'Ah… it's over.'
Dean Escaro stood at the Academy's grand entrance, kneeling on the cobblestones, awaiting the grim reaper who would take his head.
He wore his formal robes, cleaned and pressed one final time. His hair, or what remained of it, have been combed neatly. If he was to die today, he would die with dignity.
Beside him knelt the instructor—Sir Gareth—whose face was swollen and bruised from the beating he received. The man's jaw trembled visibly, openly betraying his terror. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, though he tried to maintain composure.
In the distance, the sound of approaching horses echoed through the plaza.
Clop-clop-clop-clop!!
The rhythmic clopping of iron-shod horses running on stone.
The warhorse arrived before them—a magnificent black Destrier horse, easily seventeen hands high, with eyes that gleamed with barely-contained aggression. The beast snorted, hot breath misting in the cool morning air.
Dean Escaro kept his head bowed, but he could feel the presence before him. It was like a mountain had suddenly materialized, crushing down with its sheer mass.
The weight of concentrated killing intent.
The aura of someone who had taken hundreds—perhaps thousands—of lives.
"Raise your heads."
The voice was beautiful—melodic, almost musical—yet simultaneously laced with a chilling charisma that made both men's spines stiffen involuntarily.
There wasn't a single fool present who didn't know who she was.
Dean Escaro raised his head first, followed a heartbeat later by the instructor.
On the black warhorse sat a woman who seemed carved from moonlight and steel. She wore the Empire's formal conquest attire—a long coat of midnight blue trimmed with silver, fitted trousers, high boots polished to a mirror shine. At her hip hung a longsword in a plain scabbard, the kind of weapon that saw actual use rather than ceremonial display.
Her silver hair was bound tightly in a warrior's braid, not a single strand out of place, shimmering in the morning sunlight like liquid metal. Her eyes—a deep, striking ruby red—gazed down upon the two kneeling men with the detached assessment of a predator studying prey.
Behind her, mounted knights in full plate armor held banners emblazoned with the imperial crest—a golden dragon coiled around a sword. Their posture was perfect, their discipline evident in every controlled movement.
This was Eclair Dritna.
Member of the Imperial Knights. Guardian of the Imperial family. The Emperor's living sword.
Former disciple of the legendary Sword Saint Ashen Primiller.
The lowest-ranked among the Empire's Five Knights—not because she was weak, but because she was the youngest. Give her another decade, and she would likely be the strongest.
The supernova of the Harun Empire had appeared at the Academy.
Her current status today was not that of a knight, but as an Imperial representative. She came bearing the Emperor's will.
"Give it," she said quietly to one of the knight.
The knight dismounted smoothly and approached, holding a scroll case. The case itself was a work of art—polished darkwood inlaid with gold, sealed with red wax bearing the imperial dragon.
Inside lay the Emperor's decree.
Eclair dismounted her horse with fluid grace, her boots hitting the cobblestones without a sound. She took the scroll case, broke the seal with her thumb, and withdrew the parchment.
'Because of th-that… damn bastard…'
Dean Escaro felt a fresh surge of fury toward the instructor kneeling beside him. If only the fool had listened. If only the priests and mages had accompanied them. If only, if only, if only.
This wouldn't have happened.
The Dean glared at the instructor with such intensity that if looks could kill, the man would have combusted on the spot. But he forced himself to redirect his gaze back to the ground as Eclair unrolled the scroll.
The parchment crinkled slightly in the morning breeze.
"Doran Escaro, heed this!"
The Dean's breath caught in his throat.
The scroll bore no title of Count—a courtesy title he was granted decades ago for service to the Empire. It didn't mention his position as Dean. It carried only his name, stripped of all honors and ranks.
Doran Escaro.
Just a man.
A man who had failed.
The instructor beside him wasn't even mentioned. As if he didn't exist. As if his role in this disaster was so insignificant that it didn't warrant acknowledgment.
All the weight, all the responsibility, fell on the Dean's shoulders alone.
Doran Escaro bowed his head even lower, pressing his forehead nearly to the cold stone, and offered no verbal reply. There was nothing to say. No defense to mount.
Seeing his submission, Eclair began reading the decree aloud. Her voice echoed across the empty plaza with a clarity that made every word feel like a hammer blow.
"While We wish to commend your long service to the Empire as Dean of Starcrest Academy, guiding promising talents and fostering excellence for decades, Your complacent handling of this recent incident cannot be overlooked."
The Dean's hands, pressed flat against the cobblestones, trembled.
"Even if we were to behead you immediately and exterminate your entire bloodline, Our wrath would not subside, nor would the Empire's tarnished honor be restored. Though the Prince's injury has been treated and healed, the stain of this incident remains."
Dean Escaro desperately wanted to stand up. To explain. To detail all the preparations he had made, all the warnings he had given, to lay bare the instructor's madness for all to see.
But he couldn't.
He could only tremble with a mixture of rage and fear, feeling the weight of imperial judgment pressing down on him like a physical force.
"We intended to punish you according to the ancient principle of rewarding the virtuous and executing the wicked, but—"
The Dean's heart nearly stopped.
But?
A "but" meant possibility. A "but" meant he might—possibly, impossibly—survive this.
"—at the earnest request of Prince Aldric himself, who pleaded for mercy on your behalf, We shall bestow a lighter punishment. You are granted an opportunity to atone for this matter."
Shiiing!
The sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard rang out like a bell toll.
'Why the sword? Didn't you just say you're giving me a chance?!'
But the blade was out. Steel gleamed in the sunlight.
Both the Dean and the instructor froze like rabbits before a wolf, every muscle locked, barely daring to breathe.
Eclair's mana shifted, flooding outward in a wave of pressure that made the very air feel heavy. The grass in the plaza bent away from her, as if blown by an invisible wind.
"We have recently expressed grave concern over the complacency of the Empire's citizens," she continued, her voice cutting through the oppressive atmosphere.
"Too long have we known peace. Too long have our warriors grown soft, training only for ceremony and spectacle."
Her ruby eyes swept across both kneeling men, and for a moment, Dean Escaro felt as if she could see directly into his soul. See every failure, every compromise, every moment of weakness.
"As long as the Federation exists beyond our borders, do not assume this peace will last forever. To ensure the continued prosperity and dominance of our mighty Empire, the Academy's role is paramount."
The sword in her hand seemed to hum with barely-contained violence.
"Doran Escaro. Take this incident as a lesson learned from an overturned cart—" she paused, letting the weight of the classical idiom sink in, "—and establish comprehensive training and practical measures to foster knights strong in actual combat. Create warriors who will not falter when faced with real danger. Prevent future calamities of this nature. This is your penance. This is your path to redemption."
Shoosh—!
The sound of a bowstring pulled to its absolute limit, then snapping.
As soon as the scroll's final words left Eclair's lips, her sword moved.
It was too fast to see. One moment it was at her side. The next, it had completed its arc.
Two objects hit the ground.
Thud!! Thud!!—
The instructor's severed head rolled across the cobblestones, coming to rest face-up, eyes wide and staring at nothing. Blood pumped from the neck stump in rhythmic spurts.
Dean Escaro, still bowing, saw the head stop rolling just inches from his face. Those dead eyes seemed to stare at him accusingly.
And beside the head lay his own right arm, severed cleanly at the shoulder.
For a moment, his mind couldn't process what he was seeing. That couldn't be his arm. His arm was attached. He could feel it.
Except he couldn't.
The pain hit a second later—a white-hot spike of agony that made his vision swim. Blood poured from the wound, soaking his robes, pooling beneath him. His body wanted to scream, to writhe, to do anything to escape the pain.
But he held his position. Head bowed. Back straight.
He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him break.
The decree had been explicit: regenerating or reattaching the severed arm was not permitted. This was a permanent mark of his failure. A reminder he would carry for the rest of his life.
Compared to beheading and exterminating his entire family—compared to what could have been—it was certainly a light punishment.
Merciful, even.
Dean Escaro gritted his teeth against the pain, tasting copper as he bit his tongue to keep from crying out. His consciousness began to fade at the edges, gray creeping into his vision.
Ten seconds passed. Fifteen. Twenty.
Finally, the grim reaper spoke again.
"That is all."
"…I shall repay His Majesty the Emperor's boundless grace with all my remaining strength," Dean Escaro managed to force out through clenched teeth.
The formalities were complete.
Eclair sheathed her sword with a soft click, mounted her warhorse, and departed without another word. The knights followed in perfect formation, banners floating in the wind.
Only when the sound of horses faded completely did Dean Escaro finally rise.
His legs shook violently as he stood. Blood continued to pour from his shoulder. He raised his remaining hand and began channeling magic, cauterizing the wound with controlled flame. The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
'I-I'm alive!'
The relief of miraculously surviving was overwhelming. For one brief, shining moment, Dean Doran Escaro felt joy.
Then reality crashed back down.
He seriously considered whether dying might not have been better, thinking about what lay ahead.
'Cadets shall train based on practical combat, not mere ceremonial drills.'
'Conduct training that allows for responses to unforeseen variables.'
'Establish comprehensive training and education to create knights strong in real combat.'
This was the task that had been assigned to him. To him—a former Archmage who had never spent a day as a knight, who didn't understand the first thing about chivalric training beyond what he had read in books.
How was he supposed to accomplish this impossible task?
"What am I to do…" he said aloud, his voice hollow with despair.
-
Three days later, in the Dean's office—now bearing permanent bloodstains on the floor that no amount of scrubbing could remove—the administrator cautiously approached with a suggestion.
The Dean sat slumped in his chair, his empty right sleeve pinned across his chest. He looked like he have aged a decade in less than a week. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes. His skin have taken on an unhealthy gray color.
"Dean," the administrator began carefully, "shouldn't we recruit a new instructor? Someone with excellent practical combat experience?"
"Hoo…" Dean Escaro exhaled slowly, as if the weight of the world sat on his chest.
"Of course I know that. But even if we appoint a new knight as an instructor, how can we guarantee they won't be like Sir Gareth? Another fool worshiping empty chivalry and honor over actual results?"
A brief silence fell upon the office.
The administrator shifted his weight, clearly weighing whether to continue. Finally, he spoke again, his tone suggesting genuine curiosity rather than provocation.
"Dean, forgive my presumption, but… is there truly a need to insist on knights specifically?"
Dean Escaro's head lifted slightly. "What do you mean?"
"Isn't an instructor for the Knight Department simply someone who wields a sword well and can teach practical combat? Why must they hold the title of knight?"
It was a statement so heretical that any passing knight would have drawn their blade and challenged the administrator to a duel for the insult to their sacred order.
But Dean Escaro wasn't a knight. He was a pragmatist. A mage who valued results over ceremony.
"…Continue," he said slowly.
"Perhaps if we merged certain aspects of the Sword Arts Department and the Knight Department, or at least open common courses between them—"
It was the kind of suggestion that could only come from a theorist who had never witnessed actual battlefield hierarchy. The Knight Department and Sword Arts Department despised each other with a passion that bordered on religious fervor. The idea of cooperation was laughable.
And yet.
And yet, as Dean Escaro sat there, missing an arm, staring down the barrel of an impossible task, this insane idea struck him as almost… novel.
What if knights didn't teach the Knight Department?
What if they brought in someone from outside the traditional power structure?
Someone who fought not with honor, but with effectiveness?
Someone who had survived real battles, not ceremonial duels?
His mind began to turn, gears clicking into place.
"Tell me," he said quietly, leaning forward. "What do you know about the Adventurer's Guild?"