Chapter 7: The King's Decree
Morning came heavy with silence.
The rays of sunlight slipped through the cracked panes of Class C, illuminating a room that still felt half-asleep. Dust particles danced in the golden light, but no one moved to admire them. Something was different about today.
Even the air tasted strange—like metal before a storm.
Rael sat alone near the back, resting his chin on his hand. And his eyes that shimmered like both sun and moon stared out the window, though his attention was fixed on every sound around him.
Whispers slithered between desks.
"Did you hear what happened last night?"
"Three Royal Skyships flew overhead... toward the academy."
"Didn't the King only do that during wartime?"
Tension crawled across the classroom walls like ivy choking stone.
Then the door slammed open.
BANG.
Professor Helgar stepped in, the very image of a battle-hardened war dog. His scarred face held no amusement—only the weight of grim duty. Even the students who often dared to laugh behind his back sat bolt upright.
But today, Helgar didn't shout.
He didn't insult.
He didn't even glare.
He walked straight to the front, carrying a scroll marked with the Royal Flame Emblem—a seal used only by the king himself.
A few students gasped.
Rael's gaze sharpened.
Helgar unrolled the scroll in silence and set it down.
Then he spoke, voice heavy with purpose.
> "Three days from now… one of you will be chosen to represent Class C in a trial set by the King."
Eyes widened. The air dropped in temperature.
> "This isn't a normal exam. This isn't about grades. This is a call to arms."
Helgar raised his hand. A shimmering panel of mana flared into existence behind him.
Words appeared, glowing red like blood:
---
Royal Decree – Hero Selection Trial
Location: Verdant Demon Forest
Duration: 5 Days
Objective: Survive. Kill. Collect Monster points.
Only one student per class (C, B, A, S) may participate.
The top 2 scores overall shall be named the Final Heroes of the Realm.
---
Gasps turned to shouts.
"This has to be a mistake!"
"Heroes?! Like the real Chosen Ones?!"
"We're just students! We'll die!"
Professor Helgar let them speak—for a moment.
Then he slammed his sword onto the desk with a deafening CLANG.
> "Silence! You're not children anymore. You train to fight—now you'll prove you can."
> "The Demon King has awakened. The northern skies are burning. Fortresses fall. The world doesn't have the luxury of waiting for you to feel ready."
The classroom froze in stunned fear.
> "Three of the five foretold heroes have already been selected—nobles, trained since birth. But two slots remain," Helgar continued, voice deep and low.
> "One student from each class will be sent into the Verdant Demon Forest—no help, no instructors. Just monsters, traps, and survival. At the end, the top two scorers—regardless of bloodline—will become true heroes."
Rael's heart didn't race. It roared.
---
Heroes.
Chosen by destiny, trained by the royal family, empowered by ancient blessings. They would receive relics from the Sacred Vault, spells lost to time, weapons forged in divine fire.
A chance to become more than elite.
To become a legend.
But the nobles wouldn't accept this.
No, they'd already assumed the last spot would belong to someone from Class S.
Probably Eris.
---
Rael's gaze dropped to his hand—scarred from years of struggle, worn from endless training in secret.
They wouldn't expect a commoner to stand at the same height.
But Rael had one thing none of them did.
A technique born from 500 of sword books… fused into one style.
Echo of the Afterlife.
> The first cut pierced flesh.
The second bypassed enchantments.
The third shattered the soul.
He hadn't revealed it to anyone—not even to the professors.
And he wouldn't until it truly mattered.
---
When the bell rang and class ended, the room was slow to empty. Students whispered, clung together, made quiet pacts of alliance or fear. But Rael didn't join them.
He walked alone through the academy halls, past banners of gold and red, past nobles who stared like he was something beneath their boots.
He didn't care.
He stood before the notice board, where the final declaration had already been posted:
> "Class C Selection Test: Tomorrow at sunrise. One will go. The rest… will watch."
Rael stared at it for a moment longer.
Then turned, wind brushing against his cloak like a silent warning.
---
That night, the sky wept light rain over the academy.
Rael stood at the edge of the training field, blade in hand, slashing through shadows with fluid, deadly movements. Each motion hummed with energy—not magic, but something deeper.
A rhythm born of memory.
Of reincarnation.
Of purpose.
Sching.
His sword stopped mid-air.
He whispered softly:
> "Class C will rise. And I'll carve the path myself."
The wind stirred. The trees bowed.
Somewhere in the darkness, a forest waited.
And so did fate.