The sun rose slowly over the horizon, its light filtering through restless winds that carried loose leaves across the academy grounds. Beyond the walls, the world moved as it always did—people waking, routines beginning, nothing out of place. But within the academy, beneath its rugged stone exterior and silent corridors, there was a shared awareness that pressed against every wall and every mind.
It was the day.
Students remained inside their rooms, not out of instruction, but out of instinct. Conversations were absent. Even breathing felt measured. The cafeteria, usually filled with idle chatter and clattering trays, stood abandoned. The long tables were untouched, chairs pushed in as if no one had ever sat there. The library held its silence differently, it was heavier, suffocating, as though the air itself resisted disturbance. Pages remained unturned, books left where they were. Even the park, a place that once carried a sense of calm, now felt hollow. The trees swayed gently, leaves rustling, but there was no one to witness it.
The main halls, stretching toward classrooms and lecture rooms, were completely empty. Not a single student. Not a single professor.
They were elsewhere.
All of them.
The professors gathered in a vast chamber designed like an amphitheater, rows of seats ascending in perfect symmetry. Every seat was occupied. Not a single absence. Individuals of different races, origins, disciplines, and ideologies sat together, bound not by unity, but by a shared anticipation. Their eyes all each carrying their own distinct hue, some faintly glowing with restrained power remained fixed on a single point.
At the lowest level, separated from the others by both distance and intent, sat one man.
The Headmaster.
Mr. Paton leaned slightly forward in his chair, his elbows resting against his thighs as his fingers intertwined, obscuring the lower half of his face. The lighting in the chamber was deliberately dim, casting shadows that swallowed the finer details of his expression. Only his eyes remained visible—purple, faintly luminescent, holding a quiet authority that did not need to be asserted.
Time moved.
The clock crept toward its mark.
At precisely 8:58 AM, Mr. Paton slowly separated his hands and reached toward a small, unremarkable black button embedded into the arm of his chair. His movement was unhurried, almost casual. When his finger pressed down, the effect was immediate.
Across the academy, every screen flickered to life.
Dormitories. Corridors. Storage rooms. Hidden spaces.
Every student, no matter where they were, found their attention drawn to it.
Mr. Paton's image appeared, composed and centered. He cleared his throat once, the sound echoing faintly through the speakers before he began.
"Good morning to all of you unfiltered children."
His tone carried no warmth, only clarity.
"Today marks the beginning of the 100th Blood Festival. Since many of you are new, I will outline what you need to understand."
His gaze did not shift, as though he were looking directly at each individual watching.
"The Blood Festival will last for seven days."
As he spoke, doors throughout the academy began to open. Students stepped out slowly, their eyes immediately finding one another. There was no confusion in their expressions, no hesitation. Only recognition.
Only intent.
"You may choose to kill, or choose not to kill," Mr. Paton continued, a faint pause slipping between his words. "But knowing the nature of those gathered here… you will."
In the warehouse, Mary sat with her legs crossed, her gaze fixed on the screen. One of her long nails tapped rhythmically against the arm of her chair, the only outward sign of impatience.
"There will be no assistance from professors. No intervention. No protection. If you die, it will be by your own failure. If you survive, consider it earned."
The air seemed to tighten as he continued.
"Use this time as you wish. Settle grudges. Pursue revenge. Avenge those you've lost."
The clock ticked forward.
08:59:57.
08:59:58.
08:59:59.
Mr. Paton's voice lowered slightly.
"But above all else…"
A brief pause.
"Do not die."
The moment the clock struck 09:00:00, the screens went dark.
The academy erupted.
The first scream tore through the silence with such force that it seemed to ripple across the halls. A male student lunged forward, tackling a female student to the ground with unrestrained aggression. His fists came down repeatedly, each strike fueled by something deeper than anger—something personal.
"You said I wouldn't do anything—look at me now!"
Blood splattered across his hands, across her face, across the floor beneath them.
Before the moment could settle, a blade pierced through his back.
The force of it drove the air from his lungs. His movements halted instantly, his body stiffening as blood surged forward, spilling from his mouth. The attacker yanked the blade free with practiced ease, allowing the body to collapse forward.
He looked down at the girl.
"T-thank you…" she managed, her voice barely holding.
He smiled.
Then drove his fist directly into her throat.
Back in the chamber, no one spoke.
Through a series of suspended purple portals, manifestations of Mr. Paton's ability the professors observed everything. Each portal revealed a different fragment of chaos: a student crushed against a wall, another dragged across the floor, another reduced to something barely recognizable.
Victoria, seated just behind Mr. Paton, leaned slightly forward as she watched one such scene unfold, a female student repeatedly smashing another's skull against the ground until bone gave way and blood spread outward in uneven patterns.
She exhaled softly.
"So… when does the real carnage start?" she asked, her tone bordering on disinterest rather than shock.
Her gaze shifted to Mr. Paton.
He responded without turning.
"If you're referring to the gangs… it will begin shortly."
"Oh, right. What are the gangs?" she said, though her voice dropped as she leaned toward the professor beside her, whispering just enough to be heard. "I just wanted to hear his voice again."
A faint, uncharacteristic sound of irritation escaped Mr. Paton before he spoke again, his voice cutting cleanly through the chamber.
"The Crimson Devils. The Shadow Organization. The Underground Saints. The Pale Moons. And the Furrys."
A professor began to speak, "The wha—"
"Do not ask," Mr. Paton interrupted flatly. "I do not understand their naming choices either."
He continued without pause.
"These five organizations control territory across the academy."
Victoria tilted her head slightly, her interest returning. "And their leaders?"
"The Crimson Devils are led by Oliver. The Shadow Organization by Mary. The Underground Saints by Leonardo. The Pale Moons by Polaris. The Furrys by Pure."
He paused briefly.
"There are lesser groups, but they are irrelevant. Their influence is negligible."
Elsewhere, the dormitory halls had already transformed.
Blood coated the floors in uneven streaks. Bodies lay scattered, twisted into unnatural shapes, limbs bent at angles that defied structure. Bone protruded through torn flesh. Skulls had been broken open, fragments scattered alongside what remained of their contents.
A door creaked open slowly, just enough for a head to peek through. It was Jiwon. His light blue eyes moved first, scanning the hallway with quiet precision before the rest of him followed. His 6'1" frame, lean yet clearly defined, was draped in a slightly oversized black sweater, the collar of a dress shirt peeking neatly from beneath. His black jeans fell loosely down to his boots, completing an outfit that looked composed rather than hurried. His thick, ear-length black hair rested naturally across his forehead, barely shifting as his gaze took in the carnage.
"Don't you think it's a bit weird that we're calm about this?" he asked, his sweet tenor voice cutting cleanly through the heavy air.
"I think we stopped questioning our mental state about a month ago," came the response behind him.
Soren stepped forward, his presence quieter but heavier. Standing at 6'2", his build mirrored Jiwon's in structure, though there was something more restrained about him. He wore a black turtleneck beneath a long coat, dress pants falling cleanly into boots. His pale hands remained tucked in his pockets as his gray eyes moved across the scene—not with shock, but with a measured stillness that bordered on detachment. His ash-blonde hair was pushed back, giving him an almost composed, predatory calm.
"Did we overdress for this?" Damien's voice entered, deep and grounded, as his hand settled briefly on Soren's shoulder.
He stepped into view, slightly taller than Soren, his presence more immediate. His crimson eyes locked onto a nearby corpse without reaction, his calm bordering on unnatural. His black curls framed his face, catching faint light that reflected off the gold studs in his ears. His shirt was unbuttoned down to his mid-pec, sleeves rolled to reveal defined forearms, his posture loose but ready.
"Why are we all speaking in one-liners?" Renji's voice followed.
He emerged last, taller than all of them at 6'4", his white hair falling in a natural, untamed manner that matched his snow-white eyes. His outfit mirrored Damien's, though he carried it with a quieter intensity. His hands slid into his pockets as he assessed the scene with minimal movement.
The four stood together, side by side. Their builds differed slightly—Damien and Renji more visibly muscular, Soren and Jiwon more streamlined—but there was a shared presence among them. Controlled. Capable.
"You just said one too," Jiwon replied, turning his head toward Renji. "What are you talking about?"
Renji met his gaze. "You always have something to say."
"I've got a mouth for a reason," Jiwon shot back immediately.
"And you barely know how to use it," Soren added with a quiet exhale.
Damien let out a short snort—
—only for something to tear through the air beside them.
A body slid across the hallway, tumbling through blood and fragments before coming to a halt not far from their feet.
All four shifted their attention to it, then toward the direction it had come from.
Nothing.
"The fuck was that?" Damien asked, his tone steady.
No one answered.
They moved forward.
Their steps were unhurried, deliberate, passing over bodies without acknowledgment. Blood coated the floor, trailing down the steps as they descended, the metallic scent thick in the air. The deeper they moved, the more the academy revealed itself—less like a school, more like a slaughterhouse.
"We're too calm about this," Renji muttered.
No one responded.
By the time they exited the dormitories, the scale of it had widened. Violence unfolded openly. A demi-human crouched over a still-living student, tearing into him with animalistic focus while the victim's cries choked into the air. Others fought with no structure, no coordination—only instinct.
And yet—
no one approached them.
It was as if something about the four of them removed them from immediate consideration.
Then the air changed.
The shift was immediate and undeniable.
An oppressive pressure spread outward, forcing movement to halt. Attacks paused mid-motion. Even the dying seemed to quiet, as if the atmosphere itself demanded silence.
This was not Oliver.
A figure approached.
Tall—unnaturally so. Around 7'3", his frame was thin to the point of distortion, like stretched bone wrapped in loose flesh. His olive-green hair fell unevenly, framing amber eyes that held a dull, unsettling focus. His skin carried an uneven mix of crimson and pale tones, as though it couldn't settle on one state. His clothes hung loosely, oversized and shapeless, swaying slightly as he walked.
He stopped a few meters away.
Then raised a long, thin arm and pointed directly at Damien.
"Are you Damien?" His voice scraped against the air, harsh and grating, like metal dragged across stone.
"And who are you?" Damien replied immediately.
"I'm Travis," the figure said. "Oliver sent me. He's currently occupied with Mary Escargot."
A pause.
"I'm here to kill you."
"That's unfortunate," Damien said flatly.
Soren remained still, unreadable. Jiwon lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged as if settling in to watch. Renji leaned against the wall, silent.
"Yeah," Travis replied slowly. "It really is unfortunate… for you."
He moved.
There was no warning.
No buildup.
One moment he stood still—the next, he was behind Damien.
His hand struck.
The impact was violent enough to lift Damien off his feet entirely, sending him crashing into the brick wall with a force that cracked the surface. Dust and debris burst outward, obscuring the view.
Silence followed.
For half a second.
Then—
two crimson lights pierced through the dust.
They didn't flicker.
They burned.
Damien stepped forward, pushing off the wall, his posture slightly hunched as he rolled his shoulder once.
"Didn't your mother teach you to let someone finish speaking before hitting them?" he asked, voice low.
"My mother left me," Travis replied.
There was something faint in his tone. Something buried.
Damien didn't hesitate.
"Of course she did. Who wouldn't?"
The dust cleared.
Damien's grin came into view—sharp, deliberate. His canines caught the light as his hand gripped his shirt, tearing it off in one motion, buttons scattering across the floor. His skin caught the sunlight filtering in, muscles shifting as he rolled his neck slightly.
"I've always wondered," he said, eyes fixed on Travis, "what demon blood tastes like. Think you can answer that?"
Travis said nothing.
But his jaw tightened.
Back in the observation chamber, Victoria leaned forward slightly, her eyes fixed on the unfolding confrontation.
"That's an interesting matchup," she said. "Who's winning?"
Mr. Paton answered without hesitation.
"On paper, it's uneven. Travis is among the stronger major devils."
Victoria raised an eyebrow. "So Travis wins?"
Mr. Paton scoffed lightly.
"I've observed Damien's training," he said. "Assuming Travis wins… would be a great insult to Damien."
First Matchup: Damien Fuller vs Travis Lopaloan
Who is winning this fight?
Find out in the next chapter....