to shimmer, like a record written across time itself.
What emerged was not idle scribbles. It was a plan—an outline of survival, a path toward power. Goals, broken down with military precision. At the top lay two absolutes: Connor must survive his years at the Academy, and Kyle must prevent the end of the world. Beneath them branched sub-goals, pragmatic and unrelenting.
The first task was training for the upcoming Hall Test, a mandatory trial faced by all new students within their first month. Unlike the freshman duel that had pitted human against human, this trial cast novices into a dangerous realm where they would face real Meteors—monstrous beings that had plagued the world since time immemorial. Their purpose was singular: to devour, to corrupt, to extinguish. For aristocrats, these halls were trophies, proof of lineage and glory. For mercenaries, they were familiar hunting grounds. To Connor, it felt less like a test and more like a return to the battlefield.
The second task unsettled him. It was not about refining what he already knew—it was about choosing a weapon anew. Connor's trusted sword, the steel he had carried through countless life-and-death struggles, was already withering from his battles at the Academy. Its edge, once sharp, had dulled into a battered husk. But Kyle's insistence was not about repairing it. He spoke with grim certainty: Connor had no true affinity with swords. His talent lay elsewhere.
Kyle spoke of the Dwarven Blade, a rare weapon forged in the distant lands of Cheonjungdo across the eastern seas. Known as a do by its makers, it bore a single edge, longer than the blades of the Central Continent and heavier in its balance. Aristocrats hoarded them as treasures, ignorant of their true value, while dwarves forged them with secret craftsmanship. Kyle described it not as a mere weapon, but as the key that could unlock Connor's latent strength.
To Connor, the suggestion sounded absurd. To wield something unfamiliar in the middle of Academy trials was reckless. Yet the future self's conviction left no room for doubt. If he embraced this weapon, he could surpass even the mercenary who had clawed his way through ten years of hardship.
Sleep stole him soon after, but the plan lingered like a weight pressing upon his chest.
The next morning, the Academy's vast lecture hall buzzed with energy. The first formal class of the semester was History and Culture, taught by Professor Philo Kayden, a stern man whose gaze alone could pierce through distractions like steel through cloth.
The lecture began with the history of the Meteors—creatures that had haunted humanity for millennia. Records dated back three thousand years, even before the fabled Day the Gods Left. Ancient diaries from nameless soldiers, their accounts filled with fear and blood, predated formal chronicles. The implication was chilling: Meteors were not anomalies. They were a curse ingrained in the very flow of history.
To the nobles in the room, these lessons were abstract puzzles to be admired and dissected. To Connor, who had lived on the battlefield, the professor's words blurred into noise. The struggle to stay awake became a battle of its own. Only Kyle's mental whispers kept him tethered, though even the phantom admitted weariness.
Amid the drowsy fog, Connor noticed his companions. Rug, who had grown up in slums much like him, listened with fierce attention, his rough hands clenched tightly against the desk. Where Connor felt only fatigue, Rug radiated hunger, as if he sought to devour every scrap of knowledge that might elevate him. Responsibility—Kyle murmured—was what set him apart. Responsibility to endure, to lead, to carry others.
It was a word Connor despised, yet it now clung to him. He had been forced into the role of group leader. The burden gnawed at his thoughts, heavier than any blade.
And then came disaster.
Professor Philo's gaze fell upon him, sharp as a drawn spear. His wandering mutter about leadership, spoken under breath, was mistaken for an answer. Called by name, Connor froze. He hadn't even caught the question.
The professor's cold tone offered no escape: ten seconds to reply, or face humiliation before the class.
Ten seconds to answer a question he hadn't heard. Ten seconds to prove he belonged in a hall of scholars and nobles, or be marked as a fool.
The weight of silence crushed the room, and time began to stretch unbearably long.