The sun sank low, painting the academy's skies in hues of dying fire. After wandering through the forest for far longer than expected, the mercenary-turned-student returned to the dormitory, carrying not exhaustion, but a strange vitality—a lingering warmth gifted by the gnomes. Yet, rest would not come so easily. The midterm exams loomed like a wall ahead, and so began a battle not of blades, but of ink, history, and memory.
He opened the dense workbook, written by Kyle's meticulous hand, its problems crafted not only from historical records but from the very foundations of magic and the academy itself. Questions of wars long past resurfaced—the Great Invasion of 1594, when a hole in the northern skies rained down hundreds of thousands of meteors, forcing humanity into a desperate unity. Heroes rose then, five in number, and from among them, one stood above all: Parcaso Andalusia, savior and founder of Trinity Academy.
Yet even the very history of this academy was riddled with peculiarities. For Parcaso, after death, had bound his soul to painted canvases, ensuring his eternal presence as the headmaster. Destroy one painting, and his spirit would flee into another. Within Trinity's walls alone, over a hundred such canvases existed. In this way, death could never claim him.
As the mercenary studied, the weight of fatigue pressed in—not from the day's exertion, but from the sheer density of truths both strange and unsettling. Still, the pressure of exams spurred him forward… until an urgent knocking shattered his concentration.
At his door stood Anastasia, the vampire princess whose presence always carried an air of theatrical pride. Yet this time, her parasol was absent, her usual grace disrupted. Her hands trembled, her dress disheveled, and sweat stained her pale brow. She claimed a demonic vanguard had infiltrated her "cradle." Without hesitation, she dragged him toward her room.
Her chamber was unlike any other in the White Pearl dormitory. Where most students dwelled in modest quarters, hers resembled a gothic hall, with luxurious carpets, ornate furnishings, and at its center, the coffin that served as her bed. The air was heavy, like a vampire's castle transplanted into the academy.
Then, from the coffin's shadow, movement. A rustle. A flicker of black. And out from the dark gap leapt the supposed "vanguard of the demon world"—nothing more than a common insect, stubborn and hideous in its resilience.
The mercenary struck swiftly, broom in hand, crushing the creature and casting it out through the window. Yet Anastasia trembled still, her pale face growing even whiter. For there was another.
Fear gripped her beyond reason. A thousand-year-old vampire, daughter of the forgotten clan of Aldhibain, cowering before the scurrying of insects. She begged for help, even warning him not to disturb her belongings—especially the diary left on her desk. But when she locked him inside to finish the deed, temptation whispered louder than restraint.
He reached for the diary.
What unfolded within its pages was no account of a proud princess, but the innocent words of a child. The entries spoke of awakening in the year 2021, unearthed from her coffin by accident, discovered by the academy, and admitted for both protection and surveillance. They spoke of her father, a vampire who had once guided her, of a longing for a mother long dead, of attempts to appear "cool" and "fearsome" like the stories she believed.
Every page carried the same childish innocence—birthday celebrations with teachers, gratitude for a gifted parasol, and dreams of making the forgotten name Aldhibain shine again. Yet the truth struck harder than any sword: when Anastasia had fallen into her long slumber a thousand years ago, she had been but a child of nine. Now, though her body bore the weight of millennia, her heart and mind had awakened still ten years old.
The mercenary felt the fragile purity behind her eccentric pride, the loneliness veiled beneath her arrogance. But before he could close the diary, fate betrayed him.
The door burst open.
Anastasia entered, her crimson eyes immediately falling upon the diary in his hands. Her expression froze, then shattered. Tears welled, trembling on the edge of her lashes.
And in that moment, the mercenary knew—he was utterly doomed.