The day before the Hole Test dawned quiet, yet Connor McCloud's heart carried unease. Across from him, Kyle—his future self, bound within him—sat in deep meditation, blue energy flowing like breath. Hours passed in silence until, at last, Kyle stirred. The preparation was complete.
He spoke not of power lent through mana, but of something far more intimate. What he intended to pass on were not memories of the mind, but memories carved into the body itself—reflexes, instincts, the rhythm of countless battles fought over a lifetime.
Connor hesitated, yet obeyed. At Kyle's command, he opened his palms. Blue magic condensed in the air, twisting into a crimson mask, the twin of Kyle's own. Kyle explained: with this mask, Connor could inherit his swordsmanship, every technique sharpened by years of struggle against calamity.
Breath heavy, Connor placed the mask against his face.
The world shattered.
Endless motions flooded his body. Cuts. Thrusts. Slashes. Limbs moving with murderous rhythm, a mind drowned in violence. He cut flesh, bone, wings, horns, and hearts. He cut what should be cut and what never should have been touched. The urge to sever consumed him until thought itself dissolved.
And then—pain.
His body convulsed, seizing, thrashing. The mask dissolved, magic fleeing like smoke. When Connor woke, drenched in sweat upon the dormitory floor, Kyle's voice explained the truth. His body had collapsed under the weight of inherited memories. Like water overflowing a bucket, the burden had surpassed his mortal limits. What could not be contained turned poisonous.
For now, it was impossible.
Connor cursed the failure, though Kyle promised to seek another way. Tomorrow's Hole Test loomed, and the gulf between his present self and the future's strength felt like an abyss.
A letter slipped through the dorm door. The handwriting belonged to the mercenary captain. The words inside brought both warmth and embarrassment. His comrades missed him, teased his absence, and—worst of all—had already heard rumors of his duel with Princess Myael Astaroth. The thought of their laughter burned his ears.
But then came something unexpected.
The captain spoke of Sina Palen. She was no stranger, but the daughter of a wealthy merchant who had once traveled under their mercenary band's protection. She had crossed blades with Connor countless times, stubborn and hot-headed, though she always lost. Now, her father had spent his fortune to buy her a noble title so she could enter the academy.
The revelation struck Connor like a blade to the chest. He had taken his own admission for granted, yet here was someone who had clawed her way in, no matter the cost. He recalled her gaze—sharp, almost resentful. Now he understood why.
Connor whispered a vow to apologize when the chance arose. Yet guilt lingered. He had done nothing, and still he felt as though he had wronged her.
That night, dreams came.
Purple flames. The sound of a house collapsing. Screams. A comrade urging him to flee, their figure blurred, their voice cracking under terror. Connor's legs moved against his will, retreating, leaving the comrade to face the monstrous giant alone. He looked back only to see that friend crushed beneath a massive arm, their body reduced to unrecognizable ruin.
If he had stayed, could he have saved them?
The question burned into his soul. For the first time, his forehead tingled—the strange gift warning of danger, even within a dream.
Connor awoke with a start, breath ragged, forehead slick with sweat. Kyle's voice filled the silence, calm yet grave. Nightmares before trials were not unusual, but they left scars on the heart all the same.
And so dawn came, the first Monday since his entrance into Trinity Academy.
The day of the Hole Test had arrived.