At the eastern edge of Azurefall, the air was filled with ash and sulphur. The back of each throat was seared by the smoke that clung to the ground. Under claws that shouldn't have been there, the blue energy shield weakened and split along the middle, shattering light like glass.
"Hold the line!" the Barrier Mage screamed, her voice raw from hours of strain. Her lips were pale, and her arms were shaking. Her collar was soaked with blood that poured from her nose.
With their claws screaming over the barrier, the Razorclaws threw themselves at it. The sound was knives on bone.
"They're breaking through!" someone shouted.
"Shut up and fight!" roared a scarred soldier, his axe cleaving one beast in half as it forced itself through a fissure in the shield. Another lunged at him instantly, tearing deep into his arm.
He cried out, "Heyy...HEALER!" and stumbled back, splashing blood on the ground.
"I'm here!" A woman in white robes rushed forward, her hands reflected soft green as she placed on his wound. Her voice shook. "Stay still! Don't you dare give up on me!"
"For every one we kill, three more take their place!" a young sorcerer cried, panic cracking his words. His lightning struck wide, frying two Razorclaws, but three more crawled over their corpses. His hands shook. "It's not enough—it's never enough!"
"Don't stop!" a captain shouted, his sword arm moving like a machine. His face was mud and blood, but his voice cut clear. "If you run, you die!"
The ground quaked. A deep vibration climbed up through their boots, rattling teeth. A soldier fell to his knees, eyes wide. "What—what is that?"
A shadow rose. The Demon Lord stepped forward. A giant of obsidian flesh, magma glowing in cracks across its body, heat bleeding from every movement. Just seeing it stole the breath from the defenders.
"No…" the Barrier Mage whispered, tears cutting through dirt on her face. "No, not now—"
The shield shattered in a million sparks of blue. Her scream was drowned by the horde's roar.
The line buckled. Soldiers faltered, some turning to run. With a broken sword clenched to his chest, a youngster barely older than Kairen cried, "Mother... I do not want to die."
"No..No.. We can't—there are too many of them!" the healer cried out, her voice breaking.
Then—
"I guess the warm-up's over."
The voice was calm. Too calm.
Rayan walked forward through the ruin of the line. Dawnbreaker blazed in his hand like a newborn sun. Soldiers parted as if pulled aside by gravity itself. His smirk was maddening—fearless, almost mocking the despair around him.
"Now the real fight begins," he said, his voice steady enough to anchor the breaking army.
He moved with predatory ease, slicing through the crowded like a shadow and flame. With each precise and decisive stroke, his blade carved arcs of light into the flesh of crystal. Then he faced the Demon Lord. Steel against magma. Light against void. Each blow was a clash of universes, and the conflict seemed to go on forever. With his blade a silver comet, Rayan rushed to deliver the final strike, severing the monster's core.
The Demon Lord collapsed into ash. The horde faltered. Against all reason, the defenders roared.
"LUMINOS ARCANA!"
The words tore out of Kairen's throat. His arm stretched, fingers clawed toward the empty air. The academy training yard rang with his cry.
Nothing.
The mark on his back stayed cold. Always cold. Always silent. Just a scar. Just a curse.
"Ugh!" He dropped his hand and kicked a loose stone so hard it cracked against the wall. "It's useless. I'm useless."
"You're forcing it again," Ilya said softly, seated on the bench.On her lap, her book was open and unread. "You are repeatedly knocking on a door that does not open in that manner."
"I'm reaching into nothing," he snapped. "The void doesn't answer. How do you grab something that isn't there?"
"Maybe it is there," she murmured. "Close your eyes. Don't think about light. Just listen."
He obeyed. Breath in. Breath out. He pressed his mind inward, into the silence where magic should burn. All he found was the same abyss. Cold. Vast. Empty.
"I feel nothing," he whispered, hollow. "Empty."
Ilya's eyes softened for a moment before she hid it again. "Then try again tomorrow."
Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
Dain suddenly shot up with a shout. "NO WAY—YES!"
Kairen jerked, frowning. "What now?"
"They're back!" Dain waved his crystal slate wildly, shoving the glowing screen toward them. A headline burned bright: Victory at the Border—Magister Kellan's Company Returns!
He zoomed in on the picture. Rayan stood at the front, Dawnbreaker gleaming, his smirk as effortless as if war were a game.
"Rayan killed a Demon Lord all by himself," Dain breathed, grinning like a child. "Isn't that insane?"
Kairen stared. Rayan looked untouchable. A legend carved in flesh. But behind him stood others—mages, healers, swordsmen. Different strengths. Different paths. The thought flickered sharp: maybe magic wasn't the only way.
"And her…" Dain's voice melted into something dreamy. He zoomed in on a woman in white robes, her hands glowing in the photo. "Lyraelle, the Saintess of the White Petal. The best healer alive. And so, so cute, right?"
"She is… respected," Ilya said, her tone flat, her eyes unreadable.
Before Kairen could answer, a booming magical voice swept over the campus. "All first-year students, gather in the Grand Seminar Hall immediately."
The hall buzzed like a storm. Hundreds of students, fear and excitement crashing together.
The Headmaster stepped forward, his voice steady thunder. "Today, you choose your Path. To guide you, I present true heroes—Magister Kellan's company!"
Applause shook the walls as the heroes filed onto the stage. Dain nearly climbed onto his seat, waving like a fool when Lyraelle entered. Ilya silently tugged him back down.
Magister Kellan spoke, heavy and sharp as an axe. "Three Pillars of Defense. Vanguard. Arcane. Support."
One finger raised. "Vanguard: swordsmen, guardians, berserkers. Our front line."
Kairen saw Rayan's image again, blade blazing.
Second finger. "Arcane. Elementalists, enchanters, shadow weavers."
The word punched into Kairen like a stone. Arcane. The locked door. His mark pulsed faintly, cold against his skin.
Third finger. "Support. Healers and Barrier Mages. The hands that hold us together. Never mistake them for weak."
Dain leaned close. "Did you hear that? Lyraelle's worth more than ten of me." His grin was wide, honest.
Then Rayan stepped forward. Casual. Light. Yet his words carried weight.
"They'll tell you it's about glory," he said. "But when a Razorclaw's chewing on your face, you're mostly praying you wore clean underwear."
Laughter cracked the tension. Even Kairen smirked.
"But swordsmen live on trust," Rayan went on, his tone sharpening. "Trust in your steel. In your training. In the person next to you. Not destiny. Not talent. Just hours of work until your body can't stand anymore. Anyone can learn it."
The words slammed into Kairen. Not magic. Not gifts denied. Work. Choice.
Rayan drew Dawnbreaker, light flooding the hall. "Some blades have souls. Dawnbreaker burns. The Thunder Blade roars. The Shadow Blade whispers. And then… the Moonlit Blade. It doesn't shine. It drinks light. A weapon of silence and precision. They say it can cut through magic itself."
Kairen turned sharply. "The Moonlit Blade—that's what they call you."
Ilya's jaw locked. "A title," she whispered. "Not one I wanted."
For a heartbeat, pain broke through her mask. The weight of a name too heavy to bear. Kairen understood. For the first time, he truly understood.
Rayan's voice cut in: "A true warrior makes their own legend, with or without a soul-blade."
The Headmaster raised his hand. "Now—choose."
Chaos. Students surged to their paths—Elementalists, Healers, Guardians. Dain strode without hesitation to the Berserker instructor, waving his arms like he already belonged.
Kairen stayed frozen. Everyone had a place. Everyone but him.
Arcane—locked. Support—closed. Only one path left. Vanguard.
He looked at the swordsmen. No sparks. No light. Just calloused hands, steady stances, and sweat. Honest work. Honest pain.
Rayan's words echoed: Anyone can learn it.
Kairen thought of his father. Not the statue. The boy who had once been terrified. Who worked until fear broke.
Slowly, he stood. His legs shook, but they carried him. Ilya was standing near the Shadow Weavers across the hall. She looked into his unbelievable eyes and then nodded slightly.
It was enough.
Kairen turned his back on magic that never wanted him, and stepped toward steel—the one path left, and the only one he could make his own.