[SchizoDRAFT]Vol 2 Chapter 0: A Lesson in Humility - D3

The Radiant Crest Academy’s gates stretched high like the jaws of a beast, ancient and proud. Gold-trimmed stone reflected the early sunlight, casting warm light over the plaza below, where students gathered in tight clusters. Each of them sixteen years old, freshly admitted into the Foundation Class. Nobles, merchant scions, a few commoners dressed up like they belonged.

And then Damien Sunblade entered.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t speak. He walked like the world had opened for him. Measured steps, back straight, eyes forward. His uniform was untouched by dust or wear, tailored just a little better than most. The sigil of his house, the Sunblade crest. Half-sun, half-sword, glistened on his chest in old golden thread. It was a relic of a fading dynasty, but still one of the Ten Great Houses.

People noticed. Of course they did.

"That’s him. The Sunblade heir, right?"

“I heard he was a commoner once. Adopted because of his mana.”

“Sunblade? Aren’t they collapsing?”

“Maybe, but… he’s still gorgeous.”

Damien heard them all.

He kept his expression flat, unbothered. Detached, even. Like the comments barely registered. But inside, he savored the praise. Each word. Heir, talented, handsome, was fuel, the kind that coiled in his chest and warmed him from the inside out. He wouldn't show it, of course. Let them think he was above it all.

But oh, he liked being seen.

Behind the mask of calm, pride nestled in tight folds, sharpening his every breath.

“New admits!” a voice called. “Line up by birthdate. We begin with the mana assessment.”

The field ahead shimmered with magic arrays, circles of silver and bronze drawn with enchanted chalk. Crystals the size of pumpkins floated atop pedestals, each designed to read the mana of the test taker and assign a rank.

Students stepped forward in order, placing their hands on the crystal and holding their breath.

[Mana Rank: B]

[Mana Rank: C]

[Mana Rank: B]

A pattern. Nothing extraordinary, until someone stepped out of line.

“Make way for me, you cattle.” said a voice with the crisp arrogance of someone who’d never heard the word no.

A tall boy pushed past the line, flanked by two thuggish followers. His posture was aggressive, like even standing beside others was an insult to his bloodline. He wore gloves with gilded embroidery and walked like the courtyard owed him its life.

“Make way for the young master of that house,” one of his henchmen said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

No one stopped him. No instructor spoke up. Rules bent for some.

The young master placed his hand on the crystal. Heat pulsed outward, and flame-like mana rose inside the orb. The glyphs above flickered in red-gold light.

[Mana Rank: A]

A satisfied murmur rippled through the crowd. His lackeys exchanged smug looks. A few commoners shrank back.

The young master turned from the pedestal, arms folded like he was already crowned king of the Academy.

And then, Damien moved.

He stepped forward. Silent, precise. The crowd didn’t part for him; he didn’t demand it. But people stepped aside anyway. Something about the way he carried himself made space form naturally, like they just knew to make room.

The whispers started again.

“Is that Sunblade?”

“Now this’ll be something.”

Damien’s fingers brushed the mana crystal as he reached it. He didn’t adjust his posture. He didn’t speak to the crowd. He simply placed his palm on the surface, exhaled, and let it out.

There was no heat. No color.

Only pressure.

The crystal groaned, light pulsing in deep violet waves. Then white. Then nothing, because the crystal cracked, bursting upward into a column of pure, white radiance.

[Mana Rank: S]

Dead silence followed.

Even the instructors on the raised platform stood. The others just stared. Damien removed his hand, brushing non-existent dust from his coat with deliberate slowness.

He turned and walked back to the crowd, ignoring the open stares. But as he passed the young master, he let his eyes flick sideways, just once.

And there it was, the tiniest curl of a smirk. Not wide enough to call arrogant. Not overt enough to punish.

But just enough to say: I saw your rank. I crushed it.

He returned to the line with his hands behind his back, posture serene.

Inside, he was smiling.

He deserved to.

The courtyard buzzed like a kicked beehive.

Damien’s S-rank result had silenced the crowd, but silence never lasted long in a school full of nobles. It twisted, turned, and returned in the form of forced laughter and whispered justifications.

“Must’ve been a fluke. The crystal might’ve been unstable.”

“Mana’s just one aspect… it doesn’t mean he’s good at anything else.”

“It’s not like he earned that crest. He was adopted.”

Damien heard them, of course. He always heard them. The voices clung to the edges of his senses like dust in sunlight. But now, with his hands tucked behind his back and his face an impeccable mask of composure, he pretended to notice nothing.

Inside, he counted every word. Filed it all away.

They would remember him. Or they’d be made to.

An instructor wearing an enchanted breastplate stepped forward, holding up a staff marked with the Imperial seal.(Change kingdom to empire)

“Next: practical assessment. Combat proficiency. You’ll spar with an instructor to demonstrate skill level and reaction time. Rank will be determined by control, awareness, technique, and potential.”

They were led to a vast training field behind the main tower, sectioned into dozens of dueling rings. Wind danced through the short grass. Rows of training swords and spears lined the weapon racks at the perimeter.

“Choose your preferred weapon.” the instructor called.

The young master of that house was already striding toward the center ring, his entourage shadowing him like hungry dogs. He selected a gleaming longsword with crimson filigree, the kind that said more about wealth than actual battlefield experience.

The instructor facing him, a stocky veteran with a scarred face, nodded in greeting. The young master didn’t bother returning it.

“Begin.”

The duel started with a blur of movement. The young master advanced aggressively, sword flowing in precise, showy arcs. Every motion was textbook. Every attack heavy with flourish. He forced the instructor to parry three strikes, then feinted left before sweeping low with a rising diagonal slash.

The instructor stepped back and raised his hand.

“Enough. Mana control, balance, and precision, strong overall. Swordsmanship Rank: A.”

Applause. His followers clapped first, loudly. A few students joined in, others watched Damien.

The young master turned toward the crowd with a victorious grin and ran a hand through his hair.

Damien thought he’d pose for a painting, if someone offered him one.

Then it was his turn.

He stepped into the ring quietly. Chose a plain, single-edged sword without shine or fancy edgework. The grip was worn. Balanced.

His instructor was different. Taller, with a heavy tower shield and blunted blade. Clearly chosen for his size.

“I’ll come at you first,” the man said. “Defend yourself. Respond as needed. Show me what you can do.”

Damien said nothing.

The instructor took his stance.

“Begin.”

The moment the word left the man’s mouth, Damien moved.

No warning. No build-up. Just one precise step forward.

He slashed upward, twisting the sword mid-swing, not to strike, but to disarm. The blade slammed into the side of the tower shield with enough force to tilt the instructor’s balance. Then Damien’s foot swept out, pivoting from below.

The man hit the ground.

Everyone blinked in astonishment.

“Spar complete.” Damien said softly, returning the sword to his side.

Silence.

The instructor sat up, blinking twice, then gave a low chuckle. “Well, damn.”

He got to his feet, patted the dust from his knees, and turned to the ranking officer nearby. “Swordsmanship Rank: S. Clean, efficient, no wasted motion.”

It took a moment for the crowd to realize what had happened.

Then noise, scattered gasps, disbelieving scoffs, a few claps that came too late and sounded like envy.

Damien walked back to the rows of students. His steps were slow. Calm. He bowed his head slightly toward the instructors, as was custom, a gesture of humility.

But when he passed the young master, his hand shifted just slightly, adjusting his sleeve with a flick, drawing the eye to the S-rank mark that had just been magically inscribed there.

A little reminder. Subtle. Petty.

The young master’s eyes narrowed.

Damien took his seat. He didn’t smile. Not with his mouth.

But his posture… oh, his posture beamed.

The sun had shifted overhead by the time the last student finished their combat evaluation.

Scorch marks littered the grass, and the air still hummed faintly with leftover mana. Students sat or stood in clusters across the training field, nobles on one side, commoners huddled on another, and those in-between floating awkwardly near the edges.

Damien remained where he was, arms folded behind his back, posture erect. He hadn’t said a word since returning to his seat, but the silence around him wasn’t peace, it was distance. Every nearby conversation carried the shape of his name.

"Did you see how fast he moved?"

“He dropped that instructor like it was nothing…”

“I thought that guy was a former knight.”

“He didn’t even use magic.”

Damien exhaled slowly, letting their voices wash over him like warm water. He kept his face blank, but inside, he basked in it. Let them talk. Let them speculate. Their awe meant nothing, and yet… it felt right. It was only natural they’d admire him. He was better.

And unlike that young master, he didn’t need to announce it.

A group of nobles nearby whispered with a little too much volume. One of them, sharp-nosed, sleeves rolled high to show off his bloodline tattoo, glanced at Damien between remarks.

“He’s overdoing it. That ‘silent prodigy’ act is a bit much.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t even smile. He’s probably dull as stone.”

Their snickers were brittle. Insecure.

Damien didn’t react.

But he did smile internally. Let them hide behind mockery. They wouldn’t forget the rankings.

At that moment, a flash of light erupted above the courtyard, sigils spinning into place in the sky, forming a massive projection bordered by gold runes. The names of the top ten students shimmered into view, ranked by total assessment score.

1st - Damien Sunblade
2nd - Lorelei Veiss
3rd - Lanton Graye
4th - Siraen Vol
5th - Mylo Estra
6th - Young Master…
7th - Farren of Redwall
8th - Sylma Dorell
9th - Zek Brolin
10th - Narell of Yelwood

Gasps echoed as heads craned upward. Instructors nodded among themselves. A few students clapped.

But most eyes locked on Damien, and then flicked, almost guiltily, to the young master now seated on a wooden bench near the dueling rings.

The young master stared at the rankings without blinking. His henchmen stood awkwardly nearby, arms crossed, faces tight with frustration.

“He ranked sixth?” one muttered under his breath.

“No way that guy deserved first. Too flashy.”

“He was just showing off. We should put him in his place.”

But the young master raised a hand, palm open, fingers calm.

“Leave it.”

His voice was low. Collected.

His gaze, however, lingered on the floating sigils a little longer than necessary. His lips twitched, not in a scowl, not in a grin. Something quieter. Resigned, maybe.

Or maybe just amused.

As he shifted, something dark slipped from his coat pocket, He tucked it back quickly, almost lazily, as if its appearance had meant nothing at all.

No one seemed to notice.

Except Damien.

From his spot near the center of the field, Damien watched the motion. His eyes narrowed slightly, almost imperceptibly. Something about that item didn’t sit right.

He tilted his head and looked away before anyone could catch the thought in his eyes.

The instructors dismissed the students a few minutes later with promises of dormitory assignments and orientation schedules. The crowd began to scatter, some dragging their training gear behind them, others chatting animatedly about their scores.

But Damien didn’t move right away.

He stood in the middle of it all, as students passed by whispering, staring, even bowing slightly, half out of respect, half out of calculated politeness.

He soaked in every look. Every moment.

He didn’t smile. Not on the outside.

But his chin lifted a little higher.

He felt strong.

He felt seen.

And maybe, just maybe, he felt invincible.

…

…

The Academy campus stretched far beyond the training fields, towers of white marble capped in glass domes, libraries like cathedrals, and dormitories that loomed like small keeps.

Damien walked the cobbled path alone, the clack of his boots echoing in perfect rhythm.

He didn’t speak to anyone, nor did he seem bothered by the distance students kept from him. They parted like mist as he passed, not out of fear, yet, but with that cautious awe nobles reserved for beasts they hadn’t named yet. He’d become a shape of potential, too unknown to judge, too dangerous to mock directly.

Some greeted him.

“Sunblade.” one girl said with a polite nod, her voice tightly measured.

“Congratulations.” said a tall boy in mage robes, the tone more strained than sincere.

Damien responded with slight nods. Nothing more. He’d already learned the game: be cordial, not warm. Friendly, never approachable. Warmth invited challenge. Politeness invited awe.

Behind him, students whispered again.

“He didn’t even sweat in the spar.”

“Looks older than sixteen, doesn’t he?”

“He’s like a noble’s ideal son, but cold. Almost fake.”

Damien heard that last one, and for a flicker of a second, his jaw tensed. Fake? No. He wasn’t fake.

He was the real thing.

He'd earned his name, his power, his place. The others played pretend with swords and inherited spells. He had climbed here.

The dormitory buildings loomed ahead, and a steward in gray robes waved him forward. “Sunblade, Damien. North Wing. Room 4A. Single occupancy, per directive.”

Damien raised an eyebrow. “Single?”

The steward gave a tight smile. “Special recommendation from the admissions board.”

That recommendation, Damien knew, hadn’t come from favoritism.

It had come from fear.

Or admiration. Same difference.

Inside, the dorm was modest by noble standards, bare stone floors, a sturdy desk, wardrobe, and a window overlooking the internal courtyard. A magic-lantern sat unlit on the bedside table. Bookshelves waited for volumes he hadn’t brought. It was functional. Quiet.

He liked that.

He dropped his satchel beside the bed and let his gaze wander to the window. From here, he could see the other students below. Some had already grouped into informal cliques, laughing, pointing, tossing spell-lights between them like children with torches.

He exhaled through his nose.

So noisy.

A knock interrupted his thoughts.

He turned. The door creaked open and a slender boy with short, messy silver hair poked his head inside, blinking too fast.

“S-Sorry, I thought this was 4B. Just checking if my key works on this side, uh…”

His voice faded the moment he met Damien’s eyes.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re… him.”

Damien didn’t reply.

The boy stepped back immediately, murmured an apology, and practically fled down the hall.

Damien didn’t move to close the door. He simply waited until the other footsteps faded.

Then, slowly, he smiled to himself.

It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t friendliness.

It was satisfaction.

But down in the courtyard, he saw something else.

The young master was still there, seated under a gazebo, alone now, his entourage gone. He leaned back in his seat with a strange calm, not watching the students, not talking.

Just… watching the clouds.

Something about that stillness prickled at Damien’s spine. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. Just… unease. The way one might feel near a lake with no ripples.

No one with an ego like that sat quietly after a public loss, unless they had a reason.

Damien turned from the window.

It didn’t matter. His path was already set. The rankings were clear. The rest would follow.

He placed his sword on the wall mount with deliberate care.

Then sat, alone in silence, telling himself it was better this way.

Evening fell across the Academy like a velvet shroud, soft, heavy, and lined with quiet expectation.

Damien sat alone in his room, light from the enchanted lantern casting long shadows against the stone walls. His eyes were half-lidded, the same calm expression on his face that he wore through sparring, testing, and judgment. Stillness came easily to him now. It was a discipline. An armor.

A sharp knock broke the silence.

He didn’t move right away. Another knock, firmer this time.

He rose and opened the door.

An instructor stood in the hall, Professor Milen, a middle-aged man with silver hair pulled into a war tie, a fine black coat marking him as one of the elite battle mentors. His expression was even, but his eyes appraised Damien sharply.

“Damien Sunblade,” he said. “You’re to attend an evaluation session next week. High-ranking students are given early access to specialized combat tracks. Expect a formal letter by morning.”

Damien bowed his head slightly. “Understood, Professor.”

Milen didn’t leave.

He studied Damien a moment longer, then added, “I don’t know who trained you, or what your background was before the Sunblade crest. But the Academy has seen too many ‘prodigies’ burn out before graduation. Be careful not to believe your own legend too quickly.”

Damien met his gaze without flinching. “Noted.”

Milen’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. Then he turned and left with the quiet step of a man used to battle.

Damien closed the door gently. He stood there a moment, his hand on the knob.

‘Believe my own legend?’ he thought.

But what else was there to believe?

He turned to the mirror on the wall, plain and rectangular, polished to perfection. He studied himself: blue eyes sharp and unreadable, jawline set, hair tied neatly. A noble’s bearing worn like a cloak.

‘I am the legend.’

He smirked. Not wide. Just enough.

The Academy wouldn’t forget today. The rankings would circulate through every dorm, every family’s courier, every whispering noble circle. For now, he’d play the part of the cold prodigy. The humble blade.

And when the time came, he'd carve his name into their history.

Down below, the courtyard was darker now, lit by scattered lanterns glowing softly in copper tones.

Students milled about, still trading stories from the entrance exam. A few practiced mana channeling in groups. Two of the more reckless types hurled bolts at the training wall for fun.

But one figure sat perfectly still beneath the central gazebo.

The young master.

No entourage. No theatrics. Just him, back straight, gaze unfocused as though lost in some private calculation.

One of his followers approached, a stocky boy with a chipped tooth and an angry expression.

“Hey. We should talk,” the follower said, too loud. “That guy, Sunblade, he’s acting like he owns the school. You saw that look he gave you. He thinks you’re done.”

The young master didn’t reply.

The follower leaned closer. “If you want, I can-”

“No.” the young master said calmly.

The follower blinked in suprise.

“He’ll trip on his own arrogance. They always do.” His voice held no anger, no bruised ego. Just… certainty. “Let him think he’s won.”

The follower frowned. “But he-”

The young master raised a hand. Slowly.

The boy fell silent.

“I ranked sixth. Not first. Not second. Sixth.” His eyes never left the sky.

He said it not like someone ashamed, but someone pleased.

His fingers brushed his coat again, touching the dark item in his pocket.

The night wind blew softly. The lanterns flickered. No one noticed the slight shift in the air around him, an invisible pressure, subtle, but real. Magic, maybe. 

Or something older.

The young master smiled faintly.

He finally looked toward the North Wing.

His smile widened, not cruel, not mocking.

Just... patient.

…

…

The private wing of the Academy was silent as a sealed crypt. Nobles of legacy walked these halls only by right of blood, and the boy now pacing them carried such a name. One from that house.

The other students had long since settled into their dormitories, too dazed or exhausted from the day’s events to notice that the young master, the one who smiled at his own rank of sixth, had vanished into the shadows like a pre-written footnote in someone else’s victory.

He entered his private chamber alone.

A gentle lock click. Then five quick gestures, precise and well-practiced. Veils of mana bloomed outward: one for silence, one for sight, one for scent, one for divine interference, and the final array, the oldest, to keep things in. Just in case.

He took the item he kept close all day and set it on his desk.

He glanced at it once more, silent thoughts swirling in his mind as he appraised it for the hundredth time.

A black envelope. Opened, the wax seal of a pink heart with a spiral in the center resting loosely in it’s center.

He turned and got to work.

He dropped to his knees, hands already moving.

The chalk he used was not white. It was a deep, rusted gray, like powdered bone soaked in ancient blood. He drew each line of the summoning circle with surgical focus, his breath shallow, his eyes wide.

When the last sigil was in place, he drew a black-bladed dagger and carved a long line across his palm.

Blood dripped onto the center of the circle with soft, wet taps.

Nothing happened at first.

But then it started.

First came the mist.’

It seeped from the circle like breath escaping a sleeping giant, black, rolling, soft like velvet smoke. The air grew heavy with it, clinging to the boy’s skin. It curled around the room like an ancient perfume, impossibly warm and cold all at once.

Then came the scent.

Spice and ruin. Roses left too long in wine. The flicker of something sacred defiled. 

A hush swept the chamber as shadow bled inward from the corners.

Jingle - clack

Jingle - clack

Jingle - clack

Then the sound came.

Soft, rhythmic rings of anklets mixed with the impending, clacking taps of geta.

She then stepped through.

She did not walk. She glided. She stepped out from the circle as if sliding between thoughts. Her black kimono clung to her figure with effortless sensuality, each movement revealing glimpses of the flesh beneath. Her curves were generous and impossible, hips like hourglass edges, her chest rising proudly beneath embroidered silk. Her skin was pale as starlight, her lips painted deep red, and her face hidden beneath a black, sheer veil that glinted faintly as it moved with her breath, her spinning, pink, flower petal eyes peeked out from above it, watching, appraising.

Her walk was unhurried. Every step caused the anklets above her geta sandals to chime, soft and teasing. Mist followed her like a living thing, coiling around her ankles, making her seem less like she walked and more like she floated, weightless and untouchable.

The young master dropped instantly into a bow. Forehead to stone. His breathing shallow.

But something flickered in him.

Then…there.

Just at the edge of his lowered gaze, the curve of her foot slipped into view beneath her kimono’s flowing hem. Small, perfectly shaped. The strap of her sandal wrapped around her arch like a delicate ribbon. And her toes, painted a pale, almost innocent pink, caught the lamplight like soft gems.

It was a harmless detail. A human thing.

And yet something in it cracked him open.

He felt the twitch, that primal instinct, the betraying spark in the mind that said… look again.

A second glance. That was all. Just a second.

But he didn’t.

With effort so sharp it made his muscles tremble, he tore his gaze away, grinding his forehead harder into the stone floor, biting the inside of his cheek. He could feel his pulse hammering at his throat, like his body suddenly feared it was no longer safe within itself.

Then it passed.

Or rather… Something passed over him. Like a shadow crossing a grave.

It was not wrath. Not fury. No lightning bolt.

But something… took note.

Something ancient, cold,  feminine.

Not offended, not angered. Simply… aware.

The sensation lasted less than a breath. But it lingered in his gut like the aftertaste of copper.

And the young hero knew.

If he had looked again, even for a blink, even for the shape of a toe or the brush of a curve...

He would not be here.

Not in this room.

Not in this body.

The danger had not struck. 

It had simply watched.

And then, mercifully, looked away.

He did not dare move again until her footsteps passed.

Only then did her voice come, soft as crushed roses.

“Your strong will is still intact…” she murmured, tone amused. She continued “I saw you holding back. How deliciously clever. Just enough effort to earn attention, but not enough to invite the spotlight.”

She circled him once, geta tapping lightly on stone, the anklets singing low with each shift of her hips. Her presence filled the room with heat, perfume, and something intangible, like breathing in the scent of a dream you weren’t supposed to remember.

He stayed still.

“You wear the skin of obedience well,” she continued. “Smile in all the right places. Earn their praise. Hide the blade behind your compliments.”

She stopped in front of him.

“The boy who smiles for applause… while measuring where to stab.”

He breathed out.

“I want to change the script,” he said finally. “To show them that their heroes are hollow. That they hunt devils and demons not out of justice, but fear. That they kill what they don’t understand.”

The mist stirred with her breath.

She said nothing for a long moment. Then:

“Let it rot from within, then. Poison their story with truth. But remember, make them love the taste first.”

She turned back toward the circle, her hips swaying, her shadow flickering within the haze of the mist.

Just before she vanished, she paused.

Her veil shifted as if she looked directly into his skull.

Then her voice came, silk-wrapped steel, laced with amusement and something else. Approval? A test passed? Or perhaps… Praise?

“Do not fail… heir of Godschild.”

She vanished.

The mist dissipated.

The room was still.

Alexander remained kneeling, hand bleeding, his breath finally coming freely again. He didn’t move for a while. He couldn’t, not until the echo of her scent, of her presence, of that terrible pink softness on her perfect foot, finally faded from his mind.

Then, finally, the boy who bore that ancient name stood alone, blood drying across his palm, the veil of silence pressing close around him.

And far above the dormitory halls, the old statues of heroes carved into the academy’s outer walls continued to smile down upon the lie.