Chapter 19: The Gates of a New Dawn

  In the very heart of the vast continent of Alswin, nestled within the nds of the Holy Kingdom of Arcadia, stood an institution that every schor, warrior, and aspiring hero dreamed of — the Holy Magic Academy.

  There were many academies spread across the continent — prestigious institutes within the four great empires, each cultivating their talents. Yet, none could match the grandeur, prestige, or ancient legacy of the Holy Magic Academy. It was said that no matter how great other academies became, they would always stand in the shadow of the academy that had weathered seven centuries.

  Founded during the era of the Great War, seven hundred years ago, the Holy Magic Academy was more than just an educational institute; it was a symbol of survival, unity, and relentless ambition. Crafted from enchanted white stone and adorned with towers that seemed to pierce the heavens, the academy spread across sprawling acres like a fortress of wisdom. Magic sigils glowed faintly along its walls, silently preserving its grandeur through the ages.

  Each year, countless hopefuls from every corner of the continent applied for entry. Yet, only a handful were accepted — the most gifted, the most noble, or the most fortunate. While it was true that the majority of students hailed from aristocratic or royal bloodlines, a rare few commoners with exceptional talent were granted a pce within its hallowed halls. In this sanctuary of learning, lineage meant little once inside. Nobles and commoners walked the same corridors, studied in the same cssrooms, and trained side by side. Here, status was earned anew through ability and strength, and even kings' sons could fall behind.

  The architecture itself seemed alive with history. Grand statues of ancient heroes stood sentinel over lush gardens. Majestic fountains whispered secrets of magic and power. The halls were wide enough for ten men to walk shoulder to shoulder, lit by hanging crystals that emitted soft, natural light. At night, the entire academy shimmered like a city of stars.

  It was a pce where dreams were forged, and ambitions sharpened like the bdes of the ancients.

  But beneath all the beauty, there was something deeper—something more solemn. This was a pce where the seeds of the next generation of heroes, leaders, warriors, and even future kings and queens were sown. And while the outside world saw it as a beacon of hope, those who truly understood the academy's purpose knew that it was also a crucible — one where only the strongest ideals, wills, and souls would survive.

  The sound of footsteps echoed softly across the ancient stone floors as a group of youths walked through the towering corridors — heroes summoned from another world, now stepping into the first day of a new chapter.

  At their head was Miss Aiko, wearing a calm but determined expression, leading the group forward. Hoshino Mirei, Haruka Nakano, Shizuka Kurosawa, Renji Morisawa, and twenty-four other heroes followed closely behind, their expressions a mixture of awe, nervousness, and quiet resolve.

  They wore the official uniforms provided by the Holy Church — elegant white coats embroidered with golden threads, paired with bck trousers or skirts, each marked with the insignia of the Holy Kingdom over the heart. The uniforms were freshly made, crisp, and spotless, a visual reminder of the roles they were expected to fulfil. No longer just high school students from another world, they now represented "hope" and "power" to this nd.

  Mirei’s violet eyes shifted restlessly across the intricate walls and tall, arched windows. She marvelled at the paintings of legendary warriors and magicians lining the corridors — reminders of the academy's centuries of history. Every step forward felt heavier, like stepping deeper into a destiny that none of them had asked for.

  The corridor opened up into an enormous Grand Hall — a cathedral-like space with towering pilrs, a majestic stained-gss ceiling depicting scenes from the Great War, and hundreds upon hundreds of seats neatly arranged in tiers.

  Near the front of the hall, specially reserved seats awaited the heroes — their presence a gring beacon among the crowd. The seats behind them were already occupied by figures wrapped in luxurious garments, many bearing the insignias of noble houses or royal bloodlines.

  Mirei caught sight of princes, princesses, noble heirs, and powerful young warriors from different kingdoms and races. They sat with regal poise, their eyes fixed on the incoming heroes with a mixture of curiosity, pride, suspicion, and even thinly veiled hostility.

  And far, far back, behind the rows of nobility and elites, sat the few commoners who had fought tooth and nail for their pce. Their eyes burned with determination — but also caution.

  As Mirei took her seat alongside her fellow heroes, she could feel the countless gazes prickling against her skin. It wasn’t hostility — not yet — but it was clear: They were outsiders. Unproven. Strange.

  Above them, on the stage at the far end of the hall, a tall podium stood awaiting. Soon, the Principal of the Holy Magic Academy — a figure of immense reputation and mystery — would appear and address them.

  The hum of quiet conversations filling the Grand Hall fell into complete silence as a presence approached the stage.

  The doors at the far end swung open, and from them emerged a single figure — a tall, dignified man cd in robes of deep navy and gold. His white hair flowed like a river of silk down his back, yet his posture was firm, his sharp blue eyes clear and commanding. He wore no crown, no ornaments — only the weight of centuries of tradition and the pride of the academy itself.

  He was the Principal of the Holy Magic Academy, a figure whose name alone was revered across the continent: Grand Magister Alfonse De Lumen.

  Each of his steps echoed across the marble floor as he ascended the podium. Without the need for magic or amplification, his presence alone demanded attention.

  Clearing his throat lightly, he gazed over the vast sea of students — new and old, noble and commoner, royalty and hero alike.

  Then, he spoke.

  "—Welcome, young souls of the new era," he began, his voice steady, warm, and powerful. "You stand today within the ancient heart of the Alswin continent — the proud Holy Magic Academy — a pce that has stood resolute for over seven centuries since the fmes of the Great War were extinguished."

  A pause.

  "Here, we do not forge merely warriors, magicians, or schors. We forge the future."

  He allowed his words to settle before continuing, following the rhythm of a speech that had been given countless times before.

  "You are the pride of your homends, the chosen of your peoples, the hope of your nations. Here, you will be tested. You will stumble. You will rise again. You will sharpen yourselves against one another and grow into something far greater than what you are now."

  Some students listened with awe, others fidgeted restlessly — the older ones among them already recognising the familiar structure of yet another ceremonial speech.

  "And yet—" The Grand Magister’s voice grew more pointed, drawing renewed attention.

  "This year, history has taken a bold turn."

  The murmurs that had been threatening to start fell away again.

  "As many of you have already heard... among you now walk individuals summoned from another world. The Heroes." He turned his gaze slightly toward the rows where Mirei and the others sat, neatly cd in their church-provided uniforms.

  "Heroes born not of our nds, yet chosen by fate to aid us against the shadows gathering beyond the horizon."

  His eyes swept across the room.

  "They are not your enemies. Nor are they your rivals. They are your comrades — and, perhaps, your greatest allies in the days to come."

  Another slight pause.

  "I ask — no — I command you: Do not shun them. Do not isote them. Help them. Challenge them. Befriend them. For through the bonds you forge here, you will all ascend higher than any lone soul could ever hope to."

  His voice rang with conviction.

  "Let this academy be the crucible in which our brightest forge unbreakable bonds. And may it be the birthpce of an era free from the mistakes of the past."

  With that, the Grand Magister inclined his head slightly, signalling the end of his speech.

  The hall, which had been holding its breath, erupted into respectful appuse — some genuine, some polite, some hesitant.

  Mirei straightened herself in her seat, stealing a gnce at her fellow heroes. There were nerves in their faces... but also a flicker of determination.

  The first day had truly begun.

  The echoes of the principal’s voice still lingered in the air when the ceremony concluded. Under the attentive gazes of nobles and royals, the group of summoned heroes was quietly ushered out of the grand hall by one of the academy's coordinators. Murmured words and curious gnces followed their retreating backs. A new age was beginning—and everyone knew it.

  The hallways of the Holy Magic Academy were nothing short of majestic.

  Gilded walls lined with ancient tapestries and floating crystal mps stretched overhead, illuminating the path toward the first-year cssrooms. Even the flooring was polished marble, with faint runes glowing subtly beneath their feet—wards and enchantments older than most kingdoms. Statues of past heroes and archmages stood silently like guardians, bearing witness to the new generation of elites stepping into their legacy.

  As they ascended the staircase to the first floor, the guide turned and gestured toward a tall door inscribed with an elegant pque: Cssroom 1a.

  “This way. Css 1a is for those of… distinguished standing,” the coordinator said with a pointed tone. “Your seats are unassigned, but please observe etiquette.”

  With a click, the doors opened—and the pressure changed.

  The cssroom was vast, far rger than any room they'd studied in back on Earth. Elegant wooden desks with gold trim were arranged in precise rows. At the front of the room hung a massive floating chalkboard with glowing runes etched along the frame. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in natural light, overlooking the central courtyard garden filled with luminous spirit trees and enchanted fountains.

  Dozens of students were already seated. They were elegant, poised, and unmistakably noble. Gleaming academy uniforms adorned with colored crests indicated their lineage: red for dukes, gold for royalty, silver for high-ranking noble families. Their posture was perfect, their silence dignified. All eyes turned as the heroes entered.

  Despite the tension prickling in the air, they acted just as they had been trained by the church’s priests during orientation—bowed slightly, walked with measured grace, and spoke not a word unless required. They had been warned about prideful nobles. Now, they were walking among them.

  Haruka Nakano was the first to move, her expression cool and composed. Following her were Miss Aiko and Mirei Hoshino, whose icy calm seemed to rival that of the entire academy, and behind them came Shizuka Kurosawa, calm as always. The four of them sat on the same long bench toward the middle of the room.

  Behind them, Makabe Jin, Ririka Kanzaki, Takumi Hayashi, Kasumi Fujimura, Renji Morisawa, and Kasumi Ayane found seats nearby—together, they took up an entire cluster of desks in the middle-left row.

  Then someone caught their eyes.

  Near the window, seated alone yet radiating an aura of grace, was a girl with flowing green hair and pale blue eyes. Her ears were unmistakably long and slender—an elf. A faint scent of forest lingered around her like a breath of spring. Even without an introduction, it was clear who she was.

  Princess Elvianne Loralithiel, daughter of the Elven King.

  Her gaze met theirs briefly, and she smiled—warm, welcoming, and unthreatening. Some of the students exchanged gnces, but the heroes held their composure. This was just as they’d been taught—respect all nobles, speak when spoken to, and never forget the eyes watching.

  After a few more minutes, the cssroom door opened once more.

  A tall man in bck robes entered, carrying a staff and a stack of glowing papers. His face was angur, his expression unreadable, and the room immediately straightened.

  “Settle down,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “I am Instructor Grais, your homeroom professor. For the next year, you will learn from me, both practical and theoretical. We begin immediately.”

  He pced the glowing sheets on his desk, scanning the room briefly. “Attendance and grading sheets,” he muttered. “Nobility or not, no one receives special treatment here. That includes our... esteemed guests from another world.”

  Several nobles narrowed their eyes. The heroes said nothing.

  Instructor Grais turned toward the floating board. With a flick of his fingers, elegant script began forming across it—names of spells, elemental alignments, introductory theory. The lesson had begun.

  And so, on the first day of their new lives, among royalty, elves, and nobles, the heroes took their first step into the unknown

  The scent of polished marble and old parchment lingered in the upper levels of the Grand Hall, where sunlight spilt in golden shafts through arched windows. From a balcony framed with gilded pilrs, a lone figure watched in composed silence — not hidden, but untouchable.

  Princess Selene von Vinterheim, third-year student of the Holy Magic Academy, daughter of the Vinterheim Emperor, and bearer of the title “Crimson Fme,” stood with the presence of a woman who knew the weight of every gaze that fell upon her.

  Her deep scarlet hair, bound in loose noble braids, shimmered in the morning light, a bold contrast to the polished ivory of the academy's high spires. She wore the academy uniform — or at least, a version of it remade to suit her imperial standards — crisp white yered with ruby-red and threaded with gold, the embroidery of phoenixes and fme sigils decring her station without a word.

  Her eyes, bright crimson and coldly precise, scanned the newcomers gathered below.

  The summoned heroes.

  Outsiders from another world.

  According to reports, thirty were involved: twenty students and one teacher. Two are still missing: the girl whose name has not been disclosed and a boy who ran away from church

  Selene's gaze narrowed faintly.

  Missing? Or hidden?

  She had grown up surrounded by lies, dressed in silk and diplomacy stitched in poison — she knew better than to accept things at face value.

  The academy was abuzz with noise today. Nobles and professors, knights and schors, all gathered to witness the arrival of the so-called chosen. The summoned.

  Selene did not cp as the announcement concluded.

  Instead, she remained composed, hands lightly folded at her waist, the air around her subtly warm—not uncomfortably so, but undeniably hers. Her presence commanded heat without rage, elegance without fragility. This was fire not as destruction, but as control, legacy, and pride.

  She heard someone scoff beside her.

  “Elites from another world… yet they look no different from the commoners who beg at temple gates,” murmured Lord Albrecht von Eisen, cd in his family’s crimson-bck colours, his lips curled in that perpetual smirk that made Selene want to incinerate him in her sleep.

  Selene didn’t grace him with a full gnce. “Their worth cannot be seen in their clothing.”

  “Oh?” he tilted his head. “And what will you do if they turn out to be weaklings? Feed them to the hellhounds?”

  Selene’s reply was calm, polished, and precise — like the snap of a fan closing.

  “Then they will burn. As all who waste the gods’ blessings should.”

  Elric chuckled under his breath. “Always so merciful, Princess.”

  But Selene had already turned her attention back to the assembly.

  She saw nervousness. Pride. Awe. Fear. Hope. Raw potential.

  She would measure them in time.

  Not because the world demanded it.

  But because she wanted to know.

  Which of them would prove themselves worthy of standing beside nobility?

  Which of them would rise from common blood to earn her respect?

  And more importantly…

  Which of them might challenge her?

  A slow, near-invisible smile touched her lips.

  Let them come

  Later that evening, as the academy quieted and moonlight bled silver through the stained-gss windows, Princess Selene von Vinterheim walked alone through the archive wing.

  Not as a princess.

  Not as a student.

  But as a seeker.

  Her heels echoed softly against the stone as she passed shelves of brittle scrolls and worn tomes. The scent of aged leather and ink filled the corridor, comforting in its silence. The world saw her as composed, poised — the image of imperial grace.

  But they did not know of the fire buried deep in her veins.

  A fire not from her magic, but from her bloodline. From him.

  Her fingers brushed the edge of a half-burned tapestry at the end of the corridor, preserved behind crystal gss. The figure sewn in golden thread stood proud and unyielding, scarlet hair like hers, sword bzing like a sun.

  Emperor Rauth Vinterheim.

  Her grandfather.

  The Fme Sovereign.

  A warrior-king who carved half the empire with fire and sword, wielding the mythical bde [ Ashreaver ] — a weapon said to carry the essence of the sun itself.

  But now, a century ter, the sword was gone.

  Disappeared after his final campaign. Legends cimed it vanished from the imperial vault the night he died — or that it rejected her father, the current Emperor, who never matched Rauth's ambition or strength.

  That night, the fme chose silence.

  Selene’s crimson eyes narrowed.

  Her father ruled with bance, diplomacy, and tradition. He spoke of duty, of arranged marriages, of alliances sealed in silk and rings. Of marrying Duke Vellian's son, Lord Albrecht, Selene sees through his facade — she knows his ambitions and feels the weight of the cage he would pce around her.

  But her grandfather once said:

  “Those who bear the Fme need no chains to guide them. They bze the path others fear to tread.”

  Selene clenched her fist.

  She didn’t want to be handed power — she wanted to earn it.

  And if she found [ Ashreaver ]…

  If she proved she was the rightful heir not just by blood, but by will...

  Then the Empire would have no reason to bind her to a stranger's side.

  The court would bow.

  The nobles would obey.

  And her path would be hers alone to carve in fire and legend.

  Selene took a breath, steady and slow, her fingers igniting with a soft, golden fme.

  It didn’t roar or fre — it danced, warm and watchful, as if the sword itself might be watching her.

  She let the fme flicker across her palm.

  “I’ll find it,” she whispered to no one. “No matter what it takes.”

  The golden fme in her palm dimmed as a voice echoed softly behind her, gentle but firm.

  "Your Highness… It’s time."

  Selene turned her head, finding Elira, her maid and shadow since childhood, standing a respectful distance away. The young woman bowed her head slightly, eyes avoiding direct contact out of custom, though Selene had long told her she needn't.

  “Your magical theory lesson with Professor Dromel begins in fifteen minutes,” Elira continued, hands folded at her front. “And the Headmistress asked if you'd attend the upcoming duelling exam as a guest of honour.”

  Selene exhaled through her nose. The fire in her hand vanished.

  “Of course,” she said coolly, gncing back one st time toward the faded tapestry. Her voice remained polished, but a shadow of disappointment traced the edge of her tone.

  “I found nothing,” she added quietly. “Not a word. As if [ Ashreaver ] never existed.”

  She let her fingers trail lightly across the spines of the ancient books as she passed, each one untouched by answers. Emperor Rauth’s greatest treasure, hidden by time… or by someone who feared its return.

  Dust clung to her fingertips, but no fme ignited.

  "History remembers only what it is told to remember," Selene muttered under her breath. "The rest is buried."

  She stepped past Elira, chin lifted, every inch the imperial daughter once more. The fire that had burned in her eyes minutes ago was now buried again — beneath perfect poise and graceful steps.

  But as they left the library, Elira dared to ask softly, “Still searching, Your Highness?”

  Selene didn't answer immediately.

  She merely gave the faintest smile — one too small for anyone but Elira to notice.

  And then she said, “Always.”

  The sky outside her window bled hues of crimson and amber, like fire spilling across velvet. The light filtered in through tall, arched windows framed with gold-ced curtains, casting long shadows over the marble floor.

  Selene sat with perfect posture in the centre of her private chamber — an opulent space reserved for royalty and dignitaries. The high ceiling was carved with delicate patterns of phoenixes in flight, and the chandelier above shimmered with enchanted crystals that shifted colour with the time of day.

  She sipped her tea with practised grace, the porcein cup hardly making a sound as it touched her lips.

  Across from her, Elira knelt slightly beside a low table, hands folded in her p after serving the second cup. Her maid's uniform was immacutely pressed, and though she said nothing, Selene could feel the girl's eyes quietly observing her, always alert, always present.

  “Lessons went as expected,” Selene said, her tone smooth, nearly bored. “Professor Dromel still refuses to recognise the stagnation in Vinterheim’s magical doctrine. And the duelling exams were... predictable. The same noble heirs posturing for their house names.”

  She set the cup down softly.

  “The world won’t change while everyone clings to comfort.”

  Elira didn’t speak right away. Instead, she refilled Selene’s cup, her movements calm and refined. Only once the silence stretched comfortably did she murmur:

  “Your Highness… is it tiring, pretending so often?”

  Selene’s crimson eyes turned toward her maid—not in reprimand, but in surprise.

  For a moment, the imperial mask cracked. Not visibly, but enough for a breath to escape from Selene’s lips — one that carried weight she rarely allowed herself to show.

  “I’m not pretending,” she said at st, voice quiet. “I’m enduring.”

  Her gaze drifted to the window again. And for a fleeting moment, the calm shattered — not in the room, but within her memory.

  Just days ago...

  She had sat beside her supposed fiancé, Lord Albrecht von Eisen, heir of House Eisenwald, during the spring court gathering. He was tall, proud, and irritatingly certain of their shared future.

  His voice, smooth and full of entitlement, echoed in her mind:

  “It is only natural that our two houses be joined, Selene. You and I will make a fine imperial pair. Vinterheim shall shine even brighter.”

  She had smiled.

  A perfect, cold, and queenly smile.

  She had complimented his swordsmanship. She had raised a toast to his “valour.” She had listened to his ambitions without letting her disdain touch her expression.

  But beneath the surface, her fire smouldered.

  You want the throne. I want the sword. We are not the same.

  In her heart, she had already rejected him — not with words, but with will. If she could recim Solbrand, the sword her grandfather once wielded to unify the empire, then no court, no council, and no emperor could force her into that gilded cage of marriage.

  Back in her room, the present returned like a breeze brushing her cheek.

  The tea had long grown cold.

  Selene hadn’t moved from her seat by the window, her fingers gently tracing the rim of the porcein cup as if lost in thought. The golden light outside had deepened into a dusky rose, shadows crawling up the walls like silent whispers.

  Elira, ever attentive, stood a short distance away. She knew when to remain quiet.

  Selene’s voice eventually broke the hush, low and thoughtful.

  “He doesn’t love me, you know.”

  Elira blinked, surprised. “…Lord Albrecht, Your Highness?”

  A nod.

  “To him, I am a prize. A symbol. A stepping stone wrapped in silk and fire.”

  She leaned back slightly in her chair, eyes half-lidded, as though reviewing every calcuted word, every empty compliment, every cold smile that man had ever given her. Lord Albrecht von Eisen — the perfect noble son, with gleaming armour, empty fttery, and ambition thick in his gaze.

  “He doesn’t even try to hide it. He sees Vinterheim as something to cim, and me as the key to unlock its throne.”

  Her fingers clenched around the cup for a moment.

  “My father approves of the match. Of course he does. Albrecht pys his role well. Dignified. Wealthy. Loyal to the Empire — or so it seems. But I’ve seen how his eyes wander. He looks at my fme, not with awe… but with hunger.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “There is no love there. No partnership. Only conquest.”

  The silence that followed was heavy but not unfamiliar. Elira stepped closer, pcing a gentle hand on the table.

  “Do you intend to continue the engagement, midy?”

  Selene opened her eyes, and for a moment, the fire in her pupils bzed as though reflecting a storm of burning steel.

  “Only until I find Ashreaver.”

  “The Sword of the First Fme...”

  “If I wield it, no one will dare bind me with chains of politics. Not my father. Not the court. And certainly not that vulture is n nobleman’s silk.”

  She stood then, every motion fluid with royal precision, her silhouette framed against the burning dusk.

  “Let them all think me compliant. Let Albrecht think me his future empress. One day, I’ll remind them whose blood I carry. I am my grandfather’s granddaughter.”

  “The Crimson Fme of Vinterheim.”

  Elira bowed, not out of obligation, but from deep respect.

  “And when that day comes, I shall be at your side, Princess.”

  __________________________________________________________________

  [ Ashreaver ]

  The Sword of the First Fme

  "Ashreaver was once the pride of the Vinterheim Empire — a sword said to burn not just flesh, but ambition itself into the hearts of its wielders. It vanished after the death of Emperor Rauth Vinterheim the Fmeborne, Selene’s grandfather, and has remained hidden for nearly a century… waiting."