The silent library of Trinity Academy was a world of its own. Towering shelves stretched like ancient walls, their weight filled with tomes of forgotten ages. Amidst the stillness walked Erza Essol, a half-elf who seemed to belong more to this forest of books than to the outside world. She moved with a peculiar energy, humming the name of a dragon, as if the act itself were a private ritual.
Among the countless grim titles, her hands at last stopped on a worn spine. A book surfaced from the shadows—its cover painted with the shape of a dragon instead of words. Unlike most volumes that intimidated with indecipherable writing, this one beckoned with illustrations that seemed alive.
The atmosphere shifted. The dragon's name, etched in old letters, resonated with weight: Kurnugia, the Black Sovereign of the Mountain of Terror. The passages spoke of him not as legend, but as law—warning that greed and cruelty defined his reign. To anger him meant death. To touch what he claimed was to invite ruin. His hoarded treasures never left his side; his very breath was described as death's own wind.
For cultivators and scholars alike, dragons were more than beasts. They were calamities of nature, higher than mountains, feared even by sects that prided themselves on unshakable strength. To find one within reach of the academy was not a story to laugh over, but a truth that burned unease into the heart.
Yet knowledge also offered opportunities. Ancient warnings could be maps in disguise. To those who cultivated, information was as precious as spirit stones or herbs. Strategy often began not with swords but with words. And in this moment, memories awoke in Kyle, the guiding voice that lingered beside the mercenary's soul. A plan stirred, though its shape remained unspoken.
But their secret reading did not pass unnoticed. Erza, her sharp ears twitching, turned with curious eyes. Her suspicion rose at how fluently a supposed commoner handled letters no ordinary student could even recognize. Her stare pressed like a blade, bright with hunger for answers. Yet curiosity, for her, was not a weapon of malice—it was obsession. Languages, alphabets, and forgotten scripts were her world.
Quick wit shifted the danger into opportunity. With careful words, Connor redirected her passion, planting the idea not of suspicion but of teaching. The half-elf who buried herself in books now became a candidate for something unexpected—a tutor.
From the quiet halls, the tale moved to the Second Library once more. Erza introduced herself fully: a half-elf whose life had long revolved around letters rather than people. And in her path appeared Rug, the werewolf companion who carried strength like a storm but lacked the refinement of words. The meeting was anything but smooth. Rug's sharp instincts and blunt tongue collided with Erza's strangeness, yet in an unexpected twist, harmony formed. She did not recoil from his rudeness; rather, she embraced even his honest remark that she smelled of old books.
It was decided. In this unlikely bond, teacher and student roles were set. The werewolf would learn to write, guided by the eccentric half-elf whose world was carved into parchment and ink.
But while such small victories took root in the shadows, another storm brewed elsewhere.
Within the dormitory of nobles, Galea Grog seethed. Defeated once by Connor—defeated by a mercenary without even the dignity of wielding a blade—his pride festered into poison. Wine spilled across his desk, glass shattered against the wall, and yet his rage did not cool. For him, a commoner surpassing him was not reality. It was blasphemy.
His eyes fell upon a calendar. April 26th. The date of Trinity Academy's first midterm examination. In those numbers he saw more than a test; he saw a weapon. For in this academy, failure was not simply shame—it was chains. Without passing, graduation drifted further, and expulsion lurked like a beast waiting for the weak.
Thus, Grog began to weave. Not with sword or spirit energy, but with influence. His noble birth gave him access to shadows others could not reach. He planned to bend the exam to his favor, filling testing halls with loyal men, ensuring the mercenary would stumble, ensuring Connor's light would be smothered before it grew.
At his desk, quill scratching against parchment, a scheme of vengeance took shape. In the quiet night, hatred became ink.
And so, as the academy's days moved toward the midterms, two different paths unfolded. One built on unexpected alliances within forgotten libraries. The other on poisonous schemes carved by a noble's pride.
The clash was inevitable.
Like shadows gathering before dawn, both stories marched toward a single fate.
Connor McCloud's journey, once shaped only by survival, now stepped into a wider storm—where enemies sharpened their knives not only on the battlefield, but in the very system that ruled the academy.
The pieces were set. The test ahead would not measure only knowledge. It would measure will, cunning, and the strength to endure the plots of those who feared him.
For the mercenary possessed by a regressor, the game of survival had only just begun.