A beautiful morning revealed itself over the white and gold gothic spires of Awakener Supre, spreading its yellow glow across the sprawling campus.
Even though they were smack in the middle of the term, the atmosphere buzzing through the courtyards felt entirely different.
It felt like the very first day of school.
The wide stone paths that cut through the academy grounds were alive with movent. Students filled them in steady streams, uniforms pressed and polished, armor repaired and gleaming, boots striking the pavent with renewed energy.
Conversations overlapped in every direction, louder than usual, more animated, as though every person had sothing to say and no intention of keeping it to themselves.
First-years moved in clusters, still unsure of themselves but visibly energized. Second- and third-years walked with more purpose, their voices carrying excitent rather than routine boredom.
Fourth- and the rare fifth-years barely slowed as they passed, already heading toward training fields and combat arenas, prepared to train for their expeditions.
Today, the academy felt proud.
It showed in the way professors walked across the grounds, their posture straighter, their steps more poise. So of them spoke openly with colleagues, voices carrying confidence instead of the usual professionalism.
There was a visible lift in everyone’s deanor, as though the weight of the institution had been eased ever so slightly.
The reason for it was simple, and everyone knew it.
Hebthej.
The victory had massively elevated the reputation of the Academy. News of the vanguard’s success had spread beyond Aethelgard, beyond even the Kingdom’s borders, reaching the attention of the wider world governnt.
Awakener Supre was no longer just a prestigious institution; it had proven itself under real threat, and that carried consequences.
Good ones.
Funding was being increased.
The announcent had spread through the academy the mont it was confird, and the effects were already being felt.
Professors spoke of salary increases, not even trying to hide their glee. Administrative staff and officials smiled and waved more. Even the students understood what it ant.
More resources.
Better equipnt.
And for so, sothing even more valuable; leniency.
Students who had been on the brink of failing their year now had breathing room. With increased funding ca expanded capacity, more flexibility in progression, and fewer imdiate consequences for those who had struggled.
It did not an standards would vanish, but it ant that for the first ti in a long while, failure did not feel like an inevitable drop into obscurity.
The mood reflected that.
There was laughter where there would have been tension. There was excitent where there would have been quiet anxiety. Even the more reserved students seed lighter, as though the academy itself had loosened its grip just enough for everyone to breathe.
And at the center of it all were the ones who had made it happen.
The vanguard.
Their nas moved through the academy like a current. Students spoke of them openly, retelling monts from the Hebthej raid as though they had been there themselves. So exaggerated details. Others argued over what had really happened. But the effect was the sa.
They had beco sothing more than students.
They were figures.
Examples.
Almost... main characters.
Vernon Heavenblum’s na carried weight in every Elentalist class. Valeria Bloodgood was spoken of with admiration among the combat groups.
Silas rcer had beco sothing of a model in the Enchanter classes. Even those who had not stood at the forefront of the battle were being recognized, their presence elevated simply by association.
And then there was Lancet.
Lancet was like a young male popstar in the 2000s back in his old world.
He walked through the academy grounds toward his horoom, and it felt like the world was sohow revolving around him.
Students noticed him imdiately.
"Hey! That’s him!"
"Lancet!"
"Oi! Demon Dissector!"
Voices called out from all directions. So waved. Others leaned toward him as he passed, trying to catch his attention. A few even stepped out of their paths entirely, just to get a closer look.
Lancet kept walking, trying not to let it show how strange it felt.
Girls glanced at him as he passed, so whispering to each other, others looking away quickly when he caught them staring. A few smiled. One or two actually blushed, which made him avert his gaze almost instantly.
He shifted slightly, uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with combat.
Another disorienting thing was how small everyone suddenly looked. Now that he was in the Academy again and he could recall how everyone used to look, people around him just seed slightly lower than he was used to.
He frowned faintly and looked down at himself and at his legs.
Did I get taller?
The thought ca uninvited.
He straightened slightly, testing it.
...That might actually be the case.
’After killing that Demon Head, I really feel like a brand new man.’
He exhaled slowly. "Ouch!"
That pain in his chest. He winced slightly, gently rubbing the spot over his heart where the Gloom spear had caved in his armor.
Well, at least it reminded him that not everything had co without cost.
He adjusted his posture and kept walking.
Lancet passed by the grand double doors of the Elentalist-D horoom. Standing near the threshold was Instructor Phiodor Blaze.
The fiery, arrogant teacher caught sight of Lancet approaching. Phiodor’s eyes widened slightly, and he puffed out his chest, stepping out of his doorway wity hurried but proud steps.
"Lancet Leogardt!" Phiodor called out.
Lancet didn’t even break his stride. He kept his eyes locked straight ahead, casually pretending he had suddenly gone deaf, and walked right past the man without so much as a sideways glance.
Behind him, Phiodor’s proud posture shattered. The instructor’s face flushed a violent, furious red, his jaw clenching so hard it looked like his teeth might crack.
’He dares ignored again! That brat!’
For a mont, Phiodor stood there, visibly annoyed, his jaw tightening as he watched the boy disappear down the hall.
Lancet continued on until he reached his classroom a mont later and pushed the door open.
"LANCET!"
The first thing that Lancet saw was Ms Maecil thumping towards him like an ox.
"Eh??"
Before he could fully step into the room, she had already closed the distance. The Summoner-D instructor threw her arms around him in an exaggerated, deeply emotional hug, forcefully pressing his face directly into her generous cleavage.
"Mmph—Miss Maecil—" Lancet mumbled into the fabric of her dress, his arms flailing awkwardly at his sides.
"Welco back, Lancet!" Miss Maecil cheered, finally pulling back and keeping her hands firmly on his shoulders. She turned to the rest of the class, her eyes sparkling with joy. "Everyone! Welco him back!"
"Welco back, Lancet!" the class echoed.
The voices sounded really genuine. Smiles, nods, even a few small waves followed.
Lancet rubbed the back of his neck slightly. "Thanks."
Maecil shook her head imdiately. "No, no. Thank you."
She placed a hand over her chest, her expression bright with pride.
"Do you know what we received the most Tributes amongst all the Class Groups?" she asked, clearly not waiting for an answer. "Six thousand."
The class murmured excitedly.
"The next highest was Specialist, and they only got four thousand," she clapped her hands together excitedly. "We’re already catching up to the Elentalists. Just one thousand points away!"
She looked at him with a grin.
"I wouldn’t be surprised if instructors from higher years—and even so seniors—co down personally to thank you."
Lancet nodded politely.
That would be nice but Lancet wasn’t going to expect it.
Most of those seniors were far too full of themselves to bother coming down to a first-year class, no matter what had happened.
With the overwhelming greetings finally concluded, Lancet made his way down the aisle toward his desk.
Kasto gave him a massive thumbs-up, Anita offered a beaming smile, and even Luke gave a respectful nod from his corner.
Lancet smiled back at his roommates, a rare feeling of peace washing over him. He pulled out his chair and slid into his seat.
Then he paused.
Sothing was on his desk.
Not out in the open. Slightly tucked beneath the edge, just enough to avoid imdiate attention.
Lancet reached down and pulled it out.
A black card. The edges were sharp enough to cut glass. In the very center of the card, embossed in a sinister, tallic silver, was a chilling insignia: a snake tightly coiled around the hilt of a downward-pointing dagger.
Lancet’s eyes narrowed. The Serpent Society.
All the warmth in Lancet’s chest vanished instantly, pushed away by a cold spike of adrenaline. He flipped the card over.
Etched into the back in neat, blood-red cursive was an ominous text, a ssage:
’Ti is running out. One more chance to make the right choice.’
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