Combat class
The academy grounds hadn't been this electric in years.
From the enchanted towers to the floating gardens, whispers had taken root in every corner of Erinoguard Academy. Servants gossiped in hushed tones, students clutched notebooks tighter, and teachers walked with hurried steps, pretending not to care—though their eyes always flicked toward Class S-1.
Arthur Valerian.
A name that had spread like wildfire since Monday morning. First-year students shared it like an urban legend, wide-eyed with disbelief. Could it be true? Had someone really graduated Velithra's class on the first day?
"Maybe… maybe the First Emperor of Elydrion was reincarnated," a young elf whispered in the mess hall, only to be silenced by an older student.
"Don't speak such blasphemy. But—" the older boy added after a moment, voice lower, "—he might be the most gifted student in the last thousand years."
What none could deny: Arthur Valerian was now a name seared into Erinoguard's history. And this was only the beginning.
⸻
The training fields resembled a fortified war camp.
Massive stone arenas inscribed with old Aetherium runes. Rows of weapon racks, shimmering under the sunlight, bore blades forged from mana-infused steel. Suppression-dummy constructs lined the edge, glowing faintly with violet enchantments. Farther out, obstacle courses snaked through trees and cliffs, flanked by cages filled with tamed beasts and elementals—each designed to hone a student's might.
The open field was filled with hundreds of first-years, yet it was eerily quiet. Muted murmurs, fleeting glances, breaths held in anticipation.
Arthur stood beside Jullian, the quiet wind tugging slightly at their academy robes.
"So this is it…" Jullian muttered, tilting his head toward the vast array of training equipment. "The first real test."
Before Arthur could answer, a voice cut through the air.
"Well, well… You two are popular."
A young man approached. Lean, sharp-featured, with sun-burnished bronze skin and silver-hazel eyes. His hair was a unique reddish-black, cascading over his shoulders like silk threads. His confident stride carried no arrogance, but he radiated the aura of a prince.
"Saryn Bhumari," Jullian said, recognizing him instantly.
"The one and only," Saryn replied with a smirk. "First Prince of the Bhumari Empire."
He turned to Arthur, extending a hand. "I've heard quite a lot about you. Arthur Valerian, right?"
Arthur shook it calmly. "It's an honor to meet the heir of such a powerful empire."
"Likewise," Saryn chuckled. "Especially after your little… miracle. Graduating on day one? That's historic."
"It was just coincidence. And Velithra's test, not a real battlefield."
"Still, I remember your duel with Elias five years ago. You held your ground like a monster back then too."
Arthur shrugged. "He's strong. If we fought again now, I might lose."
Saryn tilted his head. "You're far too humble. Anyway—maybe we should hang out tomorrow? I'd love to exchange some swordplay."
"Tomorrow," Arthur said with a faint nod. "I'll message you."
Jullian added, "Count me in too."
Their light banter ended the moment the silence of the field broke with a chilling hush.
Footsteps echoed.
Three figures approached from the southern arch.
At the front was a towering man with broad shoulders, clad in a full three-piece combat suit beneath a long black overcoat. His beard was trimmed, his brown hair swept back, and his golden eyes scanned the students like a hunter searching for prey. Every step he took radiated the presence of a seasoned predator.
Behind him walked two figures: one, a graceful woman in navy-blue robes lined with silver stars; the other, a rugged man with a beast-tamer's mantle and claw-shaped pauldrons.
When the trio arrived, conversations ceased. No one dared whisper.
The man stopped, hands behind his back, and addressed the crowd.
"I am Varek Kaelthorn," he said, his voice deep and grounded. "A werewolf. Peak Rank 8. I specialize in every form of weapon known to this world—and many that no longer exist."
A heavy pause. Then he gestured to the woman at his side.
"This is Assistant Professor Arvyn Solenn. Peak Rank 6. Magician and tactician."
She bowed slightly, her icy silver eyes sharp and analytical.
"And this," Varek continued, gesturing to the beast-tamer, "is Professor Droth Varuun. Also Peak Rank 6. He commands beasts, spirits, and monsters with equal grace."
Droth gave a toothy grin. "I'll be in charge of any of you that like making contracts with things that bite."
Soft laughter broke out, nerves releasing slightly.
Varek clapped once, a sharp thunder-like sound.
"Today, we split. All of you will follow the instructor based on your specialization."
"Magic users," he barked. "Form a line before Arvyn."
Synthros, glowing faintly with wind mana, moved first, joined by dozens. Around seventy students gathered behind Arvyn.
"Beast tamers, summoners, spirit-users—go to Droth."
Threx Davis joined the line, along with necromancers and others of unique affinities. About thirty followed.
"Weapon users, come forward."
Arthur, Jullian, Saryn, Nyssara, and another girl—Georgina, a spear-user—stepped up. Around seventy others followed.
"And lastly—" Varek raised his hand, pointing to a smaller group off to the side, "—those who wield both magic and weapons, stay where you are. You'll be trained elsewhere."
With a flick of his finger, space shimmered.
The groups behind Arvyn and Droth vanished in radiant pulses of light.
The dual-type students blinked, and then disappeared in a spiral of energy as well.
Now only Arthur, Jullian, Saryn, Nyssara, and Georgina remained, along with the other pure weapon users.
Varek looked them over with measured intensity.
Varek Kaelthorn's voice rang out across the silent field like a drawn blade.
"Go. Choose your weapons."
At once, the students moved.
The racks came alive with movement as weapons were drawn — the ring of steel, the subtle thrum of mana-bound edges, the creak of enchanted wood.
Some took longswords that gleamed under the sun.
Others gripped spears carved with runes, the tips humming softly.
A few slipped on reinforced gauntlets, metal encasing their hands in power.
One girl picked twin assassin daggers, their black curves etched with silver flames.
Arthur observed quietly, eyes scanning the racks with calm precision. Unlike the others, he didn't rush. When he finally moved, his hand settled on a longsword—its weight familiar, as if it had been waiting for him.
Jullian chose a slender spear, spinning it once with practiced ease.
Nyssara picked a saber, dark-hilted and rune-etched, its balance perfect in her grip.
Georgina grabbed a pair of heavy gauntlets, built for raw power. Saryn, ever the unconventional one, selected sleek obsidian gauntlets laced with golden sigils. He clenched his fists, a sharp crack echoing as a smirk tugged at his lips.
Varek's voice deepened, rough like iron scraping stone.
"But don't mistake yourselves."
He paced slowly in front of the weapon users, his boots crunching against the gravel beneath.
"At this stage… you are nothing more than pebbles—kicked around in the clash of giants. Until you reach at least Rank 6, your presence on a true battlefield is little more than decoration. Fodder. Distraction."
He stopped, facing them.
"In war, you won't be heroes. You'll be low-machines—tools thrown into the grinder to stall time. Your commanders won't expect you to win. Just to bleed slowly."
Silence hung heavy in the air. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
"Unless…"
Varek's golden eyes gleamed faintly.
"Unless you grow strong enough to matter. Strong enough to stand when the ground shakes. Strong enough to be more than a body tossed into the flame."
He raised his hand.
"And that starts here. Now. Show me what kind of warrior you're going to be—pebble, or predator."
He snapped his fingers.
A section of the ground split open as rune-laced platforms rose, summoning enchanted training puppets—some humanoid, some monstrous, all bristling with danger.
"Let's see if any of you deserve the weapon in your hand."
Varek crossed his arms, eyes scanning the students.
"You all have different strengths, different weapons… but one weakness."
He paused, letting the silence draw tension.
"You fight like you expect the battlefield to stay still."
A few students blinked. Murmurs stirred.
"In real war—especially at the levels you dream of—the battlefield changes, or worse—your enemy changes it."
His gaze sharpened.
"The strongest fighters don't adapt to their environment. They dominate it. They rewrite it. They force others to adapt—or die."