The dawn above the megacity was pale blue, and the skyline glowed faintly under the towering silver domes of the Space Exploring Officer Academy—a monument of human ambition standing on the very soil that once belonged to the first colonization mission decades ago. The cold light from the hovering satellites reflected off the glass windows as Ignis strode through the open gates, his shadow stretching long under the synthetic sunlight.
It had been years since he had walked in a place like this—a world built upon pure technology, gleaming with pride and arrogance. He had no uniform yet, just a standard black coat over his gray training outfit, but the badge in his hand—engraved with the emblem of the Academy and his new title, "Instructor Ignis"—was proof enough of his authority.
Flamme's words from last night lingered in his head. "I hope you will help me in the future, Instructor Ignis."
He smirked slightly. Help? Perhaps. But the truth was, this world needed more than just help—it needed a foundation strong enough to bear the weight of human arrogance. And that was why he accepted this position.
As Ignis entered the faculty corridor, several instructors noticed him—some nodded politely, others whispered. He caught fragments of conversation:
"Is that the new instructor, the commoner from the slums?""I heard he's a field veteran. Probably thinks he can handle these spoiled cadets.""Well, let's see how long he lasts with 7-B…"
The mention of 7-B made Ignis raise an eyebrow. Even the other instructors seemed wary of that class.
He reached the classroom. The door opened automatically with a soft hiss of compressed air.
The moment he stepped in, chaos greeted him.
Dozens of students—some in pristine uniforms adorned with gold insignias, others in half-buttoned shirts and casual jackets—were scattered everywhere. Some lounged on desks, others were tossing data chips, while a few argued over their recent simulation scores projected midair by holographic tablets.
The atmosphere was a battlefield of egos, not an academy.
Ignis quietly closed the door.
Then a voice cut through the din—mocking, lazy, and dripping with entitlement.
"Well, well… Look who's here. The commoner from yesterday."
The speaker was a tall young man with ash-blond hair, his uniform immaculate and his boots polished to a mirror finish. Around his neck hung a thin chain with the crest of House Ferrand, a wealthy corporation that had monopolized orbital shuttle production.
Robin Ferrand.
He leaned back in his chair, smirking, as if testing the limits of the new instructor's patience.
"You look strong. But this young master doesn't need you to teach him." His tone was deliberately insulting, the kind of mockery born from a lifetime of protection and wealth.
Ignis didn't reply. He simply walked—slow, deliberate steps echoing on the metal floor—until he stood at the center of the room.
His gaze swept across the class. There were about thirty students. He could already tell the factions apart:
The Upper Group, seated together near the front, with arrogant posture and high-end equipment on their body.
The Rebell Group, clustered at the far back, smirking and whispering among themselves, obviously enjoying the confrontation.
The Common Group, sitting quietly in between, eyes darting nervously between Ignis and Robin.
The tension in the room thickened with each of his steps.
Robin chuckled. "What? Cat got your tongue? Maybe you should—"
Ignis's hand slammed onto the metal podium, producing a loud, piercing clang that silenced the entire room in an instant.
He didn't shout. He didn't even raise his voice.
But the air changed.
His aura—the residual pressure of countless battles, refined through survival and war—unfolded slowly like a tide, pressing down on every person present.
It wasn't visible, but it was felt. The cadets' hearts began to pound; some felt their knees weaken, others struggled to breathe. Even the air vents seemed to hum differently under that invisible weight.
Ignis raised his head slightly, eyes gleaming like tempered steel.
"I don't care what your background is," he said slowly. "I don't care if your father owns a fleet of battleships or if your mother sits on the Council."
His gaze locked on Robin.
"And I especially don't care what you think you deserve."
The pressure intensified for a brief moment, and several cadets gasped, gripping their desks. Robin's smirk faltered.
"I'm your instructor now," Ignis continued. "You will follow my rules. You will train under my conditions. And if anyone here thinks they can play with the rules…" He paused, the silence heavy. "…I will personally make sure you regret it."
He released his aura abruptly, the atmosphere returning to normal—but the fear lingered.
Ignis stepped back, folding his arms. "Now, everyone stand up and head to the field. You have five minutes."
A beat of silence.
Then murmurs spread across the class.
"Field? Already?""What's this guy planning?""Is he serious?"
Ignis smiled thinly. "You have four minutes and thirty seconds now."
The sound of chairs scraping against the floor echoed like thunder. The students moved quickly—some rushing, others cursing under their breath. Even Robin, pale-faced and sweating slightly, avoided eye contact as he followed the crowd out.
As the classroom emptied, Ignis looked out the wide window, the morning sun gleaming over the domes and solar towers.
He murmured softly, as if speaking to himself, "Let's see what kind of cadets you really are."
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The morning sun was glitter gold, painting the ruins on the outskirts of the city with golden-yellow light. Cracks in the sky shimmered faintly—the unstable edges of a newly opened Rank A Gate.
Friz adjusted protector on his shoulder and sighed. Around him, six other Rankers were preparing for battle—if one could call it preparation.
Expensive armor gleamed under the sun, weapons adorned with family crests and mana seals flickered faintly. But beneath that grandeur was a glaring truth: none of them had seen real combat.
"Are you done showing off your toys?" Friz muttered, squinting at the gate's distortion.
One of the Rankers, a tall young man in silver armor, sneered. "Watch your mouth, commoner! You're here to protect us. Understand your position."
Friz raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Say that again."
The man gritted his teeth. "You—"
But before he could finish, Friz's hand twitched slightly. A faint pulse of energy—barely perceptible—rippled outward. The ground froze beneath the arrogant Ranker's boots, a warning of restrained power.
Friz's expression didn't change. "I don't care who you people are. My job is to deal with the gate. Not to babysit spoiled brats."
He turned his back, looking at the distortion swirling before them like a vortex of violet light.
"So stay out of my way. Or before the monsters even touch you…" His tone sharpened. "…you'll find out that I'm far scarier than they are."
The group went silent. Even the air seemed to grow colder.
Friz stepped forward, summoning Snowbreaker.
Behind him, the others exchanged uneasy glances. For the first time, they began to sense it—the difference between someone who played at being a Ranker… and someone who lived as one.
The gate pulsed.
And as the portal open, Friz whispered to himself:
"Let's finish it quick."