After parting ways with Eris, Rael didn't return to his dorm.
Instead, he walked deep into the academy's forest—far beyond where students trained, where the moonlight barely touched the ground. Here, among ancient trees and silence, the world felt still. Isolated. Perfect.
The air was heavy with mana, undisturbed for years. This place would do.
He stopped in a clearing, dropped his bag, and drew his sword in one fluid motion. No audience. No pretense.
Only truth.
The rumors of his visit to the Sword Library had already spread through the academy like wildfire. But while others envied his access, they couldn't comprehend what he truly gained.
---
He activated his photographic memory—a gift, a curse, a weapon.
Before him, illusions of notes, stances, diagrams, and ancient techniques materialized in glowing blue mana. They rotated around him like a constellation of knowledge.
500 books.
From simple horizontal slashes to forbidden techniques sealed for centuries.
He had devoured them all. Not just memorized—understood. Where most swordsmen clung to one style, he had dissected hundreds.
The average mind would break under that pressure. But Rael wasn't average.
He would condense them all into one.
A technique that belonged to no one else.
---
He stepped to the center of the clearing.
The moon emerged from behind the clouds, bathing him in silver light.
He took a breath.
Mana pulsed from his heart, cycling through four spinning magic circles. The forest around him began to stir, the wind reacting to the gathering energy.
He raised his blade—slowly, deliberately.
And then—
He struck.
A single arc.
Not aimed at trees or stone.
But at reality itself.
The result was catastrophic.
Trees were shredded by invisible force. The earth cracked beneath his feet. The air itself seemed to scream as if reality had been wounded.
Three waves followed his slash.
The first cut through flesh.
The second bypassed magical barriers.
The third struck the soul—leaving behind a haunting silence.
Birds fled. Mana dispersed. Even the wind dared not return.
Rael's chest rose and fell slowly, sweat glistening on his brow. He smiled.
"I'll call it… Echo of the Afterlife."
A technique that didn't simply kill—it erased.
---
As the echoes faded, Rael sat beneath a fallen tree and pulled a rolled-up parchment from his coat. It bore the Ten Ranks of Swordsmanship, a system recognized across the continent:
1. Beginner – Learns the basics: grip, stance, and form.
2. Apprentice – Shows promise. Can execute combos and defend instinctively.
3. Skilled – Understands tempo and battle flow. Able to counter.
4. Expert – Advanced techniques and mana control. A true fighter.
5. Master Swordsman – Mastery of multiple styles. Dominates most duels.
6. Grandmaster – Possesses a unique style. Each move is a lesson.
7. Sword Saint – Legendary. Defeats battalions with grace.
8. Blade God – Commands the battlefield with mere presence.
9. Immortal Blade – Strikes through fate and spirit.
10. The Undying Legacy – Not a rank, but a legacy. Their swordsmanship becomes eternal scripture.
Rael's fingers paused on Rank 4: Expert.
"That's where I am," he whispered. "Leonhart was only an Apprentice... and his underlings even less. No wonder they fell so easily."
His finger slid down to Rank 6.
"That's where his father stands…"
---
Duke Reinhardt Margrave.
A Grandmaster. One of the deadliest swordsmen alive.
And now hunting for his son's killer.
The academy had tried to cover it up. Claimed Leonhart fell to dungeon monsters during unauthorized training. But the Duke wasn't a fool.
He had seen the blade mark.
He had seen the precision.
He knew.
Rael returned to his dorm quietly that night. On his wall were documents, maps, and strings connecting the academy's structure, staff, and elite students.
In the center—the Duke.
"I need time," Rael murmured. "Time to rise."
He opened a drawer and pulled out a list of names.
Top students. Noble heirs. Foreign prodigies.
Each was a stepping stone.
Some would become allies.
Others, tools.
The rest? Threats to eliminate.
He would face them one by one—learn, adapt, and consume their styles. He would climb without drawing attention.
He would wear a mask of humility.
But beneath that mask was a wolf.
---
Later that night, Rael opened his window. The moonlight bathed him in silver as wind caressed his hair.
He stared into the distance.
"I'll reach Sword Saint before the Duke even knocks on my door," he said softly.
A cold smile curved on his lips.
"And when he finally learns the truth…"
He turned his sword slowly, the blade catching the light.
"...he'll already be too late."