Within the locked chamber of the White Pearl Dormitory, tension lingered like a heavy fog. Connor McLeod, the mercenary whose body carried the soul of the regressor Kyle, knelt silently before Anastasia von Aldhibain. She sat upon her coffin, pale fingers gripping her diary as if it were her only shield.
The veil of mystery finally lifted. Anastasia, feared as a vampire princess of a thousand years, was revealed not as an eternal sovereign but as a mere child. Ten years old. Her long centuries were spent not in experience, but in sealed slumber.
Her prideful theatrics and childish outbursts now made sense. They were not masks but genuine traces of youth. For the first time, Connor saw her not as an ancient predator but as a vulnerable girl, trembling beneath the weight of a title she was never ready to bear.
Yet Connor did not meet the truth with anger. To rage at a ten-year-old for her desperate attempt to appear strong would have been foolish. He understood her fears—the need to look powerful before others, to hide the fragility behind her crimson gaze. His calm acceptance left Anastasia shaken, as if her heart could not believe such forgiveness.
But the danger of her secret was clear. At the Academy, students whispered in fear of the Aldhibain princess, trembling before her noble vampiric presence. If they learned her true age, mockery would replace fear. Nobles who once avoided her shadow would belittle her, dragging her clan's ancient dignity into disgrace.
For that reason, Anastasia begged Connor to keep her truth hidden. Her voice quivered with pride wounded by shame. And though Kyle, ever pragmatic within Connor's mind, grumbled at the absurdity of the situation, Connor agreed.
For one mischievous moment, he asked her to call him "brother." Her body wriggled with embarrassment, her voice cracking as she tried. But before the words could fully form, fate intruded. A black insect, long forgotten amidst their exchange, crawled at her feet. Its antenna brushed against her pale skin, and in an instant, the vampire princess collapsed, fainting into helpless silence.
The following day, there was no time to dwell on secrets. The Academy's group training separated the six students, each sent to hone their gifts in specialized facilities. Connor's path led him underground, into the Reaction Speed Training Room, a vast chamber lined with wooden scarecrows whose arms had been replaced with crossbows.
Professor Master Muscle awaited him there, his booming voice as overbearing as ever. He demanded Connor explain his gift, and Connor did so plainly: when danger neared, a sharp tingling sensation struck his forehead.
The professor praised it as a rare survival gift—one honed by instinct, invaluable on the battlefield. But he also revealed its greatest flaw. When an arrow was fired at Connor, the gift warned him. He dodged smoothly, only to be struck hard from the side. Another scarecrow had fired at the same time, and his gift had offered no clarity on direction.
The truth was undeniable. The gift could sense danger, but not where it came from. Worse, simultaneous threats rendered it unreliable. What Connor once believed to be absolute survival instinct was imperfect, vulnerable to chaos.
Then the trial began. With a single stomp, the professor activated the chamber's mechanism. One by one, all twelve scarecrows raised their crossbows, their cold wooden faces locked onto Connor.
No reliance on his gift. No safety net. Only raw instinct and experience.
The command echoed. Triggers clicked. Arrows whistled from every direction. Connor's forehead blazed with warning, and in the eye of the storm, the mercenary moved—
Not as a student. Not as a child of the Academy. But as a survivor, forged in battlefields where hesitation meant death.