Morning came, and the sun rose, bringing a new day in Division four. Many were still recovering from the festival - including Modred, who woke up sprawled on top of his bed. He groaned and rolled over, falling straight onto the floor.
Taren flinched awake beside him. "Ow-my head.."
Arthur was sitting cross-legged, extremely clean, and sipping warm tea.
Modred squinted at him. "...How are you okay?"
Arthur shrugged. "I only drank three cups, remember."
"Three!?" Taren gasped.
Before Modred replied, the barrack's horn blew a deep, metallic sound. A messenger sprinted across the grounds.
"All cadets, report to the Great Hall! Now!"
They washed quickly, threw on their uniforms, and followed Arthur through the barracks. Outside, the air was cold and sharp. Cadets rushed toward a stone building ahead - the Great Hall, its entrance carved with the intertwined crests of Liam, Valcrest, and the Ardes. Inside, the black columns rose like pillars of bone, and ceiling banners hung down with sigils of Division Four. And dominating the center of the far wall... A towering statue of Artreus Liam, the founding Father of the Ardes.
He stood cast in obsidian, sword in one hand, spear in the other, eyes carved to look straight through the soul.
The hall buzzed with several cadets, who were dazed by the reason for the gathering, when a horn sounded. Every cadet snapped to formation as a line of high-ranking officers entered, led by the commander of Division Four, Renald Valcrest.
Renald stepped to the front. "In four months," he said, tone flat and uncompromising, "the Ardes will conduct the Rite of Ironblood."
Tension rolled through the hall.
"You will receive the full briefing from your instructors. For now, just understand this: it will determine your qualification for the Academy."
That was all he said. He left immediately, the high-ranking officials following him behind.
Once they were gone, soldiers rolled out four large boards, pinning thick parchment sheets onto each. Each board is listed with a class roster, and cadets surged forward to check their respective classes.
Modred began to scan for his name on the rosters and finally noticed his name on the class three roster. His eyes stopped on familiar names: Arthur Liam, Taren Liam, and Lysara Valcrest.
He smirked. "Convenient."
Taren exhaled, relieved. "At least we're not split."
Lysara nudged Modred. "Try not to embarrass us."
"No promises."
Dante's voice sounded behind him.
"Tch. Of course you're here."
Modred turned.
Dante was on the list, too-Class three.
Modred blinked. "Oh. You."
Dante crossed his arms. "Don't start."
Modred grinned. "It seems that head of yours is still affected after that much booze."
Dante stepped forward. "Say that again-"
Arthur grabbed Dante's collar and pulled him back. Lysara grabbed Modred's sleeve.
"Not here," she hissed.
The rest of the cadets funneled toward their assigned classrooms.
The room opened into a wide, rounded hall carved entirely from dark stone. The walls were engraved with faint sigils and scenes of past battles — not bright or decorative, but worn, almost carved by soldiers who had passed through generations before them. Each mark carried weight.
Rows of raised platforms curved toward the front, allowing every cadet a clear view of the center — a broad, open space of reinforced stone meant for drills, arcana demonstrations, and tactical breakdowns. The edges were chipped and scorched, the kind of damage that no caretaker ever tried to hide.
Oil lamps hung from iron hooks overhead, their flames burning steady and low, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the floor. The smell of steel, ink, and old dust lingered faintly in the air.
Along the front wall, several long tables held tightly rolled maps, formation blocks, sealed crystal containers, and metal instruments used only in Ardes training — heavy, cold, practical.
Modred let out a low whistle under his breath.
Taren stood beside him, eyes wide. "This place feels… intense."
Modred sat on a bench near the back. Dante deliberately chose the seat farthest from him. Lysara sat between Taren and Arthur, who was already organizing parchment he didn't actually need.
Modred leaned back, feet up on the rail.
Taren whispered, "Are you planning to behave?"
Modred replied, "Probably not."
Before Taren could answer—
A heavy thud hit the back of Modred's head.
He lurched forward. "Ow—!"
Another thud cut off Dante's insult before it formed.
They both looked toward the doorway.
A man stood there with perfect posture and the quiet confidence of someone who didn't tolerate nonsense.Tall. Sharp lines in his coat. Round glasses, Expression unreadable but absolutely done with existence.
"Feet down," Sol said.
Modred lowered his feet immediately.
Dante clenched his jaw.
He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and the entire room straightened up.
"I am Captain Sol Valemont," he said, placing a ledger on the front table. "Instructor of Class Three. For the next four months, I am responsible for whether you qualify or embarrass this division."
He pointed at Modred and Dante.
"You two. Sit properly."
Modred muttered, "Four-eyes…"
A piece of chalk hit him instantly.
"How did you—?"
"I hear stupidity before it is spoken," Sol said. "Now be quiet."
Snickers spread across the room.
Sol ignored them and opened his ledger.
"Our commander announced the Rite, but you were given no details."
He drew a clean outline of Phoed Mountain on the board.
"This is your battlefield. A restricted zone. Active predators. Real injuries. No assistance."
He shaded the base.
"You start here."
He marked a point near the peak.
"Your objective is the Crest Flag. Retrieve it and return. That determines Academy qualification."
A cadet raised a hand.
"What about the other divisions—?"
"You can fight them," Sol said simply. "Or avoid them. Or sabotage them. There are no rules beyond retrieving the flag."
Silence.
"This is not a ritual for theatrics," Sol added. "It's a filter. A very sharp one."
He wrote five attributes beside the map:StrengthSkill, Tactical Ability, Mental Endurance, and Arcana Capacity.
"These will be tested weekly. Your ranking depends on all five."
He turned to face them.
"And only the highest-ranked class will even be allowed to participate. The rest will watch from barracks."
Modred leaned toward Taren. "So… we just capture a flag."
"Basically," Taren whispered.
Sol shot them both a look.
They froze.
Sol continued looking at the ledger.
"Now we assign positions."
"Class president," he said, pointing, "Arthur Liam."
Instant applause — especially from the girls.
Arthur blinked. "…Sir?"
"You're competent. More than most of them."
Modred raised his hand. "Why him?"
Sol didn't look away from him. "Because he's less annoying than you."
More laughter.
Arthur rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I… will do my best."
A murmur spread — admiration from the girls, envy from others.
Modred whispered, "Pretty-boy privilege."
Sol threw chalk at him again.
Same spot.Perfect accuracy.
"Legionnaire," Sol continued, "Taren Liam."
Taren froze. "Me?"
Sol nodded. "According to the report I have , you're the only one here with the brain cells for it. Don't waste them."
Taren straightened. "…I won't."
Lysara clapped lightly beside him. "See? Told you you'd get something good."
Next came role assignments.
"Warrior class ," Sol said, "Modred Vayne, Dante Liam, Julius Valcrest , Riven Vade and others."
Modred grinned. "Obviously."
Dante cracked his knuckles.
"Scouts — Lysara Valcrest and assigned partners."
She nodded confidently.
Sol shut the ledger.
"You begin preparations at dawn tomorrow. If you are late, I will know. If you slack off, I will know. And if you think you can talk your way out of work, stop thinking."
He dismissed them with a wave.
As they exited into the corridor, Renald appeared beside Modred and Taren like a ghost.His hands dropped onto their shoulders — heavy, almost crushing.
"You two," he said quietly. "Training continues tomorrow."
Modred swallowed.
"You're going to enjoy it."
He walked off, cloak trailing.
Taren whispered, "We're dead."
Modred replied, "Yeah."