The bastard's blade

Weeks had passed since Ran received the seal from the shaman Orifis. The burning pain had dulled, and though the bloodlust still crept beneath the surface, it no longer roared like before. The seal did its job—for now.

And finally, the day arrived.

The entrance exam for Fafnir Academy.

A sea of people flooded the academy grounds—thousands, no, tens of thousands. Nobles adorned in flashy coats and high-grade armor strutted alongside the proud heirs of merchant dynasties. Commoners in plain tunics and rough cloaks formed a clear undercurrent, many with hopeful eyes and stiff shoulders.

Ran, draped in his black cloak with that ever-present crimson sword strapped to his back, stepped onto academy soil for the first time.

And it was… massive.

Sprawled over 30 square kilometers, Fafnir Academy looked more like a fortress city than a school. Towering buildings stood tall like monuments, each radiating age and prestige. Colossal statues of legendary heroes and saints lined the main square. Even the air felt different—rich, heavy, and charged with energy.

Ran's footsteps slowed as he stared around. He had never seen anything like this. The outer walls alone were thicker than the Bloodrune estate's main gate.

This was the gateway to power. To survival.

And maybe, to freedom.

But his marveling was interrupted by a scene unfolding nearby.

A commoner boy—probably younger than him—was getting pushed to the ground. A smug-looking noble, probably the son of a merchant lord, towered over him. He kicked the boy's shoulder lightly, then more harshly when the boy didn't respond fast enough.

"Trash like you should crawl, not walk."

The noble sneered.

"Don't dirty the air we breathe, mud rat."

The boy looked like he wanted to protest but bit his tongue. His eyes burned with shame, tears gathering but not falling.

Ran watched for a moment, his eyes blank.

And then he turned away.

He was no saint. That wasn't his problem. He had no room to be a hero—not when his own hands might one day strangle an innocent without reason. Sympathy was a luxury he couldn't afford.

He walked on.

The entrance exam was simple. For those seeking scholarships—there was one way in: win the tournament.

Only one would be selected from the tournament for the scholarship. First place or nothing.

Ran's eyes widened slightly when he saw the signup board. Tens of thousands of names already registered. So many people… so many egos. He could feel their mana and aura already—some strong, some weak, most cocky.

He could feel his heart—or rather, that grotesque thing inside his chest—start to throb.

Excitement?

Bloodlust?

His mouth curled, just slightly.

'What the hell am I doing smiling right now?'

He stepped up to the examiner.

"Name?"

The man asked without even glancing.

"Ran. Just Ran."

He replied calmly.

The man finally looked at him for half a second, noting the lack of surname. His gaze became distant and indifferent.

"Commoner. Go to the waiting room. You'll be called."

Ran nodded silently and made his way inside the stadium.

And the stadium—

It was magnificent.

A circular colosseum-style structure that could easily seat fifty thousand people. The roars and cheers of the audience thundered like an ocean. Magic screens floated in the air, replaying previous matches.

Ran quietly walked to the waiting room.

He sat down in a corner, cross-legged, and closed his eyes.

He tried to meditate—to suppress the creeping thrill surging inside him. He needed calm. If he lost himself here… it'd be over.

Not long after, another voice caught his attention.

"Look here! This armor was forged in the underfire caves of the Bronze Mountains! Took over a million gold! Only a real heir could wear something like this!"

Ran glanced sideways. A flashy noble youth strutted in like a peacock. Followers fawned over him, nodding and laughing at his every word.

"My sword? Oh, that? Passed down from my father—the one who slew an A-rank beast single-handedly. You commoners wouldn't understand that level of greatness."

Ran rolled his eyes.

'What a joke.'

He returned to his meditation, ignoring the noisy fool.

Suddenly, the crowd outside burst into deafening cheers.

Ran's gaze shifted toward the large magic screen outside.

It showed a match underway.

And the moment he saw her—his eyes widened slightly.

There she was.

The same girl from that day. White hair flowing, sword dancing like silver lightning, her movements both precise and elegant.

She was battling a noble named Paul Morgue—some big-shot's son from the western territories.

Paul's swordsmanship was flashy, all brute power and arrogance. But Dawn… she was calm. Deadly.

Her blade found gaps, her steps predicted his every move. She disarmed him with a swift kick and, before he could recover, slammed the flat of her sword into his chest.

He flew out of the ring.

The crowd went wild.

Ran leaned forward.

He had thought she was already a student. But no—she was competing too.

'She's applying just like me…'

His gaze lingered on her as she helped Paul up and bowed.

Elegant. Controlled. Powerful.

'So that's her name… Dawn Montello…'