The footsteps halted outside Ethan's door. He held his breath, straining to hear the silence that followed. Whoever prowled the Bronze dormitory had stopped specifically at Room B-12. A soft scraping sound hinted that someone was testing the door latch.
After hours, the footsteps resumed their careful journey down the corridor. Ethan waited until they faded completely before allowing himself to relax.
Two weeks had passed since the forest trials, and the Academy's rhythm had settled into his bones—dawn bells, combat drills, lectures, and the evening study. Bronze students moved through their routines, fatigue etched on their faces, accumulating bruises from training and silent assessments from instructors.
Ethan maintained his careful performance: high scores in Donovan's drills, but never the highest. He was always promising yet never noteworthy. Master Donovan corrected him less frequently now, but his comments had grown shorter, a delicate balance of respect and suspicion.
The real tension, however, came from elsewhere.
Raymond Blackthorn had begun to assert his power within the student body—not through combat,which would be too obvious, but through social pressure that cut deeper than steel. Copper and Bronze students received "friendly advice" to lose matches against noble candidates, skip evaluations, and accept their place quietly. Those who refused found accidents: dislocated shoulders, twisted ankles, and falls occurred when no instructors were watching.
Some complied; others vanished from classes entirely.
That afternoon, Ethan walked past the auxiliary blade rings, where individual practice sessions occurred. Jaren Voss, a quiet Bronze student from the northern villages, stood surrounded by two Silver-ranked boys. Their Academy uniforms gleamed with fresh tailoring while Jaren's showed patches and wear.
"Demonstrate that thrust again," one demanded with mock politeness. "The one you completely botched during morning drills."
Jaren's face reddened, but he raised his practice sword. His stance wavered under their scrutiny.
"Pathetic," the second Silver student laughed. "How did someone like you even pass the trials?"
The first boy raised his boot toward Jaren's ribs. "Let me help correct your form."
Ethan stepped forward, catching the Silver student's leg before it could strike. His grip was firm enough to leave a bruise.
"Wrong angle," he said calmly. "You would lose your balance mid-spin."
The Silver student yanked his leg back, his face twisting with anger. Yet Ethan's tone remained mild and educational, offering no insult to justify escalation.
"Mind your own business, forge rat," the boy snarled.
Ethan released him and stepped back. "Just making an observation."
The two Silvers glared at him but ultimately walked away, denied their excuse for violence.
Jaren stammered his thanks, but Ethan simply nodded and continued on his way. Word would spread quickly through the Bronze ranks—he wasn't a threat, but he wasn't prey either.
That evening, Calen made his assessment while organizing books at their shared desk.
"Subtle," his roommate said. "You hit him without swinging."
After Calen fell asleep, Ethan navigated the Academy's outer corridors. The eastern yard was filled with shifting shadows cast by patrolling guards, but he had memorized their routes during two weeks of careful observation.
A gate half-hidden by ivy caught his attention. The metal showed sign of rust, but the latch yielded with effort. Beyond lay a forgotten practice yard—cracked stone platforms, broken training dummies, and a weapon rack that time had claimed.
The space sat in a blind spot between two outer walls, facing away from all watch towers—an abandoned expansion project left to decay.
Ethan first drew a wooden practice blade, running through Donovan's footwork drills with perfect timing. No hesitation. No suppression. His movements flowed like water finding its level.
Then he summoned the Kingmaker Blade.
Silver light pulsed from his palm as the weapon materialized. In this hidden place, he could feel its true nature without restraint. The blade hummed with recognition, responding to his skill with approachedeager anticipation.
As he moved through advanced forms, ghostly light trailed behind each strike. The air itself seemed to bend around the weapon's edge.
Nearby, a training dummy—rotted wood held together by rusted iron bands—stood waiting. Ethan approached it slowly, raising the Kingmaker Blade in a simple cutting stance.
The strike barely grazed the dummy's surface, but ancient wood crumbled as if struck by decay rather than force. Splinters fell to broken stone with soft, pattering sounds.
The blade hummed once more, silver light racing along its edge. It seemed to absorb the shattered material, drawing it into itself.
Suddenly, a text appeared in Ethan's vision—not spoken words, but knowledge imprinted directly into his mind:
『Absorption Complete: Structural Data Acquired』
He lowered the weapon carefully. The Kingmaker Blade was more than just a tool; it was perfectly bounded to him. It learned from everything it touched, storing information about techniques, materials, and the essence of what it destroyed.
In Room B-12, Calen's steady breathing signaled deep sleep. Ethan retrieved his hidden journal and opened it to a new section:
Blade Properties:
- Absorbs material from destroyed targets
- Stores "structural data" of unknown type
- Feeds on more than mana alone
He underlined one critical note: Test against live targets only when absolutely safe.
A trumpet blast echoed through the dormitories, followed by the rustle of notices unfurling on message boards throughout the Academy.
Ethan opened his door to read the announcement that other Bronze students were already gathering to examine:
"First Monthly Evaluation - Combat Assessment and Rank Review
All Bronze and Copper Students Report to Arena Hall at Dawn
Advancement and Demotion Decisions Final"
He closed the door and tightened the leather wrap around his wrist. Tomorrow, the Academy would determine who deserved to rise and who would fall.
The real game was about to begin.