The morning sun, a torrent of liquid gold, cascaded over the majestic Orpheus Royal Academy. Its sharp, elegant spires pierced the cerulean canvas of the sky, each facet gleaming beneath the newborn day. In the heart of the training yard, a solitary figure stood bathed in that golden light.
Leonidas Greyrat — the weight of his past and the steel of his future resting against his hips in the form of dagger-like remnants of his former horns — felt the cool kiss of metal at his side. Today wasn't just another turn of the calendar. It was the first step on a new path, one he would forge with his own hands, leading him away from a fate he refused to accept.
As the sun climbed higher, painting the sky in hues of apricot and rose, a familiar internal chime resonated in Leonidas's consciousness.
Daily Attribute Bonus: +1 INT
New INT: 131
A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. A single point of intellect was a small thing — a solitary drop in the vast ocean of power he needed to survive. But in this unforgiving reality, where life and death often balanced on a knife's edge, every increment counted.
"Small mercies," he murmured, the words swallowed by the vastness of the yard. He rolled his shoulders, loosening the knots of anticipation and resolve.
His gaze drifted to the imposing silhouette of the classroom building. Today marked his debut as a Combat Tactics Instructor — a role stripped of the comforting embrace of Spirits, demanding unyielding discipline and offering no room for error.
The academy grounds stirred to life around him. Students emerged from the dormitories, a vibrant tapestry of youthful ambition. Some wore the sleek, practical leathers of fighters, their movements sharp and grounded. Others swept by in rich, embroidered mage robes, hints of arcane power shimmering at their fingertips. A third group moved with theatrical flourish, the colorful attire of bards unmistakable, instruments clutched like extensions of their very souls.
In this world, Spirits weren't mere tools — they were the lifeblood of combat. Weapons for fighters, conduits for mages, and melody-bound magic for bards. Fighters danced a deadly ballet of steel, mages conducted symphonies of destruction, and bards bent sound and soul alike.
Leonidas's class, however, was something else entirely. A crucible of pure combat, stripped bare of any spiritual aid. Twenty-five students were expected, each a budding warrior tethered to a weapon Spirit — or so the roster claimed.
As the students gathered before him, a discordant note struck Leonidas's sharp gaze. Among the uniformly clad fighters stood ten others, their identities unmistakable in flowing mage robes and bardic cloaks. Harps, violins, and lutes hung at their sides, silent for now.
Leonidas's crimson gaze swept over them, assessing, cool and exact.
"All right," he called out, his voice cutting cleanly through the morning air. "Combat class students, form a line. You ten at the back — your purpose?"
A slender mage, his dark hair a stark contrast to the ivory staff he gripped, stepped forward. Faint runes pulsed along the staff's carved surface.
"We were assigned to observe, Instructor Leonidas. The Headmaster himself approved our attendance."
Leonidas resisted the urge to sigh. Bureaucratic meddling. He should've seen this coming. In an age where mages and bards served as invaluable support on the battlefield, their desire to scout potential allies made a certain ruthless sense.
"Fine," he said, his tone clipped. "But you're silent observers. No commentary, no interference — and absolutely no getting in the way. Understood?"
A ripple of nods passed through them as they retreated to the rear, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and caution.
Turning back to the combat students, Leonidas let his gaze linger. "Listen closely. My approach is… unconventional. In this class, there is one rule — no Spirits."
A wave of murmurs washed over the group, disbelief and confusion crackling in the air.
A tall youth, a greatsword Spirit strapped across his back like a sleeping giant, furrowed his brow. "But… sir? Our combat prowess is tied to our Spirits. It's against academy protocol to—"
Leonidas's sharp glare silenced him mid-protest. "The real world doesn't give a damn about protocol," he said coolly. "Your Spirit can be lost. Sealed. Or your mana drained. Relying on a single weapon, a single source of power — that's how you die. My job is to make sure you don't."
A wiry girl with twin dagger Spirits at her hips hesitantly raised a hand. "But isn't the whole point of Orpheus Academy to hone our abilities with our Spirits?"
A grim smile tugged at Leonidas's lips — cold, without warmth. "The point is survival. Do you think your enemies will wait for you to summon your power? They'll ambush you, poison you, disarm you. There are no rules beyond these walls. If that thought terrifies you, leave now."
A hush settled over the yard, broken only by the wind teasing the leaves. No one moved.
"Good," Leonidas said, approval flickering in his crimson gaze. "Form pairs. Your first lesson — unarmed combat. Show me what you've got without your precious Spirits."
As the students hesitantly paired off, tension thickened the air. Leonidas prowled among them like a predator, his eyes sharp and unyielding. He adjusted stances with curt commands, demonstrated holds and strikes with swift precision.
"Rolan, lower your center of gravity. You'll be thrown like a sack of grain."
"Dessa, your punches are a mile away before they land. Guard up. Tighter."
He selected a confident-looking student — a burly lad with smug eyes — and threw him to the ground with effortless speed. The boy hit the dirt with a startled grunt.
"See?" Leonidas smirked. "That's arrogance. Now get up."
The yard became a crucible of sweat, grit, and bruises. Uniforms clung to skin, muscles burned, and the initial apprehension gave way to raw determination. The observers watched in silence, some scribbling notes in leather-bound journals.
A bard, a young woman with a delicate silver flute, leaned toward a mage beside her. "He's… brutal, isn't he?"
The mage, eyes fixed on Leonidas's movements, gave a curt nod. "Undeniably. But undeniably effective. I've never seen a class like this."
Leonidas caught their exchange, though he chose to ignore it. Their opinions didn't matter. Only results did.
By the time the lesson drew to a close, the students were winded, bruised, but carrying a new light in their eyes — a glimmer of hardened resolve.
"Not entirely disappointing for a first attempt," Leonidas allowed, his tone grudgingly complimentary. "A handful of you might actually survive out there. Dismissed."
The students dispersed in weary silence, some favoring bruised limbs, others lost in thought. The mages and bards drifted away, their murmured conversations lingering in the air.
Leonidas stood alone as the yard emptied, the sounds of training replaced by the soft rustle of the wind. He exhaled, a grim satisfaction settling over him. The first hurdle was cleared.
His crimson eyes turned to the horizon, where the sun began its slow descent. One final task awaited before the day surrendered to night.
It was time to return to the academy's library — to the sanctuary of forgotten knowledge and the silent witnesses to a past he was determined to reclaim.