The grand gates of the Velquorian Royal Academy loomed before Jorik like the jaws of a giant beast—etched with floating sigils and guarded by sentient constructs of silver and stone.
Here, heirs of great houses, prodigies from foreign kingdoms, and the most gifted warriors of the age trained. The halls whispered ancient legacies… and now, Jorik was walking them.
Duke Argen had offered to escort him, but Jorik insisted on arriving alone. He wore the academy's signature coat—black with streaks of violet runes—and carried his blade across his back like a silent badge of power.
As he walked through the courtyard of the Elite Combat Division, students turned to watch. Some out of awe. Some in curiosity. And others… with scorn.
> "So that's the Chrono-Banisher boy. Hmph. No pedigree. No history. Just power."
Jorik didn't respond. But someone stepped in front of him.
A boy his age, dressed immaculately in blue-silver armor robes with a sun-shaped crest on his shoulder.
> "You're Jorik, right?" the boy said, voice calm but laced with challenge. "I'm Ceylan Arkwright. First son of House Arkwright, commander of the Southern Skysteel Legion. Welcome to my domain."
Ceylan's eyes were golden, sharp, and analytical. He radiated noble arrogance—but not the empty kind. He was strong. Too strong for a first-year.
> "I hear you're powerful. Let's find out if you're consistent."
The air grew tense. Mana surged—before a sharp chime interrupted.
> "Combat between students is prohibited on the first day. Kindly refrain from turning the courtyard into a crater," came a serene voice.
A girl stepped between them.
She was… small. Around 12, with long silver hair tied into twin ponytails and the rest cascading behind her. Her blue eyes sparkled not with hostility, but genuine curiosity.
She bowed slightly.
> "Zarienne Sieraya, of House Sieraya. Pleased to meet you, Jorik. And you too, Ceylan."
Ceylan blinked, flustered. "Of course… my apologies, Lady Zarienne."
Jorik simply nodded. "Thanks."
Zarienne gave a kind smile, but her gaze lingered on the hilt of Jorik's blade.
> "That sword… its temporal signature is fractured and stitched with paradox mana… how fascinating."
Then she pulled a notebook from her sleeve and began scribbling furiously.
> "Oh, I simply must study it—no, wait, that would be intrusive. Hmm. But if I could cross-analyze it with the Chrono-Rift Theorem…"
She kept muttering, completely unaware that both boys were staring at her.
> "Is she… okay?" Jorik asked.
Ceylan sighed. "She's always like this."