A bell rang somewhere outside. Sharp and clear. Students began gathering their things, the scrape of chairs on wood filling the room. They moved around him like water around a stone, not one of them meeting his eyes.
Ragna sat there, trembling, as they filed out.
Through the window, he could see a courtyard. Students walked in small groups, laughing and talking. In the distance, something moved in the sky—not a bird, but something larger, with leathery wings and scales that caught the sunlight.
A dragon? No. Too small. A wyvern maybe. A symbiote belonging to one of the academy's students.
This world—this new, cruel, impossible world—operated on rules he didn't understand. Power hierarchies he'd need to learn. Dangers he couldn't even begin to imagine.
But Ragna Thornfield—no, Ragna Stormborn now—was a survivor.
He'd jumped from the edge of space. He'd broken the sound barrier. He'd stared into the void and come back.
Whatever this world threw at him, he'd face it the same way he'd faced every impossible challenge in his old life.
Head first. Full speed. No fear.
Well... maybe a little fear.
But he'd figure it out.
Starting with finding the weakest, most pathetic creature he could bond with and proving that even trash could become something extraordinary.
Outside the window, the bell rang again.
And in the shadows of the academy courtyard, something watched him with hungry eyes.
His journey had begun.
---
Ragna stared out the classroom window, but he wasn't seeing the courtyard or the red-leafed trees swaying in the afternoon breeze.
He was seeing ten years ago.
A small house on the edge of the capital city. Not poor, but not wealthy either. Just... normal. The kind of place where a family could be happy.
His father—no, this body's father—had been a tall man with broad shoulders and calloused hands. A military officer. Strict in the way soldiers are strict, believing that discipline builds character and weakness invites death. Every morning, young Ragna had been woken at dawn to run laps around their street. Every evening, drills with a wooden sword until his arms burned and his hands blistered.
"Again," his father would say, not unkindly, but firm. "A Stormborn does not quit. We endure."
The memories felt distant, like watching someone else's life through foggy glass. But the emotions? Those were sharp. Real. The ache of wanting to please a father who rarely smiled. The burn of muscles pushed past their limit. The quiet pride when, just once, his father had put a hand on his shoulder and nodded. No words. Just that single gesture that meant: You did well.
But it was his mother's memory that hit hardest.
She had been the complete opposite of his father. Soft where he was hard. Warm where he was cold. She would wait until his father left for work, then sneak into young Ragna's room with a gentle smile and a cool cloth for his bruised knuckles.
"Your father loves you," she would whisper, dabbing at his cuts. "He just... he wants you to be strong enough to survive this world. You understand, don't you?"
And Ragna—the original Ragna—had nodded, even though he didn't really understand. Not then.
Friday nights, though. Friday nights were sacred.
His mother would spend all afternoon in the kitchen, humming old songs while she cooked. The smell would fill the entire house—roasted meat glazed with honey and herbs, potatoes crispy on the outside and soft inside, fresh bread still warm from the oven, and her special vegetable stew that somehow tasted better than anything else in the world.
When his father came home, the three of them would sit at the small wooden table. For those few hours, his father's stern face would soften. He would tell stories about his time in the military—carefully edited ones, nothing too violent for a child. His mother would laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and serve them seconds and thirds until they were all too full to move.
Those Friday nights felt like proof that everything would be okay. That their small, simple life would continue forever.
It didn't.
Ten years ago, soldiers had come to their door in the middle of the night. The charges were treason. Conspiracy against the Empire. Plotting to overthrow the Emperor.
All lies.
But truth didn't matter. Evidence didn't matter. Once the accusation was made, the outcome was decided.
They took his parents in chains. Young Ragna had fought and screamed and begged, but he was just a child. The soldiers had shoved him aside like he was nothing.
The execution was public. The Empire wanted to send a message. Hundreds of people gathered in the central square to watch. Some came because they were ordered to. Others came because they wanted entertainment.
Ragna had been forced to watch from the front row.
He could still remember—this body's memory burned into his new consciousness—the sound of his mother's last words. Not a scream. Not a curse. Just three words, spoken clearly across the silent square:
"We love you."
Then the executioner's blade fell.
The crowd had cheered.
Ragna's hands clenched into fists on his desk, knuckles going white. The wood creaked under the pressure.
Ten years. Ten years of being called "traitor's son." Ten years of beatings and mockery and isolation. Ten years of enduring because giving up would dishonor the parents who had loved him.
And then the original Ragna had finally summoned a beast—a small, weak creature, but his own. Something to bond with. Something to give him hope.
The masked man had killed it in front of him.
The soul-bond breaking had been too much. The original Ragna's heart had simply... stopped.
And now a stranger from another world was living in his body, carrying his memories, inheriting his pain.
Ragna—the new Ragna—took a slow breath and released it. He didn't cry. This body's tear ducts had run dry years ago.
But he understood now. He understood the weight he was carrying. The legacy of a boy who had refused to break even when the entire world wanted him to.
I won't let it be for nothing, he thought. Whatever it takes. I'll survive. I'll become strong. And I'll find out who really killed your parents.
It wasn't much of a promise. But it was something.
The classroom door slammed open with a bang that made half the students jump.
---
Instructor Voss strode into the room like a soldier marching into battle. He was a mountain of a man—easily six and a half feet tall, with arms like tree trunks and a face that looked like it had been carved from granite with a dull chisel. Scars crisscrossed his neck and disappeared under his collar. His left eye was milky white, blind from some old wound.
But his right eye? That eye was sharp enough to cut steel.
He scanned the classroom with the expression of a man inspecting maggots in his food. Most students instinctively sat up straighter under that gaze. A few of the braver ones met his eye for a moment before looking away.
Voss's gaze passed over Ragna without pause, without interest, like he was a empty desk.
The instructor reached the podium and slammed a massive hand down on it. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
"Listen up," Voss growled. His voice was gravel and rust. "Most of you have been counting down to this day like children waiting for candy. Awakening Day. The day you finally become real summoners. The day you stop being worthless recruits and become actual students of Death-Star Academy."
He paused, letting the weight of those words sink in.
"But here's the truth none of your soft teachers wanted to tell you." He leaned forward, and his scarred face split into a grin that held no warmth whatsoever. "Most of you are going to fail. Most of you are going to come back empty-handed, or with some pathetic creature barely worth the energy it takes to maintain the bond. And a few of you—a unlucky few—aren't coming back at all."
Nervous glances shot between students. A girl in the front row had gone pale.
Voss straightened up, clearly enjoying their fear. "You've been oriented about the summoning process, but I'm going to repeat it one more time. Because if you screw this up, if you panic and forget the basics, you die. And I have to file paperwork when students die. I hate paperwork."
He began pacing behind the podium, hands clasped behind his back.
"At exactly noon, you will all be brought to the Summoning Chambers beneath Reaper's Hall. The formation has been prepared—an ancient circle of power that bridges the gap between our world and the Primordial Realm."
Ragna leaned forward slightly. He'd inherited the original Ragna's memories, but they were fragmented, emotional. He needed the technical details.
"The Primordial Realm," Voss continued, "is where all beasts originate from. It exists alongside our world but separate from it. A place of raw, chaotic energy where creatures fight and evolve and devour each other in an endless cycle of survival. Time moves differently there. Three days in the Primordial Realm equals about six hours here."
He stopped pacing and turned to face the class.
"When the formation activates, your consciousness will be transported into the Primordial Realm. Your body stays here, protected by the academy's wards. But make no mistake—die there, and your soul dies. And a body without a soul is just meat."
A boy near the back made a small choking sound.
"Your objective is simple," Voss said. "Find a beast. Tame it. Bond with it. However you can. Some of you will use force—beat the creature into submission. Some will use cunning—traps, manipulation. A rare few might even gain a beast's loyalty through respect or shared purpose."
He shrugged. "I don't care how you do it, as long as it works."
"Once you've formed the bond, you need to establish an anchor point. This is critical, so pay attention." His voice went hard, commanding. "An anchor is a location in the Primordial Realm where you and your bonded beast will draw energy from. Think of it like planting a flag and claiming territory."
Voss held up one scarred hand, counting off on his fingers.
"Find a place with high beast energy concentration. The stronger the energy, the faster you and your beast will grow when you cultivate. A weak anchor means slow growth, which means you'll be left behind by your peers, which means death when you eventually face something you can't handle."
"How do you know if a place has strong energy?" someone asked.
"You'll feel it," Voss said simply. "The air will be thicker. Breathing becomes harder. Your skin will tingle like you're standing too close to lightning. Some locations are obvious—nexus points where energy converges. Ancient ruins. The lairs of powerful beasts. The hearts of storms."
He paused. "But those places are also the most dangerous. High energy attracts powerful creatures. You need to balance ambition with survival. A slightly weaker anchor is better than being eaten before you can set it."
Ragna absorbed this information, his mind already working. He needed to plan carefully. The masked man was waiting for him somewhere in this process. But when? How?
"After you set your anchor," Voss continued, "you press the emergency eject button on your wrist bracer." He tapped his own wrist, where a thick metal band glinted. "This will sever the connection and pull your consciousness back to your body. Your bonded beast will follow you through the link, manifesting here in our world."
He swept his gaze across the room one final time.
"That manifestation is when everyone will see what you've bonded with. Your first summon defines your path as a summoner. It determines which classes you'll be placed in, which instructors will take interest in you, which doors will open or close."
A heavy silence filled the room.
"The whole process will take three days in the Primordial Realm. Three days to hunt, to fight, to survive, and to claim your future. Any questions?"
Ragna's hand didn't move. Neither did anyone else's. What questions could they ask? Either they succeeded or they failed. Either they lived or they died.
The concept was brutally simple.
But Ragna's mind was racing. The masked man. The threat. If he entered the Primordial Realm and bonded with a decent beast—anything even moderately powerful—that man would kill it. Just like he'd killed the original Ragna's beast.
The soul-bond breaking would be agony. It might kill him outright, just like it had killed his predecessor.
But what choice did he have? Refuse to participate? That would just confirm he was worthless trash, son of traitors, not even worthy of being a summoner. The academy would expel him. And out in the world, alone and powerless, he'd be dead within a week.
No. He had to participate. But he needed a strategy. Something unexpected.
If I bond with something so weak, so pathetic, that killing it doesn't even matter...
The thought crystallized in his mind. It was insane. Suicidal, even. Summoners were judged by the strength of their beasts. Bonding with something worthless would make him a laughingstock. He'd be placed in the lowest classes. Given the worst resources. Mocked even more than he already was.
But he'd be alive.
And alive meant he could grow. Could plan. Could eventually find a way to deal with the masked man and bond with something truly powerful later.
It was a long game. A patient game.
Ragna had learned patience falling through the sky at terminal velocity, waiting for the precise moment to deploy a parachute. He could do this.
"Alright," Voss said, and the sharp word cut through Ragna's thoughts. "Everyone, head to Reaper's Hall. Line up according to your registration numbers. No pushing, no running, no stupidity. If you can't follow basic instructions here, you'll definitely die in the Primordial Realm."
The classroom erupted into motion. Chairs scraped against the floor. Students stood, gathering their belongings, their voices rising in excited or nervous chatter.
"I'm going for a shadow panther."
"My brother said the fire serpents near the lava fields are the best for beginners."
"I heard someone from last year bonded with a thunder eagle..."
Ragna stood slowly, sliding his few belongings into his worn bag. He had no one to talk to. No friends to excitedly plan with.
Just himself and a head full of dangerous ideas.
---
The crowd of students flowed out of the classroom and into the hallway like a river. Ragna let himself be carried along by the current, keeping his head down and his eyes forward.
It didn't matter.
"Ugh, is he seriously coming?"
The voice came from his left. Ragna didn't turn to look.
"Son of a traitor using academy resources. It's disgusting."
From his right this time. A boy with slicked-back hair and expensive robes curled his lip in disgust. His friends laughed.
Ragna kept walking. One foot in front of the other. Breathing steady.
They're just words, he told himself. Just noise.
But the original Ragna's memories stirred in his chest. Ten years of this. Ten years of whispers and glares and casual cruelty.
Someone bumped into him hard from behind, sending him stumbling forward a few steps.
"Oops," a voice said with false innocence. "Didn't see you there, traitor."
More laughter.
Ragna caught his balance and kept moving. His jaw was tight, but he didn't respond. Responding only made it worse. The original Ragna had learned that lesson through countless beatings.
The hallway opened up into a massive corridor that connected the academic wing to Reaper's Hall. This was one of the academy's main arteries, wide enough for fifty people to walk side by side. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating the stone walls lined with portraits of famous summoners who had graduated from Death-Star Academy.
Heroes. Legends. People who had bonded with dragons and phoenixes and beings of pure elemental power.
People who would never have noticed someone like Ragna Stormborn.
As the crowd moved through the corridor, Ragna noticed the other students naturally creating space around him. Like oil separating from water, they would rather crowd together than walk next to the traitor's son.
"I bet he doesn't even make it through the first hour," someone muttered.
"Good riddance."
A girl spat on the ground as he passed. The gesture was so casual, so practiced, that it didn't even break her conversation with her friends.
Ragna's hands clenched into fists at his sides. The old Ragna—the jumper, the athlete—had faced fear by diving into it headfirst. But this? This was a different kind of challenge. This required swallowing pride, enduring humiliation, staying patient.
Just get through today, he told himself. One day at a time. One step at a time.
The crowd was thinning now as students found their positions based on registration numbers. Ragna could see Reaper's Hall ahead—a massive circular building with a domed roof and doors tall enough for giants.
He was almost there. Almost—
Someone stepped directly into his path.
Ragna stopped, looking up.
And immediately recognized the face from the original Ragna's memories.
---
She was beautiful in the way a poisonous flower is beautiful—lovely to look at, dangerous to touch.
Her hair was pure white, falling in smooth waves past her shoulders. But it was her eyes that caught attention. Her left eye was a deep, rich purple, like crushed amethyst. Her right eye was ice blue, cold and piercing as a winter sky.
Heterochromia. A rare genetic trait that marked her as special even before you learned about her family's power and influence.
Fiona Ashcroft. Daughter of Duke Ashcroft, one of the most powerful nobles in the Empire. A girl who had never been told "no" in her entire life and couldn't imagine being told "no" now.
She stood in front of Ragna with two other girls flanking her like bodyguards. All three wore the academy's uniform, but theirs were tailored perfectly, made from finer fabric, with subtle embroidery and jewelry that cost more than most families earned in a year.
Fiona's mismatched eyes swept over Ragna with the kind of look someone gives to dirt on their shoes.
"Well, well," she said, her voice sweet like honey poured over broken glass. "The son of traitors is actually daring to use the university's resources to summon a beast."
The two girls beside her giggled. One was a brunette with too much makeup. The other was blonde with a permanent sneer.
Students who had been walking past slowed down. Some stopped outright, forming a loose circle. Entertainment was rare at Death-Star Academy. A chance to watch Fiona Ashcroft humiliate someone? That was worth being a few minutes late.
Ragna said nothing. He just looked at her, face blank, waiting for this to be over.
But his silence only seemed to anger her more.
"What gives you the right?" Fiona stepped closer, her voice rising. "Your parents betrayed the Empire. They plotted against the Emperor himself. They deserved what they got. And you—you should be grateful the Empire even lets you breathe, let alone attend this academy."
Her hand shot out and slammed down on the edge of a nearby stone bench with a sharp crack.
The blonde girl on her right smirked. "Tell him, Fiona. Traitor scum doesn't deserve to be here."
Normally—the original Ragna's memories supplied this information—he would clench his fists, lower his head, and take it. Swallow the anger. Swallow the shame. Endure.
But the new Ragna—the man who had jumped from the edge of space, who had broken the sound barrier, who had stared into the void and come back—looked at Fiona with completely different eyes.
Eyes that held no anger. No shame. No fear.
Just... indifference.
Like she was a background noise. A minor inconvenience.
Fiona's perfect face twisted. "What's with that expression?" Her voice went sharp, dangerous. "You don't agree? What, you want to fight me?"
She stepped forward until she was right in Ragna's face, so close he could smell her expensive perfume.
"Answer me, traitor's son. Do. You. Want. To. Fight?"
Ragna still said nothing.
Which was apparently the wrong answer.
CRACK.
Fiona's hand moved faster than most people could track. The slap caught Ragna across the left cheek with enough force to snap his head to the side.
Pain exploded across his face. His vision flashed white for a moment. He could taste copper—he'd bitten the inside of his cheek.
Laughter erupted from the crowd. Not just a few chuckles, but genuine, cruel laughter. The instructor who was supposed to be guiding students toward Reaper's Hall glanced over, saw what was happening, and simply looked away.
Of course he did. Why would he defend the traitor's son? If anything, Ragna deserved worse.
Fiona's hand was still raised, her face flushed with satisfaction. "Maybe now you'll learn your—"
CRACK.
Ragna's hand moved.
Fast. Clean. Precise.
The slap caught Fiona across her right cheek with the exact same force she'd used on him.
For a moment—for one perfect, crystalline moment—time seemed to stop.
Fiona's head snapped to the side, her white hair flying. Her eyes went wide with shock. Her mouth opened but no sound came out.
The crowd's laughter died instantly, cut off like someone had severed a rope.
Everyone stared.
Students who had been walking away stopped mid-step and turned back. The instructor's head whipped around, his face going red. Fiona's two friends stood frozen, their expressions caught between disbelief and outrage.
Ragna lowered his hand slowly. His face was calm. No anger. No satisfaction. Just... neutral.
Like he'd swatted a mosquito.
Fiona's hand went to her cheek. Her fingers touched the red mark that was already forming. She looked at those fingers like she couldn't understand what she was seeing.
Then she looked at Ragna.
Her mismatched eyes were wild. Shocked. And underneath that shock, something else was building. Something dangerous.
"You..." she breathed. "You hit me."
"You hit me first," Ragna said simply. His voice was quiet, but in the stunned silence, everyone heard it.
It was the first time in ten years that Ragna Stormborn had fought back.
The first time he'd raised his hand against his tormentors.
The first time he'd shown anything other than passive endurance.
And every single person watching knew, in that moment, that something fundamental had changed.
Fiona's shock was transforming into fury now. Her face flushed red, the mark from his slap standing out like a brand. Her fists clenched at her sides.
"How dare you," she hissed. "Do you have any idea who I am? My father is a Duke! I could have you—"
"Expelled?" Ragna interrupted calmly. "Beaten? Killed?"
He tilted his head slightly. "Go ahead. But right now, I need to get to Reaper's Hall for the Awakening Ceremony. So if you're going to do something, do it after."
He stepped around her.
Just... walked past her like she was a stranger on the street.
The crowd parted instinctively, students stumbling over themselves to get out of his way. Not out of fear of Ragna—out of sheer shock at what they'd just witnessed.
Ragna didn't look back. He kept walking toward Reaper's Hall, his footsteps echoing in the absolute silence.
Behind him, Fiona stood frozen, her hand still on her burning cheek, her mind trying to process what had just happened.
The instructor finally found his voice. "E-everyone! Keep moving! Get to your positions! The ceremony begins soon!"