The heavy stone corridors of Xiphonos Academy were a labyrinth of echoes. Students frantically scrambled to get to their classes. Caught in the middle of it all, a familiar group of four had come to a complete stop.
"Okay—wait," Archie muttered, squinting at a brass-rimmed notice board mounted beside a set of towering oak doors. "I think our next class is Music Theory or—no, hold on—Mr. Halbrecht said Room 4-B, right?"
"Archie," Suzune whispered into his ear, her voice dangerously calm, "check the schedule properly."
A pause.
"If you make me late," she added softly, "I'll deal with you myself."
"I am! I am—just give me a second!" Archie fumbled with the schedule sheet, scanning it frantically. "Here—look! It says…"
He leaned closer, then straightened.
"'Sword Styles: Doctrine & Orthodoxy.'"
"SWORD STYLES?!" Enark and Kirsty said it at the exact same time.
A grin broke across Enark's face as his hand clenched slightly, like he'd just won something. "Yes…"
Suzune glanced at him from the side, eyes narrowing just a little. "Of course you're excited. Especially you, Enark." She tilted her head. "What do you even see in swinging a blade around?"
Enark didn't hesitate.
"I'm not great at things like math or physics," he said, voice easy, almost casual. "But like I told you before—"
He paused.
"I just… really love swords."
He shifted slightly, more animated now.
"People treat them like they're just tools for fighting. But the history, the forms, the styles—there's meaning behind all of it. When you understand that, swordplay isn't just combat anymore. It becomes a conversation—an art. It—"
"Archie," Suzune cut in smoothly, not even looking at Enark, "what's our next class after this?"
"Oh—uh, Culinary Arts," Archie replied immediately, just as deadpan.
"HEY! ARE YOU GUYS EVEN LISTENING?!" Enark snapped, turning toward them.
Kirsty laughed under her breath.
"Forget them," she said, nudging him lightly with her shoulder. "I'm excited about this class too."
Enark relaxed a bit, smiling. "Thanks, Kirsty."
Then something clicked.
"Wait… your dad's an Enforcer, right?" he asked. "So why are you aiming for the Imperial Knights? I mean—even when we were kids, you always wanted to be Imperial Chief."
Kirsty hesitated.
"It's… kind of a silly reason," she admitted, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"Come on," Enark said. "You can tell me. I've got great ears."
She let out a quiet breath.
"Yeah, my dad's an Enforcer. But my mom…" Her voice softened slightly. "She was an Imperial Knight."
A brief pause.
"She died when I was still young. I don't really remember her clearly. So it's just been my dad and me."
Her gaze drifted for a moment.
"I guess… if I follow in her footsteps, I might understand her better. In a way."
Something in Enark stilled.
For just a second, a faint image of a knight surfaced in his mind—blurred, distant, but heavy.
"Kirsty."
She looked at him. "Hm?"
"That's not silly."
He smiled—soft, genuine.
"It's… really beautiful."
Kirsty blinked.
For a second, she didn't say anything.
"…You're weird, you know that?" she muttered, looking away.
But there was no bite in it.
Just a small, almost reluctant smile, she didn't try very hard to hide.
They found the lecture hall without difficulty, and the moment they stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted.
Stone benches rose in layered tiers around a central circular pit of pale, sanded stone—the training floor. Weapon racks lined the walls, each holding identical wooden swords. The air was cool, carrying the dry scent of dust, aged parchment… and faintly, the worn grain of wood.
As they found seats in the middle tier, the room was a cacophony of student chatter.
"I heard the instructor for this class is a former vanguard from the Western Front," someone whispered behind them.
"I just hope we get into the Elemental Styles already," another added. "My family has used Cinderfang for three generations."
Enark sat still, his ears filtering out the noise. He could hear the vibration of the room—the way the stone floor carried the weight of forty different bodies.
Then there were forty-one
She was not dressed for ceremony. No ornate robes, no ceremonial markings—just a fitted instructor's coat, dark and simple, with a wooden practice sword resting at her side.
She stopped at the front of the lecture hall, in the dead center of the training circle.
Her gaze moved across the students once. Enark felt it pass over him—a sharp, analytical pressure that swept his being.
Then she spoke.
"My name is Instructor Valera Caelum."
Her voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a resonance that cut through the silence like a whetstone.
"I will be your teacher for this class."
She tapped the wooden sword lightly against her shoulder. The sound was a hollow, rhythmic thud that echoed perfectly against the stone walls.
"And before any of you misunderstand this course—"
A pause.
"This is not about learning how to fight with a sword."
A ripple of confusion passed through the room, and Enark felt Archie tilt his head beside him.
"It is about learning how to live as one."
Valera stepped forward slightly. "Before we begin," she said, "I want to know what you think you already understand."
Her gaze swept the room.
"Many of you come from lineages of Knights, Nobles, and Enforcers. And many of you believe you've already learned what matters."
She turned slowly, her presence radiating outward. "Who can tell me of a sword style?"
A hand rose near the middle row—a boy from a minor noble house, his voice brimming with confidence. "There's the Serpent Style, Instructor. It utilizes curved motion and delayed strikes to bypass a standard guard."
Valera nodded once; a confirmation of a fact.
"Cinderfang Style," a girl's voice followed from the front. "An offensive style centered on high-impact vertical and diagonal cuts."
"There's also the Ravenous Style," a third student added, his dog-like ears twitching, matching the style he named. "It's a purely offensive style, but it's really wild."
"Oh? Ravenous style, huh?" Valera studied him. "That's an unusual pick even for a Wolf-Therion."
The boy let out a small chuckle, rubbing the back of his head.
Valera's eyes moved slowly across the room. "Good. You all know many sword styles already, but-"
A pause. The air seemed to grow colder.
"What about Xiphonian Foundation Style?"
Silence.
It was a different kind of silence this time—one of dismissal. Enark felt the collective "shrug" of the room.
One student spoke up, his tone tinged with a hint of boredom. "Isn't that… just the basic style, Ma'am? Most of us would've learned it in elementary."
Another added, "Yeah, that style's basically child's play at this point."
Valera did not answer immediately. Instead, she walked into the center of the circle. Her wooden blade came off her shoulder and rested in a neutral grip—a stance so simple it looked almost lazy.
"That is true. The Xiphonian Foundational Style, as its name suggests, is the foundation of all other sword styles," she said, and her voice had dropped an octave, "But that misconception is the reason why most of you would be dead within seconds of a true sword fight."
She looked up, her gaze seemingly boring into the back wall.
"Xiphonian Foundation Style is not a beginner form. It is the reason any of you are capable of holding a sword at all."
She moved and performed a single cut.
It was straight, clean, and controlled.
It stopped exactly where it needed to—no more, no less.
Even without sight, Enark felt it.
The displacement of air.
The balance.
The certainty.
"It's the oldest known style dating back to before the Age of the Apocalypse," Valera continued. "Taught by our Goddess herself, the Progenitor of all Blades. The Master of All Swords. Passed down to the Roundtable of Imperial Knights, and from there, many cultures around the world founded their own style from ours."
A student raised a hand, his brow furrowed. "Instructor… if it's that simple, why do the advanced styles exist? Why would anyone bother with the complexity of Bladed-Body or the speed of IAI Singularity if the Foundation is enough?"
Valera looked at him, and for a second, Enark thought he heard a ghost of a smile in her voice.
"Because simplicity is harder to master than complexity."
"Most advanced styles rely on Prime Energy to function at full capacity."
Students shifted at the sound of the words, 'Prime Energy.'
"Anyone can hide a lack of balance behind a burst of flame," Valera said, her pace increasing as she circled the pit. "They can also mask poor timing with a dash of lightning, or a burst of speed blinded by one's own aura."
She stopped.
"But Xiphonian Foundation removes everything unnecessary. It is the skeletal structure of sword fighting. If your arm is an inch out of place in Cinderfang, the fire might still catch your enemy. But if your arm is an inch out of place in Xiphonian…"
"You'll die."
The atmosphere in the room changed again. The boredom was gone, replaced by a sharp, nervous electricity.
Enark found himself nodding, his heart racing.
She stopped walking and turned her blade, the wood catching the light from the high windows. She raised her sword to her forehead, the hilt level with her eyes.
"The Xiphonian style was created through the sacred creed the Goddess imparted to the Imperial Knights. It is the truth of all sword styles. It is written: The blade is the mirror, the blade is the illusion. Forsake your fear and carve through your doubt. Thus shall you awaken, thus shall you extol."
She paused, and the entire room seemed to hold its breath.
"I am the Sword of my Soul."
Enark felt a chill run down his spine. The words resonated with a truth he couldn't explain—and for a moment, a woman's voice flashed through his mind.
He felt Kirsty shift beside him, her hand tightening against the table.
For the next hour, Valera continued.
The room stopped thinking like students—
And started watching like swordsmen.
Enark didn't see the form, but he felt the intent. He heard the shift of her weight, the precise snap of her wrists, and the way the air sighed as the wooden blade cut through it.
As the lecture ended, Valera signaled for them to gather their things and head to the physical training hall.
Enark rose alongside his class.
To the others, it had been a lecture.
But to him—
It was like he had returned to those days...