After the end of history class, Elyon felt the weight of fatigue settle heavily on his shoulders. His legs dragged as he moved through the ancient, marble-tiled halls of the Academy. The light filtering through the tall, arched windows cast long, golden beams across the floor, yet even the warmth of the sun couldn't ease the chill that had taken root in his mind.
His thoughts drifted back to the recent incident—the murder that had happened. A student, a noble no less, found dead under mysterious circumstances. The once-spirited halls now whispered with suspicion and fear. Everyone had theories, but no answers. And that silence was deafening.The commoners while most of them have no idea of this but, It seen to be more know by the nobles.
As Elyon walked with slow, deliberate steps, his curiosity gnawed at him like a persistent itch. He thought grimly,
"If it truly was one of the students who committed the murder, then the Academy should have found out by now. With all their resources, the security, the elite instructors… someone should have been caught."
He furrowed his brow, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor.
"To kill a noble—a trained one, probably skilled in combat since childhood—and to cover their tracks so thoroughly... the killer must be more than just skilled. They would have to be a professional. Or someone hiding in plain sight."
His mind circled the possibility of a commoner.
"If it was someone from the commoner districts, they would have been caught. Unless, of course, that commoner had undergone extensive training... But even then, wouldn't the Academy have done a background check before admitting a student? They don't just let anyone in here."
The logic led him to one conclusion:
"So, the only real suspects are the nobles."
His thoughts turned darker.
"But who would benefit from killing the son of a nobleman? If it were about political power, wouldn't killing the head of the noble family be more impactful? Why target the son?"
He remembered what he knew about Liria's power structure.
"There are three great merchant families in Liria—the Blackthorn family, the Dark family, and the Winstar family. Each holds significant influence over different aspects of trade, politics, and military contracts."
Liria's political balance had always been delicate, but lately, it felt like things were slowly unraveling. Elyon had heard the whispers. The tension between the families. The subtle decline in law and order. The skirmishes at the borders that were being quietly ignored by the capital.
Then, a name floated to the front of his mind.'' Charles.''
"He's never mentioned in official news reports surrounding political matters, never seems to be involved, but somehow... he always seems connected to every major incident. From his brother's mysterious death to what I overheard those nobles saying about a scandal involving the Winstar family—something kept tightly under wraps and hidden from the public."
Elyon could feel the threads beginning to connect in his mind, like pieces of a puzzle just barely touching but not yet fitting.
He shook his head as he reached the double doors that led outside. The stone was warm under his feet, and the air carried the scent of distant pines and iron.
"No use thinking about it now," he told himself.
"It's time for my last class—combat training."
Elyon stepped forward and pushed open the heavy doors, entering the Academy's training grounds. The wide, open space sprawled before him, framed by worn stone walls and distant hills. The ground was solid, made from interlocking stone tiles designed to withstand the fury of blade and spell alike. In front of him was a large weapon rack filled with a vast array of armaments, each one gleaming under the sun.
Rows of students were already assembling in neat formation, all wearing their regulation training uniforms: sleek, black clothing with tight-fitting shirts and trousers for ease of movement. The boys, especially, had snug-fitting tops that emphasized agility and strength, while the girls' uniforms balanced utility with mobility. Despite the uniformity, each student seemed to carry a different air—some confident, others anxious.
Elyon joined the crowd, slipping into his uniform in the nearby changing area. The fabric was light yet durable, hugging his limbs without restricting movement. As he stepped back into the yard, he looked around and waited, curious to see who would be leading their session today.
Suddenly, the murmuring crowd fell silent as a man entered the grounds with a steady, powerful stride.
He was tall—somewhere around six foot one—with a muscular, well-built frame that seemed chiseled by years of battle. Faint scars crisscrossed his forearms and hands, hints of past duels and violent encounters. He wore a sleeveless white shirt tucked into black tactical pants, revealing his hardened biceps and calloused knuckles.
His presence was undeniable, commanding attention without a single word. His sharp eyes scanned the crowd, his expression hard and unreadable.
He stopped in front of the students and spoke in a voice that rang clear and strong across the yard.
"Hello, students. My name is Draken. I will be your combat instructor."
A quiet murmur ran through the ranks. Draken was a name whispered among students in tones of awe and fear. A war veteran. A man known to have killed without hesitation on the battlefield. Some said he once fought three armed mercenaries with only a short blade—and won.
"So, before we begin," he continued, "each of you must choose your weapon."
He pointed toward the wall where the weapons were displayed. There was a staggering variety—each piece carefully maintained and ready for use.
"Pick any weapon from there. Make your choice wisely. What you train with now may be what saves your life later."
The students broke formation, hurrying over to the weapons rack. Some immediately gravitated toward familiar choices—longswords, spears, daggers. Others hesitated, running their fingers along polished steel, weighing the balance of axes, testing the flexibility of bows, admiring the elegance of katanas and the brutal simplicity of maces.
Elyon approached more slowly, his eyes roaming over the display. There were all kinds of weapons: small, concealable daggers; spears with steel tips that glinted dangerously; long swords that exuded power and reach; finely crafted bows strung tight and ready; lances for those who favored the charge; axes and warhammers for brute strength; and even a few unusual ones—hooked blades, chained sickles, and exotic weapons from other nations.
His fingers brushed against the hilt of a katana, but then he paused. Something else caught his eye—a sword unlike the others. It was straight like a double-edged blade but had the build and balance of a katana. Its edge was sharpened only on one side, with the back flat and reinforced. The hilt was wrapped in black and red cord, and the scabbard was sleek, adorned with faint etchings of an ancient language Elyon couldn't read.
There was a strange pull to it—something about the weapon resonated with him, as if it was waiting for someone like him to wield it.
He reached out, grasped the hilt, and lifted it. The weight was perfect. Balanced. Deadly. He could feel the potential in its edge, not just for cutting, but for precision, for control.
"This," he muttered to himself, "is the one."
With his weapon in hand, Elyon stepped back into formation, now more focused. Around him, other students had made their choices, brandishing spears, bows, shields, and exotic tools of war. The sun began its slow descent behind the hills, casting long shadows across the field.
Draken stepped forward again.
"Good. You've all made your choices," he said, his voice still as cold and commanding as before.
"Now let me make one thing clear. In this class, I do not tolerate arrogance. I do not tolerate excuses. If you can't keep up, you will fall behind. If you fall behind, you will get hurt. And if you get hurt—too bad. There are no second chances on the battlefield."
He scanned the group once more. No one spoke. No one moved.
"Training begins now."
And with that, the real test of the day began—not just one of strength, but of character, discipline, and will.
As Elyon stood with his chosen weapon in hand, the mystery of the murdered student still hung at the back of his mind like a shadow waiting to be explored. But for now, he had to survive what was in front of him.