The morning air was heavy with mist—gray, motionless, and cold. It hung over the academy grounds like a curtain, muting the world into a dull silence. Somewhere above, thunder grumbled without conviction, the promise of rain that refused to fall.
Lee Shin hadn't slept. The echoes of last night's words still whispered through his mind.
"Welcome back, Ryu Min-Seok."
That name. The one he'd buried with his corpse seven years ago.
The Shadow Hand had found him.
Or maybe they had never stopped watching.
But panic was a luxury he could no longer afford. Not here. Not yet.
He walked through the academy gates like any other student—head down, steps steady, heart caged behind calm discipline. To everyone else, he was just Lee Shin, the weak transfer, the boy with unstable mana and no talent. But behind that mask burned the quiet will of a man who had once commanded entire raids, slain monsters, and watched kingdoms bleed.
The hallways buzzed with chatter, laughter, and mana conduits humming faintly in the walls.
Everywhere he looked—carefree smiles, sparkling eyes, people untouched by horror. He almost envied them.
Almost.
At the main corridor, the crystal scanner pulsed faintly. Shin placed his hand upon it, expression unreadable.
[Mana Output: Rank E — Fluctuating]
The reading glowed across the holographic screen.
Snickers rippled through the line behind him.
"Still at E?"
"Guess his 'miracle duel' was just dumb luck."
"Figures. Trash stays trash."
Shin said nothing. Let them talk.
He had seen braver people die crying in dungeons than these spoiled cowards would ever dare to be.
He took his seat quietly in the back row of Class D, the hum of mana stabilizers filling the silence. Beneath his desk, his hand brushed against the ring—cold metal that seemed to breathe faintly, pulsing once against his skin.
A heartbeat.
Or something else.
"Pair combat—today's practical exam." Instructor Rho's voice cut through the chatter. His tone was clipped, his eyes sharp. "We'll assess mana control and reaction time. Shin, you're with Min Ji-Hoon."
A groan rose from the front.
Ji-Hoon—loud, confident, and cruel—turned with a smirk. "Why me? You want me to babysit the dead weight?"
Rho's eyes narrowed. "Then finish quickly."
Outside, the sky darkened as the two faced each other on the training field.
Students circled them, anticipation crackling like static.
Ji-Hoon twirled his twin daggers, their crimson aura hissing with unstable energy. Shin lifted a practice sword—wooden, worn, and dull.
Ji-Hoon sneered. "Don't cry when I hit you."
The whistle blew.
Ji-Hoon moved first—fast and vicious. His daggers slashed in graceful arcs, each strike filled with arrogance and aggression. Shin dodged narrowly, his footing slow, his muscles lagging behind instinct. His body wasn't ready for this rhythm, not yet. A blade grazed his cheek.
Pain flared. Warm blood trickled down.
"Too slow," Ji-Hoon taunted. "Thought you got stronger?"
Then—it happened.
The ring pulsed again.
A faint vibration climbed his arm, spreading through his chest. The air shifted.
The world sharpened.
Sound fell away.
Ji-Hoon's movements slowed—like rain frozen mid-fall.
And something ancient whispered in Shin's blood.
He moved without thought, pure instinct and memory guiding his limbs.
A pivot. A twist. A redirected strike.
The wooden blade slammed into Ji-Hoon's ribs with precise force, dropping him flat onto the wet earth.
Silence.
Then gasps.
Even Instructor Rho's eyes flickered in surprise. "...Not bad."
Shin exhaled slowly. The ring dimmed, its light retreating like a fading ember.
He hadn't meant to use it. But it had moved first—protectively, almost aware.
It's watching me... or guiding me.
The drizzle began as he left the field, soft and unending. The academy roofs shimmered under the rain, and students scattered for shelter.
Shin sat alone beneath the training dome's canopy, staring at the puddle near his boots.
The boy who looked back was seventeen—frail, expressionless, ordinary. But beneath that reflection, he could almost see another face. Older. Scarred. Dead.
He touched the ring with careful fingers.
"What are you?" he whispered.
For an instant, reality rippled.
And a voice—not heard but felt—brushed against the edges of his mind.
"The cycle begins again…"
His hand jerked away, heart hammering.
The ring went still.
Thunder cracked across the crimson horizon. From the courtyard, the city's distant mana towers glowed faintly through the storm—monuments of peace built upon graves.
He remembered his guild's laughter. Their deaths. His daughter's tiny hands clutching his cloak before the end.
Seven years had passed. She would be sixteen now.
Was she alive?
The question stabbed like a blade—but he forced it down.
Feeling was weakness. He couldn't afford it. Not yet.
He rose, eyes cold as steel, the rain tracing down his face.
"You wanted me back," he murmured into the storm.
"Then watch me rise again."