Seven days had passed since Rick's arrival at the academy.
The rhythm of life had settled into something almost ordinary. Each morning, he rose before dawn and made his way to the clearing near the forest's edge, where he trained alone—swinging his sword until his arms trembled, until sweat soaked through his clothes. The days themselves were not remarkable. Classes proceeded as expected, lessons repeated, drills enforced.
Gradually, some of the other students began speaking to him. Brief greetings at first, cautious questions later. Yet even then, Rick noticed something strange—no matter who approached him, their words carried the same weight. It was never curiosity about his skill, nor interest in his background.
They spoke only of what the instructors had said.
On the second day of mage classes, the instructor entered the hall with a seriousness that silenced the room. His gaze swept across the students before he spoke.
"Let me ask you something," he said. "How many of you chose swordsmanship as your primary path because you believed magic was unnecessary?"
A few students raised their hands.
Rick raised his as well.
The instructor paused, studying them carefully. "Many people believe that anyone can become both a mage and a swordsman," he continued. "After all, both draw mana from the same internal pool. The only difference, they claim, is the use of circles."
He shook his head slowly.
"They are wrong."
The room grew tense.
"You know what happens when a magic circle is formed?" the instructor asked. "It draws all available mana in your pool at once—violently, instantly."
A student's voice broke the silence, nervous but confident. "But a swordsman uses mana to reinforce the body directly, too? "
The instructor nodded. "Correct. A swordsman coats their body or weapon with mana, controlling it steadily. That balance holds until you reach the level of an
Sword Master ."
His voice lowered.
"But beyond that… things become complicated."
Rick listened without blinking.
"To advance further—to reach the realm of a Grandmaster—one must achieve enlightenment. A state of mind where body, mana, and thought become one."
The instructor folded his hands behind his back. "And enlightenment is different for every person. No two souls see the world the same way."
No one spoke.
After a brief pause, he continued. "This is why enlightenment is vital. Without it, progress halts. But enlightenment alone is not enough."
He tapped his temple.
"To become a Grandmaster, you must open a pathway—one that allows mana to flow directly to the brain. For most people, that pathway is sealed from birth."
Rick's heart tightened.
"There are rare cases," the instructor said quietly, "where someone is born with that path already open. They are few. Prodigies. Geniuses. Natural-born talents."
The room fell into reverent silence.
Rick lowered his hand slowly, his thoughts heavy.
So that's how the world is divided, he realized.
Not by effort alone… but by what you're born with.
For those not born with their pathways open, forcing them open was possible—but it demanded an absurd level of mana control and a terrifying amount of raw mana. Even then, that was not the greatest obstacle.
"The true problem," the instructor said, his voice lowering, "is the mind."
A mind without doubt. A mind that never hesitated. To walk the path of a grandmaster, one's will had to be absolute. Hesitation, fear, or even the slightest wavering could spell disaster.
"If you are a mage who seeks grand mastery," he continued, "then the burden is even heavier. Mana, focus, control—all must reach a level few ever attain. The pathways to the mind are dangerously close to the body's own heart where a mage form his mana circles. So when you attempt to open them while being a mage, the circle you form clashes against your natural flow."
The instructor raised a finger.
"Lose focus for even a moment, and the mana will surge violently. It will tear through muscle and organs alike. In some cases… it leads to death."
Silence fell over the hall.
The instructor exhaled slowly, as if recalling memories he would rather forget.
"And do not forget the pain," he added. "It is beyond imagination."
His gaze swept across the students.
"I don't know whether you joined this class for curiosity or ambition. But I do know this—do not take this chance lightly. What you've been given is precious. So precious that most people in this world never even come close to it."
He turned and walked out, leaving behind a hall full of stunned students—and Rick, frozen in his seat.
That night, Rick couldn't sleep.
Was he doing the right thing?
He began questioning his choice again and again. Should he abandon one path and fully commit to the other? Was he being foolish, trying to walk both roads at once?
Yet no matter how much doubt crept into his thoughts, one thing remained clear—he wanted to understand magic.
The next day, he sought advice from his swordsmanship instructor.
"I don't know where you heard all this," the man said, his expression grave, "but if you ask me, you should focus on a single path. Trying to master everything will only leave you broken."
The words struck Rick harder than he expected.
That night, standing alone beneath the academy's dim lanterns, Rick clenched his fists.
Two paths lay before him.
Power demanded sacrifice.
And Rick had yet to decide what he was willing to give up.
For seven days after that lecture, Rick remained trapped in his own thoughts.
He knew the truth far too well. His mana channel was narrow—below average from a normal person. On top of that, mana circles place unbearable strain on the body. Even imagining the toll on his body, made his chest feel tight. These thoughts haunted him endlessly, returning again and again until the sun dipped beneath the horizon.
As twilight settled, Rick completed his training and sat down on the cold stone ground. A gentle wind brushed against his face, carrying with it the distant sounds of the city below. The view stretched endlessly—rooftops bathed in amber light, streets slowly quieting as night approached.
The wind cleared his mind.
For a brief moment, the doubts faded. Rick sat there silently, breathing in the peace, before finally standing up and heading back toward the dormitory.
When Rick entered the room, Rome and Krai were already there.
Rome was drenched in sweat, having just returned from intense training, his breath steady but heavy. Krai, in contrast, lay calmly on his bed, a book resting in his hands.
Over the past seven days, Rick had managed to speak with Krai more often—brief conversations, nothing deep. Rome, however, he still avoided whenever possible.
"What are you reading?" Rick asked as he removed his clothes and opened his locker.
"Nothing important," Krai replied, flipping a page. "Just notes from history class."
Rick nodded. "By the way, where's Leze?"
"He went down the mountain," Krai said. "Into the city."
"I see." Rick closed the locker. "I'm going for a bath."
"Alright," Krai replied, waving lazily.
Rick left the room, unaware of the tension that followed behind him.
The moment the door closed, Rome scoffed.
"Why are you acting so friendly with him?" he asked sharply.
Krai glanced at him. "Is that a problem?"
Rome clenched his fists. "You know what kind of person he is. A wealthy bastard, just like the rest of them."
Krai's eyes returned to the book. "And how do you know that?"
Rome's voice grew rough. "People like him are always the same—born with advantages, pretending to struggle while looking down on everyone else."
Krai finally looked up, his expression calm but unreadable.
"You're calling him greedy," he said slowly. "But you don't know anything about him."
Rome fell silent, his jaw tightening.
The page turned softly in Krai's hands.
And somewhere down the corridor, Rick stepped into warm water—completely unaware that the distance between them was growing, not shrinking.
"Did you know," Rome said coldly, "that he paid his two years' fees in advance? Even after that, he still had plenty of gold left."
His eyes burned with fury.
"He's nothing without money. A lowlife bastard."
"Rome," Krai said calmly, "calm down. I don't understand why you hate wealthy people so much. Not everyone is the same."
"No," Rome snapped.
"They are all the same. Friendly at first—then they use you when it suits them."
Krai's gaze hardened. "Have you ever seen his body?"
Rome froze. "What?"
"Normally, he hides it," Krai continued evenly. "But one day… I saw it by accident."
Krai stood up.
"Do you know what I saw?" he asked quietly.
Rome said nothing.
"Scars," Krai said. "Everywhere. His body was covered in them—bite marks, claw wounds, blade cuts. So many scars they'd send chills down your spine."
Rome's anger wavered.
"Can you still say the same thing," Krai pressed, stepping closer, "after knowing that?"
The room fell silent.
Krai met Rome's eyes directly.
"I'll say it once more—and I won't repeat myself. Don't judge everyone the same just because of your hatred."
They stood there, locked in silence.
Then Rome clenched his fists.
Without a word, he grabbed his sword and stormed out of the room.
Krai exhaled slowly, rubbing his forehead.
"I hope nothing goes wrong between them," he murmured.
Unaware of everything that had happened, Rick finished his bath and headed toward the cafeteria.
The evening hall buzzed with noise—students laughing, chatting, carrying trays filled with food. The smell of warm meals filled the air.
Rick stood in line, collected his food, and scanned the crowded room.
After a moment, he spotted an empty seat beside a group of second-year D-Class students.
Rick approached the group and spoke politely.
"Hello, seniors. May I sit here?"
"Of course," one of them replied with a smile.
"Thank you," Rick said as he sat down.
At first, the conversation was light. Rick ate quietly, listening more than he spoke, enjoying the rare calm of the cafeteria. But the peace didn't last.
A murmur rippled through the hall.
Rick noticed a crowd forming near the center of the cafeteria—students standing up, craning their necks, whispering among themselves.
"What's going on?" Rick asked, glancing toward the noise.
"Why are so many people gathered there?" one of the seniors muttered.
The crowd suddenly parted.
Three figures stood at the center. One of them lay on the ground, clutching his stomach, clearly injured.
"Isn't that from our class?" a senior said tensely.
"Damn it… why did it have to be him?"
Rick's jaw tightened. "Who is he?"
One of the seniors sighed.
"Vein Van Lithyr. A first-year from B-Class."
Another senior continued grimly.
"His father is a noble from the Dukedom of Flich—and a close friend of Duke Lorn. An eighth-circle mage."
"And because of that," someone added bitterly, "the kid uses his family's power to harass others."
Rick's fingers curled slowly around his fork.
"But why is he here?" Rick asked.
"To avoid incidents like this, the academy built separate cafeterias for A- and B-rank classes," a senior replied. "Yet here he is."
That's right. Years ago, there were only two cafeterias. They divided students by year to keep things fair—but it only made things worse.
Students from A and B ranks would constantly harass C and D ranks. So the academy split them completely.
And now, a B-rank student walked all the way across the academy just to bully someone.
Rick stopped listening.
Because now he saw them.
Vein stood there casually, flanked by two other students, blocking a trembling girl from Rick's class. Her tray lay shattered on the floor, food scattered around her feet. Her hands shook as she tried—and failed—to speak.
Something inside Rick snapped.
A memory surfaced—sharp and painful. A different place. A different time. The same helpless look in someone's eyes.
His grip tightened.
Before he realized it, Rick was already standing.
Rick surged to his feet, anger blazing in his chest.
Before he could take a single step, a senior grabbed his wrist.
"Don't do it."
"He's harassing a girl from my class—in front of everyone," Rick snapped, his voice trembling. "I can't just sit here and do nothing."
"I know you're angry," the senior said quietly, tightening his grip. "But he's a noble. Fighting him won't do you any good. And look—the instructors are already coming."
Rick followed the senior's gaze.
Several instructors were pushing through the crowd.
"There's no need for you to get involved now," the senior continued. "Let them handle it."
Rick clenched his jaw, his body tense, every instinct screaming at him to move—but his feet stayed planted.
Moments later, the instructors separated Vein and the other two students and escorted them away.
It should have ended there.
But it didn't.
A trial was held later that day.
Despite the academy's constant preaching about equality, reality proved far uglier.
Neither the boy who had been beaten nor the girl who had been harassed spoke up. Whether from fear or pressure, neither said a word.
The result was inevitable.
Vein received nothing more than a two-day detention.
Innocent.
The news spread through the academy like wildfire. Every whisper, every rumor, every laugh burned into Rick's mind, fueling his fury.
He hated them.
He hated the academy.
But most of all, he hated himself.
If only I'd stepped in.
That night, Rick returned to his room, grabbed his sword, and left without a word.
The arena was empty.
Under the cold glow of the full moon, Rick swung his sword again and again. Sweat soaked his clothes, his muscles screamed, but he didn't stop.
Each strike carried his anger.
Each step carried his regret.
Steel cut through the air until midnight passed and dawn threatened the horizon.
Rick remained there—alone—training until his hands trembled.
Back in the dormitory—
"Hey, Leze," Krai said softly.
"What?" Leze replied, looking up.
"Rick still hasn't come back. Do you think it's because of what happened in the cafeteria?"
Krai stared at the door, unease creeping into his chest.
"I don't know," Leze answered quietly.
Amid the tense silence in the room, Rome suddenly stood.
Without another word, he walked to his locker, grabbed his sword, and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" Leze asked, turning toward him just as his hand touched the handle.
"Not your problem," Rome replied coldly, and left without looking back.
Rick was still in the arena.
His arms felt heavy, his breathing ragged, yet he kept swinging.
You want to become strong… but you couldn't even protect a single girl.
The thought echoed again and again, drilling into his mind until exhaustion finally claimed him. Rick dropped to one knee, his sword planted into the ground to keep himself upright. Sweat dripped from his chin as he gasped for breath.
Footsteps.
Rick frowned and lifted his head.
The sound stopped behind him.
"Stop pretending you're not angry."
Rick turned sharply.
Rome stood there, sword resting at his side, eyes sharp beneath the moonlight.
"Why are you here?" Rick asked, irritation lacing his voice.
"I don't acknowledge you," Rome replied flatly.
Rick scoffed. "Then leave."
"If you want me to acknowledge you," Rome said, slowly drawing his blade, "then fight me."
Rick's eyes narrowed. "What are you—"
"Tell me," Rome cut in. "Tell me that I'm wrong. Tell me that not everyone is the same. Tell me....., That i was the one who was wrong. "
Rick stared into Rome's eyes—and for the first time, he saw it. Not arrogance. Not hatred.
Pain.
Rick exhaled deeply and pushed himself to his feet.
"I don't know why you've been angry at me all this time," Rick said quietly. "Or why you're doing this now. But one thing is certain—you're trying to become stronger too."
He lifted his sword and pointed it forward.
"So… let's fight."
Under the pale glow of the moon, steel met steel.
Two souls clashed—not out of hatred, but out of a desperate need to grow stronger. Every strike carried frustration, regret, and ambition. Every step forward was a refusal to remain weak.
Neither held back.
Neither stepped away.
And though neither of them knew it yet—
This night would be remembered.
For the clash beneath the moon was not just a duel.
It was the beginning of legends yet to be written.