Rage—sorcery potent enough to foment Armageddon—had become the intrinsic essence of this world.
It was said to have originated from beyond the barriers, harnessed by various races of mysterious nature.
For a thousand years, such sorcery was practiced and exercised by humans within the barriers to combat vicious raiders. These humans—seeking to enlighten themselves about the principles of this world—became known as knights.
Rage manifests in various forms, such as presence, pressure, and abilities. These abilities are divided into three categories, which are...
One Month Later, Vinhurd City
Kisatsu was jolted out of his daydream as the professor continued discussing the principles of Rage. He had dozed off unintentionally in the middle of the class, though none of his classmates seemed to notice.
What a pain.
The man before them—Professor Ruvenne—was the magister delegate of the Camesarian Guild, the association that took in Kisatsu after the Partian incident. When casualties had been dealt with, Thanduin became smitten with Kisatsu's potential to become a knight. Since then, Kisatsu had been conscripted in the academy, despite the lack of his willingness.
Back then, I was determined. Even if I didn't want to at the moment, sooner or later, I was bound to become a knight. My family needs me to... Ryurei needs me to...
Within the span of a month, several of his classmates—gifted with superior faculties and flair—had already ascended to higher sections as if it were a facile task.
And him? All he had was that one-time use of Rage Pressure. He didn't even know how he had done it—nor was he certain he could ever do it again.
At the moment, he felt like a lost cause.
The class finally ended, and lunch break began—an hour before their shceduled training. Kisatsu sat alone at the table—not waiting for anyone to sit beside him, not expecting anyone to acknowledge he even existed in the academy. He simply rested his forehead lethargically on his elbow.
Training, huh? How many more of these until we finally ascend?
Then, a voice spoke:
"You're quite a sleepyhead."
The boy placed his tray on the table and sat across from him—not beside him—as if wanting to see Kisatsu as an equal, not someone to depend on.
"So?" Kisatsu replied, lifting his head to face him—flat, plain. A touch of teasing smugness flickered across his expression, a silent nod to their familiarity.
"I couldn't rank up because I kept slacking off in class. You couldn't rank up even though you complied, like any other student. We're still in the same place—even with a handicap."
"That's quite hurtful of you to say," Astafa bantered, feigning indignation—though still slightly frustrated that Kisatsu was right. "Besides, the new examiners pack a punch—I can barely keep up."
The ninety-ninth section, where they were stationed, was composed of knights wielding the lowest measurable amount of Rage. In other words, they were at the bottom of the barrel—excluding the one-hundredth section, where even a toddler could enlist.
Epithets like low man on the totem pole or mere drop in the bucket were ascribed to everyone interned in this section. And of course, they weren't able to do anything about it—they weren't even expected to.
The station only comprised up to the ninetieth section. Every ten sections were classified under a single division.
Since this division held the most recruits, multiple institutions across different nations were established to accommodate them. The higher the division, the fewer the institutions needed to handle them.
At the Training Grounds
An hour had passed, and the said training finally began. Everyone stood in a straight line, side-by-side.
In the ninety-ninth section of the academy, only eleven trainees had shown up—Kisatsu stood beside Astafa.
"All right, everyone!"
The instructor stood before them, an effigy at his side—sturdy, stout, and inanimate, at least for now.
"For today's trial, I'll make it severe," he warned, his words alone exerting pressure over the trainees—almost as if Rage was being used, though it wasn't. "Torch this battleground as you see fit."
Trial, not training?
Kisatsu frowned, mulling over the instructor's cryptic words—yet he didn't cower. Training was something he was always ready for, even while slacking off. A trial like this, though unexpected, wasn't unwelcome—or so he thought.
Almost instinctively, his body shifted into a battle stance, uncertain whether to play along with the instructor's game. A sense of foreboding crept over him the moment he heard those words.
Then suddenly, the training dummy sprang to life, its limbs stretching vigorously as if testing their flexibility. The instructor had infused it with a portion of his Rage, though he had no intention of controlling it.
"Thirty minutes of bloodshed, and I shall return," the professor said, turning his back as he exited the training ground—leaving the dummy to move of its own accord.
The trainees settled into fighting stances, expecting the usual regimen they were used to—or so they thought.
The Partian dummy—with Rage coursing through its joints—emitted no presence at all.
Just like before, huh?
Kisatsu watched the effigy—intently, closely, anticipating what was about to unfold.
Then—
"Watch out!"
The dummy tucked its foot into the ground and bolted—unpredictably, unforeseeably—toward one of the trainees.
Blood—and a severed arm—hit the ground with a soft thump.
Unsettling. Unforgiving.
"G-Gahh—!" A bellow escaped the victim's lips, cutting through the air like a blade.
The scream almost resembled Ryurei's from that time, sending Kisatsu into a momentary lapse.
This is different...
He didn't see it. He couldn't perceive the dummy's speed.
This isn't training at this point!
The severed arm—unmoving, lifeless—stared up at him from the ground. For a brief moment, Kisatsu saw Ryurei's lopped-off—
"Kisatsu!" Astafa screamed, his voice breaking through the chaos as the dummy hounded Kisatsu—fast, relentless.
Damn it all!
Kisatsu imbued his legs with Rage, vibrant purple energy coating them like fire. It pulsed outward, casting a subtle tingle over everyone's skin—electric, alive.
My life's been a gamble from the start!
Before the dummy could reach Kisatsu, the ground suddenly jarred—and concrete walls shot up around the effigy and its victim, isolating them in an instant.
What?!
Kisatsu stepped back, confusion etched across his face as his gaze darted around, searching for the one who had cast the ability.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
"There's no way we're winning against that thing!" one of the trainees muttered, trepidation threading through his voice. "That guy's as good as dead—we can't do anything, it's too fast! This trial is meant to slaughter us!"
"Are you mad?!" Kisatsu snapped, lunging toward him and shoving him back. "You're really just going to let him die like that without even trying?!"
The boy hit the ground with a loud thud, his body trembling in fear and foreboding.
"You bastard—! Fine! If you're so eager to die, then go ahead and fight it yourself!"
"Tch! You craven prick!" Kisatsu scoffed, his eyes snapping toward the dummy—now exposed after the walls disintegrated, leaving everyone vulnerable.
Damn it! Lashing out at a time like this...
He took a deep breath, grounded himself, and braced for the real fight.
Come at me!
Then, he noticed the unconscious trainee a short distance behind the effigy—pale, but not dead—as he sensed the faint flicker of Rage within them.
I can still save them! Just a little longer—
The dummy lunged again—this time, toward Astafa.
Now!
Kisatsu dashed toward the fallen trainee and swiftly hoisted them over his shoulder. His eyes darted around, searching for a secure spot—anywhere—and rushed toward it without hesitation.
The other seven scrambled around the field, dodging and striking at the dummy—though their chaotic sequence betrayed a glaring lack of coordination.
A surprise trial this intense... can we get out of this without anyone dying? Not even a minute has passed, and someone's already lost a limb.
Kisatsu's breaths came heavy—laden with the creeping uncertainty of survival. His body was still intact, but his mind was faltering. The battle was slowly wearing down his focus, and though he was aware of it, not all his commands were reaching his limbs.
This is too much—getting plucked out alive might even be a miracle at this point.
Then, four trainees were hurled in his direction—dead, lacerated.
W-What—?!
His gaze lingered on the corpses, frozen in fear... and a rising tide of despair.
All the others... are already dead?!
Only a handful remained standing: Astafa, the knight who could conjure walls, and three others.
Kisatsu stayed by the injured trainee's side, pressing against their wound to stem the bleeding—unable to do anything else but shield them, forced to watch the others continue the fight.
Hold on a little longer...
Abruptly, a loud pow echoed split the air, snapping his attention. His gaze darted toward the source—alarmed, startled.
Astafa!
The clatter of scraps falling to ground echoed through the air, freezing everyone who heard it. The dummy—now embedded in the wall, its head blown away—came into view as the air cleared.
Astafa stood before it, heavy breaths huffing from his chest. His right hand was covered in bruises, but the current of triumph he felt outweighed the pain.
What happened?
Kisatsu's gaze remained fixed on the dummy, confusion creeping across his face. The headless effigy, lodged in the wall, didn't move anymore. The explosion that had erupted still rang in his ears, lingering like the taste of metal.
Everyone stilled, as though the battle had passed like a fleeting gust of wind.
"I-Is it finally... finally over?" Frouc, the knight who could conjure walls, asked, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
Over? This quick?
Blood plastered the ground, mingling with the dried icor of those who had fallen before them, as if waiting to be washed away with reverence.
As Kisatsu stepped over the lifeless corpses, the instructor returned, his focus solely on the destruction of the dummy rather than the survival of his trainees.
"Stay in your place!" he demanded.
Kisatsu immediately stilled in his place, and soon, everyone else who were standing followed suit, turning toward the instructor.
"Leave those unconscious. Only those who are standing—follow me!" the instructor commanded firmly, turning his back as he began to lead them toward the assessment center. "As for your wounds, leave them be until parasites emerge."
In the Selection Room
The four of them stood before the instructor—exhausted, hesitating, uncertain.
Kisatsu remained unscathed despite only mulling during the entire fight.
Astafa's right arm was in rough shape, but oddly, some of his wounds seemed to have healed, something Kisatsu couldn't ignore.
Frouc stood, breathing heavily, trying his best to hide how labored his breaths had become.
Gnovic, the other trainee who had somehow survived, stood on equal footing.
"Good. I like that," the instructor grunted, a satisfied grin creeping across his lips. "How does it feel—not knowing if you were going to live or die?"
His gaze shifted toward Kisatsu—slow, deliberate.
"You're the kid with the Rage pressure, aren't you?"
Startled, Kisatsu answered with a quick nod: "Y-Yes, sir!"
He spoke as if he had actually done something in battle—and he felt guilty that he had not.
Because he had hesitated too much.
"You certainly appear unscathed. It seems to me you didn't fight the dummy at all, correct?" the instructor asked—assessing, though not stern—as his eyes swept over Kisatsu's body.
"I-I was treating one of the knights, sir. Then—before I knew it—the dummy was blasted away. All the others were down, and I was heading toward them when you arrived."
"Hmmm." The instructor held his chin, calculating—considering.
Even if he didn't engage in battle—judging by everyone's condition—a simple scratch at the very least would've been more believable... but coming out completely unscathed?
He paused. A faint chuckle slipped from his lips.
Welp, someone must've saved him.
He gaze shifted between the other trainees, as if searching for the one who had taken the damage in his place.
"Well, since you're still conscious after the battle, I'm not going to exclude you," he grunted.
Or maybe you just know how to survive on the battlefield—at least, if not when or how to engage at all.
A flurry of sighs heaved from their chests at the instructor's words, each one laced with relief, triumph, and success.
"Oh right, I haven't introduced myself yet, have I? I am Alistare from the Second Division. I've been an instructor for ages—mostly in lower divisions, like the one you're in."
It wasn't just the trainees who were struck with triumph—Alistare was, too. The sight of his students standing tall after a surprise trial filled him with satisfaction, fulfillment—and perhaps, a flicker of hope.
Quite a long time has passed, and not once have I grown less tired of killing novices. Phew. The training grounds really did serve as a one-way ticket for most. But maybe—just for now—I can leave those regrets behind and repeat the cycle until people like you rise again.
"A month has already passed since I began training you. And now, by the rules, a mandatory elimination must be conducted to determine who is eligible for ascension. Forgive me by not informing you beforehand—I deemed it necessary. Had I told you, some of you might've chosen to quit."
He paused, a shade of regret creeping across his expression—though it remained unnoticed.
"That's..." Frouc muttered, his voice barely audible—but it had its purpose. "You basically killed those who would've lived... if they'd just quit before the trial!"
"As a knight," Alistare declared firmly, "death on the battlefield is always more requisite than quitting with the sole purpose of living one's life!"
He wasn't angry, wasn't intransigent. His tone faltered for a brief moment, bust just like before, it went unnoticed.
He knew what he was doing—not just in the present, but in the past... and with slight uncertainty, in the future.
When he spoke, finality—and regret, not just a flicker of it—was woven into his voice: unnoticed, unread.
A soft, resigned exhale left his lips. Then, his voice broke through the silence once more—firm like before, yet gentle.
"Kisatsu, Astafa, Gnovic, and Frouc. In three weeks, you'll be deployed on your quest before your first ascension. I'm sure you'll have enough time to recuperate," he announced.
"Yes, sir!" everyone cried. Despite the weariness in their voices, their victory—marking the first step toward whatever goal was embedded in each of their minds—outweighed their exhaustion, and ironically, their greator loss in number.
"Quest details will be relayed in the city of Nuallis. All I can tell you for now is this: the threat is classified as G-rank. For reference, the first division is customarily dispatched for A-rank quests—so yours will require at least one member from the seventh division."
"G-rank? For our first quest?" Gnovic stammered, a flicker of panic rushing through him. "D-D-Did I hear that right?"
He's right. Assigning us to a G-rank quest as our first mission... it's more than just a huge jump. To offset the mismatch, he might as well throw in someone from the sixth division, Kisatsu mused, assessing the weight of the situation.
"Worry not, I'm assigning two members from the seventh division—and surprisingly, both come from the seventy-eighth section. That should be enough," Alistared paused, letting the silence hang. "Take it as a testament to your potential. But don't expect ascension if you're only relying on others to do the heavy-lifting."
Kisatsu's gaze drifted, a quiet proof of his wandering attention. His eyes landed on Astafa's right hand—completely healed—though dried blood still clung faintly to the skin.
What?! His arm... healed? Then how didn't I sense any Rage during the process? Is this natural regeneration?
His gaze crawled up to Astafa's face—still forward, focused—completely unlike Kisatsu.
Astafa... are you even human?
"...and that's all for today. Thank you all for being here," Alistare declared, a firm tinge of gratitude in his voice—thankful they had survived. "You are all dismissed."
He turned his back, just like before and walked away—only this time, they didn't follow. They no longer had to.
Our time in this place is finally over, huh?
Astafa's gaze lingered on the retreating instructor—a silent, trenchant sign that whatever awaited them next would only seek to wring greater strength from them... if not everything they had.