The moon hung in its first-quarter phase—bright enough to illuminate the path, yet soft enough not to dazzle the eyes. Festival lanterns swayed along the streets like fireflies that had forgotten their way home.
Sylvia stood facing Rion, her hand outstretched.
"Ready to go home?"
Her voice still carried a lingering trace of the previous moment—a thin layer of emotion that hadn't quite hardened yet.
Rion accepted her hand. His fingers laced through hers, and for a split second, he didn't move—he only stared at her face. Ruby irises met gold irises.
It was time to keep that promise.
What had happened back there was a simple moment. Just Alarik touching my shoulder. But that was the problem.
My heart trembled. My eyes welled up. And I knew—those were the signs of tears that arrived far too late. Because that touch was the first from him, and I hated myself for still craving an embrace from the man who had ignored me for so long. So, I bit my tongue to keep from crying in front of him.
He must be shocked to hear it all. That I had been ignored by Alarik—all this time, forever. Would he be sad? Angry? Certainly, he would ask more about my past.
Why did telling it feel so heavy? Like a stone in my throat that refused to go down. I could talk about my past self before—but why couldn't I do it now? Was it because there was another name in this story? Was I unable to bear seeing Alarik looked upon with hatred by Sylvia?
Sylvia tried to read the expression on Rion's face. She knew. It was about that promise.
Gently, her fingers gripped his tighter.
"We've been emotional enough for tonight."
Rion, who had been bracing himself, snapped out of his thoughts, sharpening his focus.
"About that promise..." Sylvia continued, her voice soft but steady. "I won't ask for it now. I'll ask for it on our wedding night."
Rion wanted to say that a promise is a promise, regardless of the timing. But Sylvia's eyes watched him—not demanding, not pleading—simply present with all her composure.
The words died in his throat.
Instead, a small smile tugged at his lips. Real. Brief. He squeezed her hand.
"Agreed."
✶ ✶ ✶
Their hair and eye colors returned to their original states—a sign that the disguise artifact had entered its cooldown period. With no other choice, both pulled up the hoods they had been ignoring until now.
They walked side by side, fingers still intertwined, slipping through the thinning flow of visitors. Most people were moving toward the main square—fireworks, according to some who passed by. The biggest show in the last five years.
Rion glanced around without appearing to do so. The alley on the left. The side road ahead. That—
"Ion."
Sylvia's voice pulled him back to the surface.
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"That tactical assessment. Your eyes become so... calculating."
Rion blinked. Then he gave a slightly sheepish smile—an expression few others ever got to see.
"Sorry. Old habit."
"It's okay. It's just..." Sylvia leaned in closer, her voice dropping into something more private. "You don't need to be on guard every second. Look—" Her index finger pointed around them. "There are many guards patrolling tonight. Barrier spells are everywhere. Even the festival coordinator has embedded security mages."
Rion followed the direction of her finger. Sylvia was right. At every major intersection, the red-gold uniforms of the Imperial Guard stood tall like breathing pillars. On the rooftops, nearly invisible except to those who knew where to look, mage archers stood watch. The vibration from the detection barrier layers hummed at the edge of his consciousness—layered, overlapping, thorough.
"You're right." He relaxed his shoulders slightly. "I'm just being paranoid."
"Not paranoid. Just..." Sylvia searched for the right word. "Cautious. It's good. But tonight, let's just... be ordinary teenagers heading home from a festival."
"Ordinary teenagers," Rion repeated, something tugging at his chest—not displeasure, just amusement at the irony. "When have we ever been ordinary?"
"Good point." Sylvia smirked. "But we can pretend."
They continued in a comfortable silence—the kind of silence that no longer needed words to feel complete. The crowds grew thinner as they moved away from the main celebration area. The lanterns became sparse. The streets grew quiet.
✶ ✶ ✶
One of the guards approached three of his colleagues at a crossroads post, his steps hurried.
"There's a noble brawl in the main square. We need to get there."
Another guard frowned.
"The main square already has plenty of guards. Why ask for help from other districts?"
"It's not just noble against noble. The commoners are involved now. They're tearing everything apart."
"How dare they start a riot here. The rules of this festival have been in place for a long time—"
KLANG. KLANG. KLANG.
The square's bell tolled three times in rapid succession—fast, loud, without pause.
"Three quick rings—"
They looked at each other. There was no need to finish the sentence.
"There's been a murder."
The four guards ran off, disappearing toward the crowd.
Rion watched it all without blinking.
And then he felt it—not seeing, not hearing. Feeling. Something shifted in the air, like the drop in pressure before a storm. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, an old instinct that had gotten him through too many intrigues to be ignored.
"Sylpi." His voice lowered. Controlled. "Don't react yet, but—"
BOOM.
The explosion cut his words short like a blade that asked no permission.
From the market district—three blocks to the east—a fireball erupted into the sky, painting the horizon a brutal red and orange. Screams erupted instantly. Feet began running in every direction.
KLANG... KLANG... KLANG...
The alarm bell rang with a different rhythm. Fire. Fire in the east wing.
Rion's eyes narrowed. His grip on Sylvia's hand tightened.
"That wasn't—"
A second explosion. The north side. Then another. The west.
The guards were running now—but not toward them. In the opposite direction. Everyone was moving away from the street where they stood.
"Ion?" Sylvia's voice was stable, but she had already shifted positions—half a step to the right, hand raised, ready to cast. "What's happening?"
Rion's mind worked with a cold precision that made him dangerous when others panicked.
A brawl and a murder. Three guards removed from here.
Three explosions. Different directions.
The fire alarm—drawing away all the elite guards.
The festival crowd panicking—scattering, obscuring anyone's vision.
And the guards... running AWAY from only this street.
His heartbeat rose a notch. His palms were cold with sweat.
"This isn't random." The sentence came out sharp, like a diagnosis that required no discussion. "Someone is clearing this area."
"Clearing it for—"
The paving stones beneath their feet began to glow.
Intricate runes that were previously invisible bloomed to the surface like an open wound—a sickening pale green light, flickering like an eye newly awakened from a long sleep.
Trap magic.
"MOVE!"
Rion yanked Sylvia aside just as the runes exploded upward—stone fragments erupted like shrapnel that never intended a specific target. They hit the ground rolling, rising into a defensive stance, dust still swirling around them.
The street was already empty. In seconds, all civilians had vanished—stalls were left abandoned, merchants leaving their wares behind without looking back.
And from that void—they appeared.
Twelve figures stepped out from the shadows like something that had been hiding behind the wallpaper of reality all along. Every movement was fluid, economical, trained—not the style of someone who had just learned to kill, but of those all too accustomed to doing so.
Black clothing. No insignia. Faces covered by masks that absorbed the moonlight as if they didn't want to leave a trace even in the memory of light.
Rion's heart sank—yet his mind sharpened to its coldest point.
Assassins.
Their leader stood at the front—taller than the others, the scimitar on his back emitting a silent light-blue aura, like a candle flame that never flickered. He tilted his head, assessing the two with the gaze of a collector appraising a rare item.
Then he spoke. His voice was distorted by magic—gender indistinguishable, age impossible to guess. A voice from everywhere and from no one.
"Target confirmed. Rion von Moonstone. Eliminate or capture."
Sylvia stepped a layer closer to Rion, her fingers already moving to form a casting pattern.
"How do they know we are here?"
"Arcmage." Rion's jaw tightened. "They brought an Arcmage who can detect us."
He could feel it now—a probing presence at the edge of his senses, like a gaze that couldn't be seen but could be felt on the nape of the neck. Someone was watching. Analyzing. From a safe distance.
We should have made it home before the artifact wore off. I got too caught up in the conversation—where was my discipline?
He looked at Sylvia's face once.
No. It was all worth it.
The assassins spread out into a loose circle—closing off every exit route with the precision of people who had done this countless times.
Rion calculated with an efficiency that left no room for emotion.
I am a hybrid—a Swordsman Mage. Versatile, with no true equal. Master Tier as a swordsman, Magus as a mage. But that means my sword side won't be as sharp as a pure swordsman's, and my magic side won't be as deep as a pure mage's.
Their leader—his posture, the way he stands—Grandmaster. Tier two. His subordinates are on my level, Master and Magus. And there's one Arcmage somewhere who hasn't shown themselves yet.
Sylvia is only a Magus—tier four. But it's an early crescent moon. Good control. Reliable power.
[Since August 23, Year 1007 — Official Hierarchy of Roles by the Academy Institution:]
| SWORDSMAN TIER | MAGE TIER |
|---|---|
| 1. Sovereign | 1. Transcendens |
| 2. Grandmaster ← Leader | 2. Sage |
| 3. Master ← Rion | 3. Arcmage ← Enemy |
| 4. Adept | 4. Magus ← Rion & Sylvia |
| 5. Knight | 5. Mystic |
| 6. Apprentice | 6. Scholar |
|........| 7. Neophyte |
He glanced at the rooftops. The mage archers who had been on guard were now motionless—too still, too orderly in their silence.
Forced sleep. The work of that Arcmage.
Where were the guards? We can't win in this open fight—but we can survive. Stall for time until reinforcements arrive.
One of the assassins—a woman, if her body shape was any indication—let out a small laugh. Cold like a pebble falling into frozen water.
"The Chosen Hero without his sword. How disappointing."
Rion smiled.
Not his angelic smile. Not his cruel smile. Something deeper than both—something real, which he never brought out unless he had decided someone was unworthy of his mask.
"You made a mistake."
"Oh?" The leader sounded amused, like a teacher waiting for a student's wrong answer. "What mistake?"
Golden light began to gather slowly in Rion's irises—not flaring brightly, but steady, like embers in no hurry to become a fire.
"You came looking for me." His voice dropped into something that filled the narrow alley. "And you involved my wife in it."
My wife. The words tasted foreign. Like a language I was still learning to speak. But they felt... right. Terrifyingly right
He smirked—and this time, there was no layer of friendliness over it.
✶ ✶ ✶
The first assassin lunged.
Rion moved.
Not like a prince. Not like a student. But like a predator that had long chosen to appear tame.
Lunar Mirage — First Move: Refraction.
Light bent around his body. The blade aimed at his throat slashed through the air he had already vacated—passing through an afterimage that lingered for a fraction of a second before dissolving like smoke in the wind.
The real Rion was already standing behind the attacker.
His hand struck the back of the neck with precision that required no excessive force—just right, just strong enough. The assassin fell to the floor before they could catch their breath.
Rion stared at the eleven masked faces facing him.
"I know you aren't just anyone. The person who sent you here wouldn't pay for small-fry assassins."
He opened his right hand. He closed his eyes—not out of fear, but because of a concentration that required silence from his other senses.
Dusklight—answer my call.
The rapier appeared in his hand—the family sword passed down from generation to generation, its blade knowing its user's aura better than any owner who had ever gripped it. A silver aura flowed along the blade like a river remembering its path.
JLEB.
He thrust without warning. SING—he withdrew and swung sideways, flicking off what clung to the blade with disgust.
"Who's next~"
The leader nodded slowly—not in agreement, but in acknowledgment.
"It cannot be denied. The Great Academy of Ostrivien is indeed where legends grow."
His gaze sharpened.
"And you..." his tone shifted into something sharper, "will be one of them. If you can survive tonight."
He turned to his subordinates with a whisper that sounded more like a calligraphy of death.
"Swarm him. I still need to assess further."
Three assassins charged at once. Coordinated. Professional. Like tools that knew their purpose.
Lunar Mirage — Second Move: Distortion.
The moonlight around Rion rippled like a reflection on the surface of a touched pond—his position seemed to shift, unstable, three feet to the left, no, to the right, no—
The attacks of the three assassins collided in the empty space left by the shadow. Their blades met those of their own comrades with the sound of frustrated metal.
Rion stepped out of the distortion field. His rapier was already stowed. In his hand, moonlight began to harden into a shape.
"Lunar Spear."
A spear of condensed light materialized and flew—not toward the assassins, but toward the edge of the roof where he felt the probing presence.
DUAR. A barrier shattered, bright enough to momentarily illuminate a dark-robed figure standing there. The figure stepped back without haste.
Got you.
But there was no time to follow up. The remaining ones had regrouped—now with more cautious movements, more watchful eyes.
"He's stronger than reported," the leader muttered.
His voice didn't rise to anyone's ears specifically.
"No matter. Keep attacking. Target the girl if necessary—he will break his formation to protect her."
✶ ✶ ✶
No.
Rion glanced toward Sylvia. She stood ten paces away—hands raised, water swirling around her like the rings of a loyal planet.
Their eyes met.
I can handle myself.
Rion nodded once.
I know.
Eight assassins split off—four toward him, four toward Sylvia. The leader and the two remaining ones didn't move, only watched.
Sylvia took a breath. The half-moon above—not overflowing, but steady, pulsing like a heart that knew its own rhythm. She felt it in her bones.
Enough for this.
One of the assassins pointed at her.
"Judging by her posture—she's reached Magus. That means she can cast while moving."
"You're right."
The four assassins stepped forward with the confidence of those who had killed mages before. Ten feet. Eight feet. Six—
"Lunar Tide!"
The water circling her exploded outward in a perfect sphere—not a wave that could be read, but an explosion of pressurized liquid that hit like a sledgehammer requiring no hand. Three assassins were thrown back, hitting the stone wall with an unpleasant thud.
The fourth—faster, more skilled—leapt over the attack and landed right in front of her, sword already in a slashing arc—
Sylvia didn't retreat. She stepped forward, entering the curve of that slash, her fingers glowing pale blue.
Her palm touched the assassin's chest.
"Frost Bind."
Ice spread from the point of contact—not dramatic, not excessive, just fast and precise. The assassin's muscles stiffened, their movement locked in a half-finished position that could not be completed.
A rapier of pure mana appeared in her right hand. The blade pierced the heart cleanly. One movement. One breath.
The body fell.
Sylvia felt... nothing. Not regret. Not satisfaction. Just the cold clarity of a task completed. Is this what it means to be Marquess Estrella's daughter?
The remaining three had risen. They came again.
The water spun faster around her. In the minds of the three remaining assassins, something screamed that this was not a fight they should have accepted.
This isn't an opponent we can defeat. We shouldn't have taken this order.
"Crescent Blades."
Thin sickles of condensed water formed in the air—sharp enough to slice stone, numerous enough to leave no gap. Sylvia pointed her rapier, and they flew.
✶ ✶ ✶
On the other side, Rion moved among the four assassins like a shadow that knew how to look solid.
Not fighting. Dancing.
The Liar's Step.
His body flickered—here, then there, then in a place no one could predict. The assassins couldn't lock onto his position. Their blades slashed through the air, again and again, with a frustration that began to erode their professionalism.
As Dusklight moved, it left behind a trail of slow-fading silver light—not by design, but because this blade was always like that. Like a signature that couldn't be erased.
One nicked at the throat. One opened at the stomach. One torn at the shoulder.
One left.
This one was different. He didn't attack frantically—instead, he began to adapt, manipulating the light around his own body, creating visual interference that reversed the way Rion read movements.
Empty-headed fool—only realized it now.
Rion changed his approach. His rapier, which had a total length of 120 centimeters, was visually manipulated—he bent the light so that the 10 centimeters at the tip of the blade became transparent, hidden from view.
He ran at a moderate speed—too moderate, intentionally readable. His rapier was pulled to the left, ready to be released to the right. A horizontal slash.
The assassin read it. Perfectly. Just as Rion began to release the horizontal slash, he launched a counter in the form of a close-range fire blast—
Rion ducked. Deep. Fast. And changed the direction of the slash in one movement that gave no one time to process it.
From horizontal to vertical. From bottom to top.
The assassin leapt back—a good reflex, enough to avoid the upper body.
But that hidden 10 centimeters had never gone anywhere.
"It feels quite satisfying," Rion said softly, almost to himself, "to give false hope. And destroy it at the same time."
Before the assassin could process the sentence, he began to feel something warm flowing from his lower abdomen to his upper chest. He looked down.
"H-how is it poss—"
He vomited blood. His knees buckled. Everything fell.
Rion shifted his gaze to the roof where the Arcmage stood. The figure was still there. Not attacking.
Why?
He felt tension beginning to gather at the edge of his stamina. Lunar Mirage was beautiful, but its price was high—the more it was used, the faster the body demanded its payment.
His eyes turned to the three figures who had been merely watching—the leader and his two subordinates.
"You've never seen a handsome man fight?"
A slow clap from the leader.
"You dance quite beautifully."
Sylvia arrived at his side. Her hand almost touched his arm—she held back, inquiring.
"Ion. Are you okay?"
"Yes." He didn't look away from the three remaining enemies. "You too?"
"Yes."
Both stood side by side, facing forward. Three assassins and an Arcmage.
Then the Arcmage descended from the roof with a movement too casual for the situation—landing in front of the leader, whispering in the tone of someone who wasn't in a hurry but had a schedule to keep.
"The ten minutes are almost up. It's time for us to go."
Rion's pupils dilated.
I see. From the start—this wasn't a hunt.
The leader smirked behind his mask.
"Our original goal was only to observe. Your strength, your fighting style, your roles and affinities." His head bowed slightly—not in respect, but in acknowledgment of the quality of the show. "You were truly helpful in providing a performance that was... satisfying."
The leader's sword vanished into his storage space.
"Thank you very much."
They all left.
✶ ✶ ✶
Sylvia stared at the side of Rion's face.
His jaw was set. His eyes didn't move from the ground where they had stood earlier—the empty place, the place that had just been used to peel back his layers one by one.
She recalled—Prince Edward, Hideon, Princess Lyanna, and Seraphina. They had all shown brilliant achievements. Winning various tournaments, local and national. Gaining recognition from Professors and others.
Except for Rion.
The silent Prince.
Not because he was quiet—Rion spoke easily, made others comfortable easily, filled a room with his warm presence easily. But in a world where information was power, he had chosen to keep all of his own tightly locked away. Never fighting in the public eye. Never displaying his fighting style. Never giving enemies a map on how to face him.
A strategy he had maintained for years.
And tonight, in one fight in a narrow festival alley, everything was seen.
Rion's breath was irregular—its rhythm like a horse that had just been forced to run too far. He was angry. Angry at the situation. Angry at himself.
I made a mistake. The strength I've kept hidden so tightly—finally exposed. Just because my plans always succeeded until now, I started taking everything for granted.
He stared at the ground where the last three enemies had just stood.
Only the light affinity is left for them to see. The only card remaining.
Huff... Control yourself, Rion. What has happened cannot be taken back.
He raised his gaze to Sylvia.
"Sylpi. This is my fault. Sorry."
Sylvia didn't answer immediately. She looked at him—not with pity, not with platitudes.
"Rion." Her voice was firm, not loud. "This is not your fault. And it will never be your fault."
She continued before Rion could open his mouth.
"No one knew this would happen. You and I cannot see the future." A brief pause. "But most importantly—we face it together. Whatever the obstacle, together means it's resolved faster."
Rion fell silent. In his chest, there was something that wanted to respond—but he hadn't found the right words for it yet.
So he said nothing. He was just silent in a different way than before.
✶ ✶ ✶
In the main square, the space that was once full of fireworks and laughter now left behind a silence that felt like a scar. All visitors had been evacuated. All that remained was the debris of the crowd—upturned chairs, dead lanterns, footprints on the gravel.
Emperor Alarik appeared at the end of the street.
Twenty Imperial Knights accompanied him—personal guards who were never more than three steps behind. His face was a mask of cold fury, the kind of anger more dangerous than the explosive sort.
"How could this happen?" His voice was calm. Deadly. "How could assassins penetrate THIS FAR into the capital? Past every barrier? Every guard?"
A guard captain stepped forward.
"Your Majesty, we are investigating. The diversion was coordinated—someone knew exactly where to strike to draw us away. And the detection barriers were forced to be loosened tonight because of the enormous volume of visitors. Without that loosening, the alarms wouldn't stop ringing."
He continued in the tone of a man choosing his words very carefully.
"Festival security did not weaken—it was only disrupted. Like looking for a single poisoned needle in a haystack full of ordinary needles, Your Majesty."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Alarik nodded once.
"Finish the investigation. Report to my office."
Before the captain could answer, Alarik had already vanished.
"RION!"
The voice pierced the silence like someone who didn't know how to speak softly when worried. Strong. Familiar.
Alarik, Rion said in his heart.
Without any titles.
Rion and Sylvia turned around. Alarik was running toward them—the kind of running that made his imperial cloak sash flutter irregularly, regardless of his appearance.
"Were you involved in a fight? Are you okay? And—"
"We were involved, and we are fine," Rion cut in, soft but firm.
Alarik exhaled a long breath—a breath that let out all the pressure he seemed to have been holding since running here.
"Thank goodness."
Sylvia watched the two from the side. There was something that almost escaped her lips—a suppressed laugh at the irony only she saw.
Like father, like son. When it comes to someone precious, their mouths cannot be controlled.
"Who did they target? You specifically?"
His eyes met Alarik's gaze.
For once, there was no mask. Only honest exhaustion.
"Yes. They managed to get my fighting style data."
Alarik's eyes widened. He knew about Rion's strategy—about the power kept from ever being mapped by the enemy. If that map was already in the wrong hands, the results could be predicted.
"Only the light affinity is left for them to see," Rion added.
Hearing those words, Alarik's eyes narrowed slightly. Something older than exhaustion moved behind them—something that smelled like hatred that had long been cooled into something more orderly.
Rion caught that small detail. He always caught it. Sylvia doesn't.
There it is again. That flicker of... what? Disgust? Fear? Something he refuses to name whenever light is mentioned.
"This attack was personal," Rion continued. "Not political."
"Who do you think is behind this?"
"It seems like someone from within the Ostrivien Academy."
Alarik tilted his head slightly.
"Why there? The mastermind behind this could come from any Empire."
"No." Rion didn't hesitate. "The students there have long been curious about my true strength. Many times people have made a fuss to bait me—tonight might be a desperate move that has been planned for a long time."
"What if one of the Professors is involved?"
"The Professors wouldn't get into a political game like this."
"More specifically—who from within the Imperial circles?"
"Among Hideon, Edward, Lyanna, and Seraphina."
His gaze locked on his son for a few seconds. Then, slowly, something resembling a smile formed at the corner of his lips—not warm, but satisfied. Like a teacher hearing a student utter a sentence he had long been waiting for.
Rion was different. He was very impatient to return to the academy. It felt like there was a wave that would change everything.
He placed a hand on Rion and Sylvia's shoulders, then guided them.
"Let's go back. Don't overthink this—you still have an important event tomorrow."
Sylvia prepared to lift herself into the air. Rion followed.
Behind them, the city slowly began to gather the fragments of its night back together.
✶ ✶ ✶
In a room known to no one except those with a reason to be there—
A man stood tall, facing a figure who chose not to show his face—only a silhouette in a chair, with long fingers tapping the armrest in a rhythm too perfect for a nervous habit. Like someone counting down.
"That is the result of our observation," the man said—the leader of the assassins, now without a mask but no easier to read.
The one sitting in the chair didn't answer immediately. Only a short hum, like someone weighing something in the palm of his hand.
"Light manipulation and opponent perception. A terrifying fighting style." His head didn't turn. "But I'm more interested in his light affinity—because that's all he hid. Or is his fighting style itself a combination of moon and light affinities?"
A pause.
"Rion von Moonstone." The sentence was spoken like someone tasting words before deciding on the flavor. "Born with two roles. Owner of two affinities." A short breath. "Of all the wonders that have ever existed—he is one of the most interesting."
Outside the window, the night offered no comment.
[After mystery figure speaks]
And on a continent far from all this, someone who knew nothing about tonight was walking home from practice—unaware that his fate and the fate of the Chosen Hero would soon collide.
— ✶ —
Here, the sun had just set.
Candles formed rows in the hallway, illuminating the coming night. And a young man with pink hair walked leisurely. His body was wet with sweat from heavy physical activity.
One by one, those candles flickered and died after he passed them. And he was completely unaware of it, perhaps due to exhaustion.
Haaccu! (The sound of a sneeze)
He gently rubbed his nose. "It seems someone is talking about me." He was Carsel.
His pitch-black irises reacted to the phenomenon of the dying candles. It was as if both his eyes were absorbing the light itself.