Someone moved stealthily through the corridor of the Bronze dormitory. Ethan lay still, listening as footsteps paused at each door before continuing. The pattern suggested an inspection rather than casual wandering.
The steps faded toward the stairwell. Ethan waited another ten minutes before settling back into his bed. Academy surveillance was thorough but not random; someone had been checking on specific students.
Dawn bells roused the dormitory before sunrise. Ethan quickly dressed in his training clothes while Calen gathered books for his magical theory classes. They parted at the corridor junction—combat students heading east, mages walking north toward the Arcanum.
The eastern training yard was filled with the scent of oiled wood and old sweat. Bronze-ranked students gathered in loose formations, their breath visible in the cool morning air. Practice weapons lined wooden racks along stone walls etched with Academy mottos.
Master Donovan appeared precisely as the final bell chimed. Light armor covered his scarred forearms, and his sharp eyes swept over the assembled students like a hawk surveying their prey.
"You're not soldiers yet," he called, his voice carrying easily across the yard. "But you will bleed like them. That's a promise."
The warm-up began immediately: push-ups on cold stone, stance drills in perfect lines, and low sweeps that tested balance and endurance. Ethan matched the pace exactly but deliberately softened the precision of his movements. A naturally gifted yet unrefined fighter would show promise with rough edges.
His fellow Bronze students struggled with the routine. Sweat stained their shirts despite the cool air. A stocky boy named Jalen Wreth kept glancing around, checking his form against others.
"Pair formations," Donovan commanded. "Basic thrust and parry. The winner holds position; the loser rotates."
Ethan faced Jalen, who gripped his practice sword with white knuckles. The boy attacked with obvious patterns—textbook thrusts that telegraphed their direction seconds in advance.
Ethan won the first exchange cleanly, then deliberately lost the second by overextending his counter-attack. The third ended in a tie after he allowed Jalen to recover from what should have been a decisive mistake.
Donovan moved through the paired students like a predator studying wounded prey. During the fourth exchange, he paused behind Ethan, close enough that his presence shifted the air around them.
When the drill ended, Donovan adjusted Ethan's grip in silence, applying firm pressure to correct the angle of his sword by a few degrees. The touch was brief yet precise—a master's correction delivered without words.
"Bet he's blacksmith-trained," someone murmured nearby. "Big swings, no spine."
Ethan ignored the comment, choosing to let them underestimate him.
"Too deliberate," Donovan said, his voice low enough for Ethan alone. "You're overthinking it. Fight or don't."
Next came the reaction circle—timed responses to surprise attacks from mechanical arms that swung unpredictably from hidden positions. Students entered the circle blind, relying solely on instinct to evade the wooden strikes.
When Ethan turned, the first arm snapped out from his left. He dodged too early, his body reacting before the attack fully committed.
Donovan's eyes narrowed. "Reset. React, don't predict."
The second attempt went better. Ethan allowed himself one genuine surprise, taking a glancing blow to his shoulder that would surely leave a bruise.
For the final demonstration, Donovan stepped into the circle himself. With a practice sword, he showcased a parry-counter combination that flowed like water but struck like lightning. The technique was brutally effective—designed to kill rather than disable.
Ethan recognized it immediately. Eastern Campaign, the third year of his previous life. Border patrol units had used that exact maneuver against raiders from the desert kingdoms. While standard Academy training focused on tournament-legal techniques, this came from actual warfare.
"That's not in the Academy manual," he noted silently. Master Donovan was concealing military history behind his role as an instructor.
As students gathered their gear, Donovan approached him one last time.
"Your hands lie," the master said quietly. "Your body doesn't."
He walked away before Ethan could respond, leaving him with questions he couldn't safely voice.
The midday bell rang, sending students scurrying to their following classes. Ethan climbed the stone steps to the Kingdom History Hall, where Professor Ashton awaited him with scrolls and etched murals depicting Aldoria's glorious past.
"Today, we examine the divine intervention that saved our kingdom," Ashton began, his voice resonating with practiced authority. "King Valerian the First received a sacred blade from the Light itself, blessed with the power to cleanse the corrupted bloodlines that have poisoned our realm."
Ethan meticulously recorded every word. Later, he would cross-reference these fabrications with the truth he had learned before his execution. The lies were systematic and carefully constructed to transform a blood ritual massacre into a tale of heroic salvation.
"The Luminar dynasty succumbed to demon worship," Ashton continued, gesturing toward a mural depicting twisted figures cowering before radiant light. "Their blood magic tainted the very soil. Only divine intervention could restore the kingdom's purity."
Other students nodded in agreement, accepting the narrative without question. Bronze ranks were not encouraged to think critically about official history.
Ethan strolled through the corridors that overlooking the Arcanum tower during the break between classes. He saw a magical theory class in session through an open archway.
Mira stood before a glowing circle, struggling to maintain a small orb of light above her palm. Despite her evident concentration, the sphere flickered and wavered.
A noble boy beside her scoffed loudly. "She's strong enough for candle tricks, I suppose."
The instructor ignored the insult. Mira's face flushed, but she persevered in her practice. Ethan observed her technique with professional interest—she was adjusting mana output for stability rather than sheer volume. A smart approach. While raw power might impress spectators, efficiency was kept you alive.
His own magical screening had revealed minimal affinity—barely enough to light a candle under ideal conditions. Combat magic was beyond his reach, but he knew steel and strategy would serve him better.
As he walked toward his final class, Ethan nearly collided with a girl in muted violet Academy robes. She stepped aside with fluid grace, offering a brief apology.
"You're the one who passed the eastern trial, aren't you?" she asked, studying his face with keen intelligence.
Ethan nodded cautiously.
"Thought you'd be taller," she remarked with a playful smile.
Before he could respond, she descended a restricted stairwell flanked by an Academy rune lock. The magical barrier parted at her approach like water, yielding a thrown stone.
"That's Maya Thornfield," a nearby student whispered nearby. " The Chancellor's daughter."
She wore no rank insignia, and no colored trim marked her status, yet every door opened for her nonetheless.
That evening, Ethan waited until Calen fell asleep before retrieving his hidden journal. By the faint glow of the wall-rune, he jotted down his latest observations:
Donovan teaches battlefield techniques, not Academy standard.Thornfield's daughter has unrestricted access.They're not just hiding history. They are training obedience.
The wall-rune flickered as he wrote, reacting to some disturbance in the Academy's magical network. In the darkness, footsteps echoed from the corridor outside—careful, measured pace he recognized from the night before.
Someone was conducting regular inspections of the Bronze dormitory, and tonight, they were getting closer to his door.