Arc 1: Origins of Ruin
Chapter 3: First Blood at the Academy
---
POV: Accent Tuiter
---
The sun was still rising when the training bell rang.
Most students were yawning, dragging their boots, faces half-awake.
I was already sweating.
I'd been up since before dawn, sharpening my strikes against the steel dummies, trying to silence the words I saw in Emul last night.
> "Redeem her… or replace her."
That line hadn't left my head.
And today, the Academy felt... off.
The instructors were whispering.
Three heroes from outside Havell had arrived before morning. One of them wore a silver scarf — the kind only used by field agents. Why would active combatants show up during a training week?
Something was coming.
I could feel it in my bones.
---
"Listen up!" Instructor Bervan shouted across the courtyard.
He was an ex-warrior, twice my height, with a metal arm that never stopped twitching.
"The Council has approved a surprise evaluation."
The murmurs began.
"Random duel protocol," Bervan continued. "You know the rules. One masked combatant, one chosen student. Real magic. No deaths. First blood ends it."
A few groaned. A few smirked.
Then, a ripple of Emul flowed through the air.
A masked figure stepped into the courtyard from the upper stands.
They were silent.
Covered head to toe in a gray cloak, the edges stained with old dust. No emblem. No school colors. Just a plain white mask with a vertical black line over one eye.
My heart tightened.
I'd never seen this one before.
"Random draw selected…" Bervan looked at the scroll in his hand.
My gut already knew.
> "Accent Tuiter. Step forward."
---
I walked out without flinching.
The other students cleared space. A few whispered again.
"Gate-brother."
"Let's see what makes him special."
But I didn't hear them.
I was already reading the masked figure.
They weren't standing like a student. Too still. Too centered. No jitters. No tension.
Their breathing was controlled.
This wasn't a sparring match.
This was a test.
Or a trap.
---
The wind stilled as the bell rang.
The masked one vanished.
No sound.
No warning.
My sword was halfway drawn when I felt the blow behind me.
They'd moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
I spun, catching the edge of their staff with my blade, but the force knocked me backward.
Students gasped.
Bervan didn't move.
The duel wasn't over.
---
I rushed.
Slid under a second strike. Feinted low, then flipped my blade around and slashed upward.
It should've cut them clean across the arm.
But the cloak flickered.
Like it wasn't fully solid.
Like Emul was layered around them — thick, violet strands of it, laced with whispers.
I froze.
That magic…
It wasn't human.
---
The masked one struck again.
This time they whispered under their breath.
One word.
> "Reside."
The ground beneath me pulsed. A faint hum echoed inside my skull. My vision blurred.
A seal had been drawn beneath my feet — a circle written in old runes.
Necromantic script.
I leapt out of the circle just before it locked.
They were trying to bind my soul.
---
The crowd was silent now.
Even Bervan stepped forward.
"Stop holding back!" he barked. "Tuiter, finish it!"
But my eyes were locked on the enemy.
Their cloak fluttered slightly as they tilted their head.
Then they spoke — low, soft, familiar.
But not to the crowd.
Just to me.
> "She's not the only Gate."
My pulse stopped.
They rushed again.
I met them in the middle — my sword glowing blue now, my will overriding fear.
I cut through the Emul around their staff, blade burning hot.
Steel met metal.
Sparks flew.
Blood fell.
---
I'd sliced through their cloak.
The masked one stepped back.
A long gash ran down their left arm, but no pain showed.
They simply looked at the blood… and nodded.
"First blood," Bervan called out, voice sharp. "Match over!"
The crowd exhaled.
The masked figure turned.
But not before whispering once more, just loud enough for only me to hear:
> "You have until the next Euro. After that… it's not your choice anymore."
And then—
They vanished.
Not walked.
Not blinked.
They faded.
---
Bervan cursed.
Security scrambled.
But no one caught them.
Not even the guest heroes.
---
Later that night, I sat alone on the outer wall.
Sword at my side.
Eyes on the moons, already beginning their slow dance again.
I looked down at my hand.
There was a mark forming — right where my blade had connected with theirs.
A glowing symbol.
Half-circle. Two flames. And a single dot in the middle.
A Gate Mark.
But not Vivant's.
Mine.