The crowd cheered, still riding the thrill of Asrial's victory, when the examiner called out the next contender.
"Therisia von Raelgard—step forward!"
With her silver armor gleaming in the light of the arena, Therisia stepped into the center, calm but focused. Her heartbeat steady, her grip tight on the hilt of her sword, she awaited the names of her opponents.
The examiner glanced at the parchment, smirked slightly, then declared:
"Therisia will face Layn, Corin, and Juno—students from the outer districts."
Therisia's eyes narrowed.
No noble names.
She scanned them as they walked into the arena. Ragged clothes. Secondhand gear. Calloused hands. Commoners.
Her gut twisted.
Asrial had to face elite noble heirs while I… I get this?
The reality hit her—the corruption of the academy ran deeper than she thought. They wanted Asrial humiliated, maybe even killed. And her? No one dared harm the daughter of the Sword Saint.
Her jaw clenched as her fingers twitched.
This isn't a test. It's a message.
The examiner barked: "Begin!"
Her anger turned to icy focus.
In a blur, five ice blades spun into existence around her, orbiting her like a crown of frost. With elegance and lethality, she dashed forward. Every motion precise, calculated—like a flower blooming in battle.
Before her opponents could even raise their arms, she struck. The first blade disarmed, the second disoriented, the third frozen to the ground with a shard of ice at his throat. None were harmed beyond submission—but none stood a chance.
Gasps filled the arena.
"Winner: Therisia von Raelgard!"
She didn't wait for applause. She walked back with grace, her blade evaporating into mist behind her.
In the waiting room, she expected to see Asrial—leaning against a wall with that cocky grin.
But he wasn't there.
A cold pang struck her heart.
Where the hell are you, idiot?
---
Elsewhere… In the Forest Beyond the Academy
The scent of pine and blood tainted the air.
Asrial knelt in the dirt, panting, blood dripping from a hundred cuts. His right arm, newly regrown, still twitched unnaturally. His body ached. His regeneration struggled to keep up with the relentless damage.
Before him stood two figures.
One cloaked in crimson—Red, the Third Bishop of the Church of the Broken God. The other: a man with green hair, a calm face hidden by a black blindfold, saying nothing.
It had started moments after his match. A portal opened behind him like a gaping wound in space, and he was pulled through. No words. No threats. Just violence.
Red had struck first, a blur of movement, blade drawn. Asrial had barely dodged—until lightning struck him from nowhere. He'd hit the ground hard. His body healed. Then came the second slash. And the third. And the fourth.
Red finally spoke, his voice mocking, tinged with cruel amusement.
"The Second chose you? This weak little brat? How disappointing."
Asrial's eyes flared, wind and fire crackling at his fingertips. "I've had enough of people underestimating me."
"Oh?" Red's grin widened. "Then earn my respect, descendant of the dragonborn."
He drew his blade, a white weapon so pristine it almost hummed with death.
"This is the blade that cuts fate. And you, my little dragon, are about to be unraveled."
Asrial struck first, conjuring a shield of stone.
One swing.
The shield was cleaved clean in two.
He tried a wind barrier.
Two swings.
The air itself parted like silk.
He launched a flaming spear.
Slice.
Gone, as if it never existed.
And then—his arm flew through the air.
Pain exploded through him.
He screamed.
It grew back. Red sliced again. And again. Regenerate, slash, regenerate, slash. Over and over. Asrial's healing factor couldn't keep up anymore.
His body trembled.
For the first time in years, Asrial felt helpless.
Just like that day.
His home, burning.
His screams ignored.
Powerless.
Red stood over him.
"Your fate was sealed the moment you stood in our way."
He raised his sword.
"Goodbye, broken vessel—"
A voice shattered the moment like thunder:
"That's enough, Red."
It was a woman's voice, soft, yet commanding. Asrial turned his head weakly toward the source—but he couldn't see her. Her form was like a silhouette made of shadow, like looking into a void.
Red froze mid-swing, eyes wide.
Then, to Asrial's shock, he knelt.
"My queen."
The void-like figure approached Asrial.
Her voice was low, ageless, impossible to define.
"You are not meant to die here. Your destined encounter with the Broken God has not yet come."
She raised her hand. A cloud of purple powder fell gently over Asrial, and his pain evaporated.
The wounds closed. His breath returned. His body healed—flawlessly.
He stared in disbelief.
"What… what are you?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she whispered:
"When the time comes, you will repay this debt. One way or another."
With a wave of her hand, a portal opened behind her, glowing with pale light.
Then—he was back in his room.
Collapsed on the floor, heart racing.
A voice echoed within his mind.
> "Seems like you were in a bad situation, unfated one."
Weiver.
The dragon of fate laughed softly in his mind.
> "Careful. You're walking roads that even I cannot weave."