Night settled differently over Astraea Combat Academy.
During the day, the campus thrummed with structured activity, lectures, drills, formal sparring, measured progress. At night, it became something quieter, more honest. Lamps lit the stone pathways in pools of warm gold, while distant sounds of private training echoed from places instructors pretended not to notice.
Beyond the main grounds, at the edge of Training Field Three, the same place where the incident had occurred, a lone figure practiced.
Again.
And again.
And again.
His name was Shin.
Short for Shin Aurelian though he rarely used the full name.
His hair, a vivid deep blue that caught even dim light, was damp with sweat. Strands clung to his forehead, framing eyes that burned with stubborn determination rather than natural confidence.
He swung a wooden practice sword downward.
Too slow.
Too wide.
Too unbalanced.
The blade struck the training post with a dull thud and bounced awkwardly to the side.
He staggered, nearly losing his footing.
"…Again," he whispered.
He reset his stance.
Raised the sword.
Struck.
Thud.
Wrong angle.
Wrong posture.
Wrong everything.
Shin had been told this many times.
Not cruelly.
Not kindly.
Just factually.
"You lack talent for Astraea-style martial arts."
His mana control was poor.
His physical coordination was average at best.
His instincts in combat situations lagged behind.
In an academy filled with prodigies, nobles trained since childhood, and gifted commoners, he ranked near the bottom.
Yet he kept practicing.
Because quitting had never felt like an option.
Shin had not enrolled at Astraea for prestige.
Not for family honor.
Not for wealth.
He had come for one reason:
He wanted to become a martial artist.
Not a knight.
Not a general.
Not a hero.
Just someone strong enough to protect others.
Back home, bandits raided villages regularly. Knights arrived eventually always eventually but never in time to prevent the damage.
He had watched neighbors injured, homes burned, lives shattered.
He had watched his father stand helplessly with farm tools against armed men.
Helplessness had burned into him deeper than fear.
So when Astraea announced open examinations for commoners…
He had tried.
Failed.
Tried again.
Failed again.
Until finally, through sheer persistence and marginal improvement, he scraped past the entrance threshold.
Not because he was exceptional.
Because he refused to stop.
Three days earlier, he had been kneeling in the dirt, bracing for another blow.
Jean Valemont.
A name spoken with respect, fear, and sometimes resentment.
The third-year First Rank.
Shin had not intended to offend him. He had simply been using a training field reserved unofficially for upperclassmen a rule not written but widely understood.
Jean had corrected him.
Then decided correction alone was insufficient.
"You waste space meant for those with potential." the senior had said coldly.
Shin remembered the pressure of that presence.
The certainty that resistance was meaningless.
He had apologized repeatedly.
It did not matter.
Then—
A voice.
"Please stop."
Quiet.
Unremarkable.
But it had cut through the moment like a blade.
Shin had looked up and seen a first-year he did not recognize.
Plain.
Expressionless.
Unarmed.
(Another victim,) he had thought.
Instead…
Jean had fallen.
Instantly.
Without contact.
Without warning.
Without explanation.
Shin had not seen a strike.
Not seen a technique.
Only inevitability.
The way predators collapse prey without visible effort.
From that moment, something shifted inside him.
Shin stopped swinging.
His arms trembled from overuse.
He leaned the wooden sword against the post and sank to the ground, breathing heavily.
"Yorio…"
He spoke the name like a prayer.
At first, he had simply been grateful.
Then awed.
Then curious.
And finally…
Determined.
Because if someone like that existed, someone strong enough to defeat Astraea's top student effortlessly, yet calm enough to walk away without boasting
Then that was true strength.
Not flashy techniques.
Not inherited talent.
Something deeper.
Something earned.
"I want to be like that." Shin whispered.
Not famous.
Not feared.
Strong.
Unshakably strong.
Strong enough that bullies stopped without needing threats.
Strong enough that protection required no violence.
Strong enough that others could breathe easier nearby.
Yes.
That was the kind of martial artist he wanted to become.
Footsteps approached.
Shin tensed automatically before recognizing the relaxed gait.
"Still at it?"
A tall second-year leaned against the fence, arms crossed.
"You'll collapse at this rate."
"I'm fine," Shin replied.
"You say that every night."
The upperclassman sighed.
"You know effort alone won't close the gap here."
"I know."
"Then why keep pushing?"
Shin looked down at his calloused hands.
"…Because I saw what real strength looks like."
The second-year frowned.
"Who?"
Shin's grip tightened unconsciously.
"…A first-year like me."
Silence.
"…You're talking about that guy, aren't you?"
Shin nodded.
The upperclassman exhaled slowly.
"Listen, whatever you think you saw, don't get involved with him."
"Why?"
"Because people like that aren't normal."
Shin looked up sharply.
"Exactly," he said.
"That's why I need him."
After the upperclassman left, Shin remained seated in the quiet field.
Stars had begun to appear overhead.
Wind stirred the grass gently.
He imagined approaching Yorio.
Imagined kneeling.
Imagined asking:
(Please teach me.)
His heart pounded at the thought.
Not from fear of rejection.
From fear of not asking at all.
Because opportunities like this did not appear twice.
He stood slowly, legs stiff.
Tomorrow.
He would ask tomorrow.
Even if people laughed.
Even if Yorio refused.
Even if it meant humiliation.
Because the alternative remaining weak forever was worse.
At that exact moment, several buildings away, Yorio sat at his desk reading quietly.
A small lamp illuminated his book.
Outside his window, the academy lay calm.
He turned a page.
"…Maybe things are settling down," he murmured hopefully.
He had no idea:
A merchant noble's daughter was studying him out of curiosity.
Faculty were monitoring him out of concern.
Upperclassmen feared him out of uncertainty.
And now
A boy with no talent but unbreakable determination had decided to become his disciple.
Without his consent.
Without his knowledge.
Without any understanding of who Yorio truly was.
Yorio closed the book and extinguished the lamp.
Darkness filled the room.
"…Good night," he said softly to no one.
Outside, the wind carried distant echoes of practice strikes proof that somewhere, someone was still training, still chasing a strength they believed he possessed.
The academy slept.
Misunderstandings did not.
And by morning, Yorio's quiet life would become even more complicated.
To be continue