Dawn broke cold and clear over Valekrest Manor.
Arden stood in the courtyard, fully equipped for departure. His travel pack contained everything he'd need for the journey: clothing, personal effects, the gifts from his siblings, and Frost's Whisper secured at his side. Father had arranged for a military escort—fitting for the heir of a Grand Duchy traveling to Northern Military Academy.
"You have everything?" Grand Duke Vareth asked, appearing from the manor entrance.
"Yes, Father."
"Good." Vareth studied him for a long moment. "The carriage will take you to the Northern Command rail station. From there, the academy's transport will bring you and the other recruits to the campus. The journey takes three days."
"I understand."
"Arden." Father's voice was unusually soft. "I know I was resistant when you first proposed Military Academy. But watching you these past two weeks... you've shown me something I'd forgotten. That dedication and hard work can elevate natural talent into something exceptional."
Arden met his father's eyes. "I won't disappoint you."
"You haven't yet. Don't start now." Vareth gripped his shoulder firmly. "Rank 1. That's what you promised. I expect nothing less."
"You'll have it."
The family gathered to see him off—even at this early hour, all five siblings had assembled. Casmir scowled but nodded respectfully. Lyanna smiled serenely, her earlier fear replaced with quiet determination. Theron was crying again, but quietly this time. The twins bounced with barely contained energy.
"Don't die!" Theron called out as Arden climbed into the carriage.
"I won't."
"Get stronger!" Casmir shouted.
"I will."
"Come back safely, eldest brother," Lyanna said softly. "I'll be waiting to learn from you."
The carriage pulled away, and Arden watched his family shrink into the distance. The manor, the training halls, the life he'd known for twelve years—all falling behind as he moved toward something new.
And four years completely separate from the main plot. Kael Thorne will be at Imperial Academy, gathering his companions, uncovering conspiracies. I'll be here, building real combat power.
Since he's the main character though he'll be powerful regardless.
The journey to Northern Command took two days by carriage. Arden used the time productively—reviewing his mental notes on Integration cores, monster patterns, and the general timeline of events he remembered writing. He also practiced mana circulation, refining his techniques even while seated.
The landscape changed gradually as they traveled north. The temperate forests around Valekrest territory gave way to colder, harsher terrain. Pine trees replaced oaks. Snow appeared on distant mountain peaks even in late spring.
This was the frontier. The real North.
On the second evening, they stopped at a military garrison for the night. The soldiers there recognized the Valekrest crest on the carriage and treated Arden with deference.
"The heir himself, coming to Military Academy," one veteran sergeant had said, eyes sharp with assessment. "That's unusual. Most noble brats go to Imperial."
"I'm not most noble brats," Arden had replied simply.
The sergeant had laughed—a rough, genuine sound. "We'll see about that, young master. The academy doesn't care about bloodlines. Only results."
"Good. That's why I'm going."
The next morning, they reached Northern Command—a massive military complex that served as the administrative heart of the frontier defense. The rail station was enormous, with multiple platforms serving different destinations.
"This is where I leave you, young master," the escort captain said. "Platform Seven. The academy transport departs in two hours."
Arden thanked the man and made his way to the designated platform, where a crowd was already gathering.
Children. Dozens of them. Maybe two hundred in total.
Arden studied the crowd with the analytical eye of someone who'd led soldiers. The children ranged from age twelve to fourteen—the academy's recruitment window. But their backgrounds were clearly varied.
Some looked like minor nobility—neat clothes, relatively well-fed, carrying practice weapons that marked them as trained. Others were clearly from harsher circumstances—thin, hard-eyed, dressed in clothes that had seen too much use. Orphans, probably. Or children from families too poor to care for them. The academy accepted anyone who could pass the physical examination, regardless of origin.
Meritocracy in action. This is going to be interesting.
"Name and identification," a stern-faced administrator called out from a desk near the platform entrance.
Arden approached and presented his enrollment documents—officially approved by both his father and the academy.
The administrator's eyes widened slightly when he saw the Valekrest crest. "The Grand Duke's heir. That's... unexpected."
"So I've been told."
"You're aware that at the academy, noble status means nothing? You'll be treated the same as every other recruit."
"That's exactly what I want."
The administrator studied him for a moment, then nodded approvingly. "Good answer. You'll be assigned a number upon arrival at the academy. That number will replace your name for administrative purposes. Do you have any issues with that?"
"None."
"Excellent. Board the train when it arrives. Platform Seven, Car Three—that's for the highest-ranking candidates. Based on your preliminary assessment..." He checked a document. "2nd Stage Mana Heart at age twelve. Yes, you qualify for Car Three."
Arden boarded when the massive mana-powered train arrived. The vehicle was impressive—sleek iron construction powered by condensed mana cores, capable of speeds that would have amazed people from his Earth life. The interior was spartan but functional.
Car Three held about thirty recruits—the candidates with the highest preliminary rankings based on Mana Heart development and combat assessment. These were the prodigies, the ones expected to excel.
Arden found a seat near the window and observed his fellow passengers.
A boy with sandy blonde hair and nervous energy sat across the aisle, constantly fidgeting with a practice sword. Probably 1st Stage, maybe early 2nd based on the mana fluctuations. Minor noble background, based on the quality of his equipment despite his obvious anxiety.
A girl with auburn hair tied back in a severe braid was doing stretches in the aisle, completely unselfconscious about the attention she was drawing. Her movements were precise, controlled—someone who'd trained extensively in physical combat. Likely frontier native, based on her practical approach.
Near the front, a massive boy who looked more like sixteen than fourteen was arm-wrestling another recruit, winning easily despite using only one hand. Raw physical power backed by solid technique. Commoner background, probably—nobles rarely developed that kind of brute strength focus.
These are the top candidates. The ones who'll be competing for Rank 1.
None of them are Kael Thorne. Good. He's at Imperial Academy where he belongs, starting his protagonist journey.
Which means this field is wide open.
The train lurched into motion, and the journey to Northern Military Academy began.
The trip took the better part of a day. As they traveled further north, the temperature dropped noticeably. Snow began appearing on the ground despite it being spring. This was the true frontier—where winter never fully retreated.
Arden spent most of the journey in meditation, but he also listened to conversations around him. Information was valuable, and his fellow recruits were revealing more than they probably intended.
"I heard the academy has a 40% dropout rate in the first year alone," one boy was saying nervously.
"That's nothing," another replied. "My brother went through three years ago. He said the real killer is the frontier rotation in third year. That's when you face actual monster waves."
"Is it true they rank everyone publicly? Like, posted rankings updated monthly?"
"Completely true. It's pure meritocracy. Your combat performance, tactical assessments, Integration efficiency—everything gets scored and ranked. Top performers get first choice of equipment, training time, and Integration cores."
Perfect. Public rankings mean clear goals and transparent competition.
"I heard the Grand Duke's heir is attending this year," someone whispered. "Can you imagine? A ducal heir at Military Academy instead of Imperial?"
"Probably couldn't handle the politics at Imperial," another voice scoffed. "Easier to hide at Military where it's just fighting."
"Or maybe he actually wants to learn real combat instead of courtly dancing," the auburn-haired girl interjected sharply. "The frontier needs warriors, not politicians. Whoever he is, at least he's got his priorities straight."
Arden kept his expression neutral, not revealing that he was the subject of discussion. Better to let them speculate.
"Hey," a voice interrupted his thoughts. The sandy-blonde boy from across the aisle was looking at him nervously. "You've been really quiet. Are you... are you nervous? About the academy?"
"Should I be?"
"I am! Everyone says the training is brutal. That they break you down completely before building you back up. That the instructors are former war veterans who don't know the meaning of mercy." The boy's hands were shaking slightly. "I'm Garrett, by the way. Garrett Millhouse. Minor nobility from the eastern provinces."
"Arden."
Garrett waited for more, then prompted: "Just Arden?"
"For now. We'll all be numbers soon enough anyway."
"Right. Right, that's true." Garrett fidgeted with his sword again. "Do you think we'll be in the same training group? I heard they divide us into squads of ten. It'd be nice to have at least one familiar face."
"We'll find out when we arrive."
The boy seemed to want more conversation, but Arden returned to his meditation. He had four years to build relationships if needed. Right now, information gathering was more valuable than small talk.
As the hours passed, the train carried them deeper into the North. The landscape became increasingly hostile—frozen wasteland broken by hardy pine forests, distant mountains that looked more like natural fortresses than geological formations.
This was frontier territory. The buffer zone between civilization and the monster-infested Dead Zones.
And somewhere out there, the monster waves are building. The pressure is increasing. The Northern Front's slow collapse is already beginning, even if nobody realizes it yet.
Four years to prepare. Four years to claim the Integration cores I need. Four years to build the strength required to survive what's coming.
Arden opened his eyes as the train began to slow.
Through the window, he could see it: Northern Military Academy.
The academy was massive. Built like a fortress rather than a school, with high walls, guard towers, and defensive positions that suggested it could withstand a siege. The architecture was purely functional—no decorative elements, no aesthetic considerations. Just brutal efficiency.
This is a place that produces soldiers, not scholars.
Perfect.
As recruits filed off the train onto the platform, Arden got a better view of the facility. Multiple training grounds were visible beyond the walls. Obstacle courses. Combat arenas. What looked like a full-scale mock battlefield in the distance.
This wasn't going to be like the cushy environment of Imperial Academy, with its grand halls and political maneuvering.
This was war training. Pure and simple.
"All recruits, form up!" A stern voice shouted. A man with sharp, angular features stood on a raised platform, glaring at the assembled children with an expression that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else. His scarred face and missing finger marked him as a combat veteran. "I am Instructor Salmosa, Head Instructor for this year's intake. From this moment forward, you are no longer whatever you were before. You are RECRUITS. You will be assigned numbers. Those numbers will replace your names. You will answer to those numbers. You will live or die by how well you perform under those numbers. Is that understood?!"
A ragged chorus of "Yes!" came from the assembled recruits.
"THAT WAS PATHETIC! AGAIN!"
"YES, SIR!" This time the response was unified and loud.
"Better. Barely." Instructor Salmosa's glare intensified. "You will now proceed to identification and physical examination. Those who pass will receive their assignments. Those who fail will be sent home as the WORTHLESS TRASH you clearly are. Move!"
The recruits scrambled into motion. Arden moved with them, but with the disciplined efficiency of someone who'd been through basic training before—just in a different life, in a different military.
The identification process was straightforward but thorough. Blood sample for mana verification. Mana Heart assessment. Physical examination checking vision, mobility, and overall health.
When it was Arden's turn, the examiner's eyes widened slightly at the Mana Heart reading.
"2nd Stage. Age twelve. Peak physical condition." The man looked up at Arden with new respect. "You're at the top tier of this year's recruits. What's your name?"
"Arden Valekrest."
The examiner paused, his expression shifting to recognition. "The Grand Duke's heir?"
"Yes."
"Hm. Well, heir or not, you'll be judged the same as everyone else here." The man made a note on his sheet. "Your examination results qualify you for advanced placement. You'll receive your number shortly."
After processing, Arden was handed a small metal tag with a number engraved on it: 0001.
"Your number is 0001," an administrator explained with barely concealed surprise. "This indicates you have the highest preliminary assessment ranking among this year's recruits. This is your identifier for the duration of your academy training. Do you accept this designation?"
"I do."
"Good. Proceed to the assembly grounds. Orientation begins in one hour. And recruit 0001?" The administrator's expression was difficult to read. "That number comes with expectations. Don't disappoint us."
"I won't."
Arden made his way to the designated area, where other recruits were gathering. He noticed the nervous blonde boy—Garrett—had received number 0089. The auburn-haired girl was 0012. The massive physical specimen was 0034.
The number distribution made sense. Most recruits were in the hundreds or thousands—indicating lower preliminary rankings based on age, Mana Heart development, and combat assessment.
Only a handful had numbers below 100.
And Arden was 0001.
Highest preliminary ranking. That's a good start.
But it's only a start. Preliminary assessments are just that—preliminary. The real rankings begin once training starts.
Still, being recognized as the top recruit from the beginning sends a message. Now I just have to live up to it.
As more recruits assembled, Arden noticed the reactions when people saw his number tag. Whispers. Pointing. Some looked at him with respect, others with envy, a few with outright hostility.
Good. Let them react. Let them see 0001 and know they had a target to aim for.
Competition bred excellence. And Arden intended to use that competition to push himself even harder.
"Attention!" Instructor Salmosa's voice cut through the murmuring crowd. "You have all been assigned numbers. These numbers reflect your preliminary ranking. The lower your number, the higher your initial assessment. But do not mistake these numbers for guarantees. They are starting positions, nothing more. Your actual ranking will be determined by your performance during training. Many of you with low numbers will fail. Many with high numbers will exceed expectations. That is the nature of meritocracy."
He paused, letting his words sink in.
"In one hour, we begin orientation. This will not be gentle. This will not be comfortable. We will break down whatever soft civilian habits you've developed and rebuild you as soldiers. Some of you will quit in the first week. Others will last months before breaking. And a select few..." His eyes swept across the assembled recruits, lingering briefly on Arden. "A select few will endure. Will excel. Will become the warriors the North desperately needs."
Salmosa's expression hardened further.
"Use this hour to prepare yourselves mentally. Say goodbye to whoever you were. Because that person dies today. What emerges from our training will be something else entirely."
He stepped down from the platform, and several junior instructors began herding recruits toward barracks for temporary housing.
Arden found himself assigned to Barracks One—reserved for the top-ranked preliminary recruits. The bunks were basic but clean. His fellow occupants included the auburn-haired girl (0012), the massive boy (0034), and about twenty others with numbers below 50.
"So you're the famous 0001," the auburn-haired girl said, approaching Arden as he secured his pack. "The Grand Duke's heir who chose Military over Imperial. I'm Serra. Serra Hallik. 0012."
"Arden."
"I know who you are. Everyone knows who you are." She crossed her arms, assessing him with sharp eyes. "Question is, are you actually as good as that number suggests? Or did noble privilege bump you to the top?"
"The assessment was blind. They didn't know my identity until after the ranking."
"Good answer." Serra's expression remained skeptical but less hostile. "I'm from a frontier settlement. Been fighting off monster raids since I could hold a sword. I earned my number through blood and survival. I hope you earned yours through something more than fancy training halls and private instructors."
"I guess we'll find out during orientation."
"Yeah. We will." She moved to claim a bunk near the window. "Fair warning—I'm aiming for Rank 1 by graduation. That number you're wearing? It's temporary. I'm taking it."
Arden couldn't help but smile slightly. "Looking forward to the competition."
The massive boy who'd been arm-wrestling on the train approached next. "Thrain Vokker. 0034. No fancy noble background, no frontier survivor story. Just worked harder than everyone else to get here." He extended a hand the size of a dinner plate. "You seem solid. Glad to have you in the barracks."
Arden shook the offered hand, noting the calluses that spoke of years of physical labor. "Likewise."
Other introductions followed. The top-ranked recruits sizing each other up, establishing the initial social hierarchy that would shift and change over the coming weeks.
But through it all, Arden remained focused on one thing:
Rank 1. Not just preliminary assessment. Actual performance ranking.
These people are my competition. Talented, driven, hungry for success.
Perfect. That's exactly what I need to push myself to the limit.
An hour later, Instructor Salmosa's whistle pierced the air.
"ALL RECRUITS, ASSEMBLY GROUNDS, NOW! LAST ONE THERE DOES A HUNDRED PUSH-UPS!"
The scramble was immediate and chaotic.
Arden was one of the first to arrive, moving with the efficient speed of someone who'd internalized military urgency in a past life.
As he stood in formation, waiting for the infamous orientation to begin, he felt a thrill of anticipation..
Let's see what happens when a twelve-year-old with a veteran's mindset meets the most brutal military academy in the Empire.
Time to earn that Rank 1.