Earlier that morning.
05:27 am
Location — Room #3, Glory Academy, Year 1 Male Dormitory.
*Swish* *Swish*
A young man could be seen swinging a training sword—his eyes closed in concentration, going through multiple motions as if emulating a fight in his mind.
*Swish* *Swish*
Beads of sweat trickled down his face, but no matter what move he made, the grinning shadow figure in his mind dismantled all of his moves masterfully with his bare hands.
An overhead slash? Countered with a jab to the throat before the blade could descend.
Blocking was pretty much useless since the opponent was using his bare hands—he would just grab the sword and yank it away from him.
'And with that asshole's shitty personality, he would just break it apart and beat me up with the hilt...' The young man thought with a grimace. The mental image was so realistic that it seemed like a memory.
A diagonal slash would result in his opponent slapping the side of the blade away, leaving him open to attack.
A stab? Well, at least he could reach full extension…Only for the figure to twist away with ease, slipping through his guard like mist—and once again leaving him exposed to attack.
'Useless…All of it. That shitty family's sword style is just as useless as them,' He thought in frustration.
But then—
As a new strategy popped into his mind, he changed his stance. His left foot: Forward. His right foot: Back. His left hand raised, palm open. And his right hand held the sword parallel to his head.
It was a flexible stabbing stance—low-risk, easy to recover from if the attack failed.
He lunged.
As expected, the shadow slipped past the thrust with ease, in a blur of motion. But this time, when the counter-kick came flying toward his midsection, he was ready.
His open left hand swiped the incoming leg aside, redirecting the force just enough. Without hesitation, he launched himself backwards, putting distance between them.
A thrill of excitement shot through his chest.
'Finally!'
The strike hadn't landed. The shadow hadn't even flinched. But for the first time, he hadn't been dismantled outright. He had held his ground, even if only for a second.
Suddenly, the figure seemed to grin even wider. He appeared before him, his fist shattering into grey mist as soon as it connected with the young man's face.
His eyes opened, and his imaginary phantom disappeared.
The young man's face twisted in frustration. 'Even in my mind, you still won't let me have a tiny victory.'
With a deep sigh, he put down the training sword. He began drying off his sweat with a towel while walking into his kitchen, running a glass under the faucet.
His white bracelet vibrates as he gets an incoming call. The young man looks down at the phone symbol on one of the beads of his Connector.
He sighed, already having an idea of who the incoming caller was.
A deeper grimace emerged on his face, and his chest tightened. He eventually relented with a sigh and answered the call after calming his expression.
"Are you ready, Arthur?" The cold voice of a man comes through the line, although it was phrased like a question of concern—the tone he asked it in left no room for doubt.
"…Yeah," Arthur said.
"Speak clearly," His father responds with a firm edge in his voice, although he didn't shout—Arthur could almost hear the clenching of his father's jaw through his voice.
"Yes, Patriarch."
The call ended without even a goodbye; not an ounce of parental love could be felt from the man, but Arthur had long since been used to that.
He clenched his glass in frustration—
Shatter.
***
After completing his usual morning routine, Arthur looked at himself in the mirror.
To the world, Arthur Rain was the image of humble nobility, a heroic figure, though not as tall or broad as Giuseppe or Marcus—his compact, lean build was like a honed and sharpened blade.
His long white hair was tied neatly into a low ponytail, with sharp crimson highlights like flaming embers in snow. His clear blue eyes were like the summer sky.
Arthur adjusted the collar of his old-style, three-piece black suit. Intricate red floral patterns lined the trim, and rose gold cufflinks glinted at his wrists.
Every detail was meticulous. Every fold was smoothed. Every thread is in place.
He reached for the moisturiser, for good measure, dabbing it across his face mechanically before stepping back to assess himself.
"Learn to live and love the lie, right?" He muttered, forcing a crooked smile.
But behind the crafted mask, only he knew what stared back.
Not the son of the Rain Family Patriarch.
Not a young man of great enough potential to warrant the Patriarch's recognition.
Not a heroic Storywalker in the making.
Just a weak little boy—still shackled to a family that treated him like shit.
The reflection felt mockingly hollow.
His jaw clenched, and his hands trembled as his knuckles turned white from the force of his clenched fist.
'Calm. Calm…' He repeats in his mind like a mantra.
Walking out of his room, Arthur takes a glance at the time.
[07:38 am]
He hears a click from a neighbouring door, without even looking—Arthur already knew who it was.
"Hey, Tandav. Do you know what classes we've got today?" He asked, stepping into the hallway as another student exited his room.
Tandav turned to face him.
Slightly taller than Arthur—just enough to be irritating—he had bronze-tanned skin, dark blue eyes, and long, wavy auburn hair that looked like it belonged in a premium shampoo commercial.
He has a thin but lean build, like a professional swimmer. Wearing a light grey long-sleeve shirt and beige khakis.
Easily, one could understand why he ranked 7th on the academy's 'Most attractive students' forum.
Tandav gave Arthur a once-over, his eyes slowly trailing down the old-fashioned suit Arthur was wearing. He blinked, then stared blankly.
"…You know, we have Arena today, right?".
Arthur froze. His soul visibly left his body.
"…If I fucking knew that why would I have asked you?" Arthur shot back at Tandav, who simply stared with a deadpan face, already bracing himself for the incoming tantrum.
"Why? Just why?" That question seemed to come from a place of great despair.
Tandav sighed, running a hand through his annoyingly perfect hair.
"Come on, man. You've been here for how long? Almost a year now. You should know how Glory works. How do you think someone like Giuseppe made it to rank 1, huh? It sure as hell wasn't thanks to his academic ranking. That guy has the worst grades I have ever seen. I mean, seriously. You have to actively try to be that stupid."
Arthur groaned, a deep sigh of defeat echoed from within.
He'd genuinely believed—hoped—that the day before Genesis Day would be light. Maybe a day off. Something. But no.
This was Glory Academy.
And there was only one principle here that truly mattered:
Might makes right.
Everything else might as well be background noise.
Naturally, for such a school. The concept of a break was alien to them.
"…I guess I'll have to fight in this, then," Arthur muttered, looking down at his suit with resignation.
"Can't be bothered to change. That would take forever."
Tandav shrugged, already walking ahead. "Suit yourself, Mr. Victorian Vengeance,"
"Oh, ha ha. Very fucking funny," Arthur rolled his eyes as he laughed dryly before following him.
"Anyway, let's go grab Daniel," Tandav added, glancing back. "He's probably buried in the library again."
***
Arthur and Tandav walked through the bustling campus. The clamour of celebration all around them. Music played loud enough that it could be felt in vibrations through the ground. Students and staff moved between various food stalls and game booths.
Even with all the noise and activity, Arthur knew this was only at the preparation phase. By evening, the campus would be overflowing with light, music, and people.
But he couldn't blame them. After all, for many, this might be their last festival.
He turned to his friend and found Tandav staring, utterly transfixed, at a floating holographic screen in front of him.
Curious. Arthur raised a brow and leaned over, taking a look at what had stolen Tandav's attention so completely.
The moment his eyes landed on the display, his brows shot up—so high they threatened to launch right off his face.
On the screen, a brightly colored virtual idol with oversized twin-tails twirled in sync with a sparkly, upbeat pop song. Digital confetti rained down as she winked at the "audience," blowing a kiss straight into the camera.
Only then did Tandav realise what Arthur was seeing. His eyes widened in horror.
"Ah—wait—no—!" He scrambled, hands waving wildly as he tried to close the holographic windows. "I-it's not what you think!"
"Oh, I think it's exactly what I think," Arthur said, staring at him like he'd just grown a second head. "You were watching that with religious devotion. I saw you mouthing the lyrics, man."
He gave Tandav a slow, dramatic nod. "So this is what y'all get up to in Suryet, huh? This is what the culture breeds?"
Tandav clutched his chest like he'd been personally attacked. "Hey! Don't you drag my homeland into this. She is global."
"She?" Arthur raised a brow. "Tandav… that's literally a man."
"W-what?!" Tandav's face contorted like he'd just been told gravity isn't real; it was the most absurd thing he had been told in his life.
***
Location — Argent Spire, lower city.
The wind blew dry and sharp through the towering spires of Sector A-7.
Somewhere in the depths of a desolate citadel—Fortis 9. Cold, metallic boots echoed against obsidian marble floors.
A figure stood within a room of darkness that was only illuminated by the scarce candles on the pillars. Suddenly, a stark white beam of light shone from above, like judgment itself.
The light shone on the sigil of the Judicator Corps—a scale, emblazoned in blood-red across the back wall. Below it, six figures kneeled—heads bowed in reverence, motionless.
A seventh figure stepped forward. Clad in matte-black, form-fitting armour with crimson tracings, his figure was draped in a black cloak with a fur-lined hood, with only two narrow holes of white light coming through his mask.
"The violation has been confirmed?" Came a voice from the white light above. Cold. Unfeeling. Absolute.
The Seventh Judicator did not speak. Simply nodded once and held out a hand. In a blink, a holographic recording played in mid-air—clear footage of a man performing some sort of ritual on the corpse of a woman.
A clear violation of one of the Seven Laws of Humanity. Attempting to resurrect the dead—the gravest of offences.
"Name?" The voice asked.
"Atlas Elwright," The Judicator said at last. His voice was devoid of malice—just a quiet, inevitable finality.
A pause.
"Send the decree. Mark the target."
With another nod. The six kneeling figures rose in perfect unison.
Chains clinked softly as one of them, far taller than the rest, held out an obsidian tablet etched with golden runes. A glowing red sigil pulsed on its surface: a brand of condemnation.
Far away, on the surface, a small black drone zipped silently through the sky and attached itself to an outer wall by the side of a window. It blinked once, then vanished from sight.
Back in the shadowed chamber, the voice from above whispered.
"No exceptions."
And the lights went out.
_____________________________________________________
Author Note
;)