A grey morning settled over the misty outskirts of Ebonveil City. The clouds hung heavy above the treetops, and the ground shivered beneath the dew of dawn. Life moved with its usual rhythm—birds chirping, wooden doors creaking open, and the shouts of instructors mixing with the laughter of young Inscription trainees in the distant fields.
But today, something different loomed in the air.
In one of the academy's mission staging halls—built from enchanted stone and inscribed with protective runes—Team Eleven waited in heavy silence. Spirit lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a faint green glow that made the shadows twitch at the corners.
Their assigned supervisor… was late.
He should have arrived at least fifteen minutes ago, but the door remained closed. Time crawled forward, thick and heavy.
Tharic, his messy red hair falling across his brow, couldn't stay still. He wore a dark leather jacket reinforced with copper buckles, and grey-tinted trousers designed for mobility. His fingers tapped against his thigh as he muttered, groaned, and paced restlessly.
"I swear, this is unacceptable," he muttered, glaring at the door like it might explode. "They said his name is Kellan Varo. I've heard things… weird things."
He glanced at Mira, as if seeking some kind of confirmation. "They say he used to serve in the Disciplinary Unit. The kind of guy who throws students into actual combat with monsters and watches what happens. Crazy bastard."
Ryn, standing against the cold wall, said nothing. He wore a black robe with tight sleeves, silver thread tracing sharp patterns along the edges. A leather belt cinched the cloth at his waist, and his dark hair half-veiled his unreadable eyes. He watched the room with detached stillness, as if perceiving things the others couldn't.
Mira, with short silver hair that gleamed like a blade under the lantern light, wore a crimson cropped jacket beneath a dark blue mantle, fastened with a silk-gray sash at her waist. A leather satchel clung to her hip, filled with her inscription tools. She tried to maintain her composure—shoulders straight, jaw firm—but her eyes kept drifting toward Ryn, observing him when she thought he wouldn't notice.
"Do you think he'll really be that bad?" Mira asked, trying to cut through the silence.
"If the stories are true," Tharic said, "he doesn't believe in gradual training. He thinks pressure reveals true worth. I heard one of his students lost an arm last year. Barely survived."
The silence that followed was thick—almost suffocating.
And then, without warning, the door creaked open.
No knock. No footsteps.
Just a slow, smooth movement.
All three turned in unison.
From the shadows stepped a single boot—scuffed leather, stained with dried mud. Then came a long, dust-covered cloak, and the gleam of a dark chestplate, dulled by use and age.
The face remained unseen.
But the air changed.
Something had arrived.
Their supervisor stepped through, hands buried deep in the pockets of a dark, threadbare coat. His boots were worn, caked with dust from long travel. A strange metallic mask covered the left side of his face, carved with intricate symbols that pulsed faintly with dormant inscription energy. Only one eye was visible—a cold, gray iris that drifted across the room with detached interest.
"Morning," he said, his tone dry and casual. "Apologies for the delay… I got lost on the way here."
He grinned slightly, as if he found that amusing.
Tharic rolled his eyes in open disdain. The red-haired youth folded his arms, the leather cords on his vambraces creaking. "Great," he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. "They sent us a clown."
The supervisor didn't react. He leaned against the wall near the door, letting the silence stretch. The only sound was the hum of distant wind outside and the quiet shifting of armor and fabric.
Ryn stood at the far side of the waiting room, thoughtful eyes that never left the supervisor's mask.
Mira, adjusted the belt around her waist, where a short ceremonial blade hung.
"Name's Kellan Varo," the masked man finally said, still leaning against the wall. "Rank four . Don't worry, I'm not here to babysit you. Just to make sure you don't die in the first hour."
Before anyone could respond, the heavy door opened again with a dull thud. A senior academy handler entered, bearing the quiet authority of one who had seen too many failures to be moved by arrogance or youth. His grizzled beard was streaked with iron gray, and the scroll in his hand glowed faintly with embedded inscription seals.
"Your assignment," he said without preamble, extending the scroll toward Kellan Varo.
Kellan accepted it and unraveled the seal with a thought. Arcane characters shimmered to life across the parchment, lines of glowing ink shifting like flowing water.
"Mission classification: C," the handler said. "You are to escort a merchant by the name of Gerard to the northern ridgelands. He has completed a transaction near the Verdant Hollow and requires protection until he returns to his caravan, stationed on the southern coastal line."
"Babysitting a merchant?" Tharic scowled. "That's it? That's our grand test?"
"There may be complications," the handler replied coolly. "Gerard is known to stir trouble. He has enemies in the outlands. And that region borders several unstable inscription zones."
"What kind of complications?" Mira asked, more carefully.
"Bandits, monsters. Perhaps worse. Keep your wits about you."
Tharic grunted and looked away, clearly dissatisfied. Mira's expression grew tense. But Ryn didn't speak. His gaze lingered on the names within the scroll and the strange phrasing used in its final line: All outcomes are to be recorded.
Vael pushed off the wall. "You'll meet the merchant at dawn tomorrow by the eastern gate. Bring everything you'll need. Once we leave the city, I won't stop for stragglers. Or complainers."
His voice darkened slightly at the end, the levity gone.
He walked past them, pausing at the door. "Sleep well tonight, kids. It's your last taste of safety."
And then he was gone.
Silence followed in his wake.
Mira exhaled slowly. "What kind of instructor gets lost on the way to a waiting room?"
Ryn didn't answer. He was already reading the scroll again, his thoughts elsewhere. He could feel it in his bones—this was no ordinary mission.
And somewhere beyond the city's ancient walls… fate was sharpening its knives.
This was how real journeys began.
Not with glory.
But with a quiet door opening, and a shadow stepping through.