Early morning light spilled into the villa.
The courtyard, once silent, now breathed again — faint sounds of training echoed through it.
Each student moved differently, their personalities reflected in the way they fought:
Trisha: focused on endurance drills, her leadership reborn through quiet example.
Eghosa: steady, eyes sharp — training not just her body, but her will.
Velibrum: practicing sword forms, blending precision with artistry.
Slitah: each strike measured, as if avenging unseen injustice.
Leonard: perfect, noble posture — every movement a vow to reclaim lost honor.
From the balcony above, Dean Ancelot watched them, the faintest smile curving his lips.
---
"Alright," he began, his voice calm yet commanding. "That's enough."
They stopped immediately, standing at attention.
"I know what you're all thinking," the dean continued. "Why have we been focusing almost entirely on combat? Why put so much time there when the competition involves three disciplines — Art, Science, and Combat?"
He let the question hang, watching curiosity bloom in their eyes.
"Well," he said, stepping forward, "the answer is simple."
He turned to Trisha.
"Tell me — how many forms of Art do we have?"
She began to list them aloud:
"Art of War, Art of Psychology, Art of Economy, Art of Entertainment…"
But midway, she stopped, realizing the trap in his question.
"Countless, sir," she corrected herself.
"Good," Ancelot replied, nodding.
He turned to Velibrum next.
"How many forms of Science?"
"Countless as well, sir," he replied quickly.
The dean smiled faintly, then turned to them all.
"And how many forms of Combat exist?"
The students looked at one another, unsure how to answer. Silence fell until Leonard spoke quietly:
"One, sir."
"Correct," the dean said. "There is only one form of combat. That's why it's the most important discipline."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
Then, almost casually, he added,
"You think Theran is just one of the many S-Class fighters on Earth 236? Then it might shock you to know this — across all three hundred human planets, across every academy and military school — there are only six hundred and fifty S-Class students in the Combat Discipline."
The room fell silent. The number struck like lightning.
For the first time, they understood how small they were in the universe of true warriors.
Velibrum, his pride bruised, asked carefully,
"Sir… why is combat held in such high regard?"
"Good question," Ancelot replied with a faint smirk. "I could tell you everything, but you're not ready for that yet. Still, here's what you should know."
He clasped his hands behind his back.
"To achieve an S-rank in any discipline, you must master at least five of its forms — any of your choice. But combat is different. You don't just study combat. You prove it — every single day.
To earn an A-grade, you must defeat your instructor twice and one examiner from another school.
To earn an S, you must go beyond — you must challenge instructors from other institutions, military-grade opponents, even combat veterans. You don't just pass — you earn approval. The acknowledgment of those who have already conquered the impossible."
He looked at each of them.
"Now you understand why there are only six hundred and fifty S-grades. It's not a rank — it's a legacy."
They stood frozen, pride melting into awe.
Eghosa broke the silence.
"Sir… does that mean we should focus only on combat?"
Ancelot shook his head.
"No. What I'm saying is this — my colleagues and I have learned that the upcoming competition uses a ten-mark system:
Art carries two points.
Science carries three.
Combat carries five."
Gasps erupted across the courtyard.
"Five?" Eghosa muttered.
"Yes," the dean confirmed. "Win the combat phase — and you've already secured half the victory. Now, get back to work. I'll be checking from time to time."
His words struck like lightning. The students immediately threw themselves back into training — harder, sharper, faster.
For the first time, their movements burned with purpose again.
---
Two days passed in a blur.
The competition was only two days away.
In the underground training hall of the Imperial Academy, Cairn looked toward the young man seated in shadow — reading a small children's book.
"You said victory is only achieved when there's no longer advantage," Cairn said cautiously. "So why are you idle now? Is this the end of your grand plan?"
"I agree," Melissa added, leaning on her spear. "The competition is almost here. Shouldn't you be moving?"
The young man finally looked up. His eyes gleamed like frozen silver.
"I've already moved," he said coldly. "Sixty percent of the competitors have been removed."
Cairn stiffened. "Removed?"
"You don't see it," the man continued, a faint smile curling at his lips. "That's what makes it beautiful."
It was the first time he'd spoken so clearly — and that was enough to silence them both.
---
Back at the villa, a sharp ding echoed from the door.
Eghosa answered, finding a tall man in a red coat and fur mantle. He smelled faintly of oil and expensive wine.
"Good morning," the man said smoothly. "I'm here to meet the residents of this villa — including your dean."
His voice was calm, his posture confident — the tone of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
Eghosa hesitated, then went to fetch Ancelot.
When the dean arrived, he led the man into the central hall.
"I assume you're with the competition?" Ancelot asked.
The man smiled faintly.
"In a manner of speaking."
He turned toward the students, his eyes sharp and calculating.
"I've come with an offer," he said. "Whether you accept or not depends entirely on your answer — which I'll expect tomorrow."
He handed each of them a sealed document — including one to Eghosa.
The dean didn't open his. His gaze was already sharp, cautious.
"An offer from who?" he demanded.
The man paused at the doorway, then turned with a practiced smile.
"If you must know something, know this — my name is Crassus. Grandson of the third-richest man on this planet."
He tipped his hat, bowed faintly, and walked out without another word.
The villa fell silent again.
The students stared at the documents, unease crawling in their stomachs.
Speculation followed — jokes, guesses, nervous laughter — but none of them opened the envelope.
They didn't know that the man they'd just met was not an ally, nor a stranger… but the final piece in a plan set long before their arrival.
The invisible hand that had been pulling the strings since their first day in the villa had just made its final move.
And as Eghosa watched the crimson-coated figure disappear into the mist, she couldn't help but feel — deep in her heart —
that she'd just met the man who would change everything.