Earlier that morning.
05:27 am
Room number #3, Glory Academy Year 1 Dormitory.
*Swish* *Swish*
A young man could be seen swinging a training sword—his eyes closed in concentration, going through multiple motions as if emulating a fight in his mind.
*Swish* *Swish*
Beads of sweat trickled down his face, but no matter what move he made—the grinning shadow figure in his mind dismantled all of his moves masterfully with his bare hands.
An overhead slash? Countered with a jab to the throat before the blade could descend.
Blocking was pretty much useless since the opponent was using his bare hands—he would just grab the sword and yank it out of his hands.
'And with that asshole's shitty personality, he would just break it apart and beat me up with the hilt..' The young man thought with a grimace. The mental image was so realistic, that it seemed like a memory.
A diagonal slash would result in his opponent slapping the side of the blade away, leaving him open to attack.
A stab? Well, at least he could reach full extension…Only for the figure to twist away with ease, slipping through his guard like mist—and once again leaving him exposed to attack.
'Useless…All of it. That shitty family's sword style is just as useless as them,' He thought in frustration.
But then—
As a new strategy popped into his mind, he changed his stance. His left foot forward. His right foot back. His left hand raised, his palm open. And his right hand holding the sword parallel to his head.
It was a stabbing stance—low-risk, easy to recover from if the attack failed.
He lunged.
As expected, the shadow slipped past the thrust with ease, a blur of motion. But this time, when the counter-kick came flying toward his midsection, he was ready.
His open left hand swiped the incoming leg aside, redirecting the force just enough. Without hesitation, he launched himself backwards, putting distance between them.
A thrill of excitement shot through his chest.
'Finally!'
The strike hadn't landed. The shadow hadn't even flinched. But for the first time—he hadn't been dismantled outright. He had held his ground, even if only for a second.
His eyes opened, dismissing his imaginary phantom.
Putting down the training sword, he began drying off his sweat with a towel as while walking into his kitchen—running a glass under the tap.
His white bracelet vibrates as he gets an incoming call. The young man looks down at the phone symbol on one of the beads of his connector.
He sighed—already having an idea of who the incoming caller was.
A deeper grimace than the one in his fight emerged on his face, he eventually relented with a sigh and answered the call after calming his expression.
"Are you ready, Arthur?" The cold voice of his father comes through the line, although it was phrased like a question of concern—the tone he asked it in left no room for doubt.
"…Yeah," Arthur responds, different to his determined self while training—his clear blue eyes clouded over in uncertainty.
"Speak clearly," His father responds with a firm edge in his voice, although he didn't shout—Arthur could almost hear the clenching of his father's jaw through his voice.
"Yes, Patriarch," Arthur responds, his determined self returning.
The call ended without even a goodbye; not an ounce of parental love could be felt from that conversation, but Arthur had long since been used to that.
He clenched the table in frustration, cracks could be seen forming on the counter.
***
After completing his usual morning routine, Arthur looked at himself in the mirror.
To the world, Arthur Rain was the image of quiet nobility, a heroic figure, though not as tall or broad as Giuseppe or Marcus—his compact and lean build radiated precision and control—like a honed and sharpened blade.
His long white hair was tied neatly into a low ponytail, with sharp crimson highlights like embers in snow. His sharp blue eyes—clear and piercing—were like the summer sky.
He adjusted the collar of his old-style, three-piece black suit. Intricate red floral patterns lined the trim and rose gold cufflinks glinted at his wrists.
Every detail was meticulous. Every fold smoothed. Every thread in place.
He reached for the moisturiser for good measure, dabbing it across his face mechanically before stepping back to assess himself.
"Learn to live and love the lie, right?" He muttered, forcing a crooked smile.
But behind the crafted mask, only he knew what stared back.
Not the son of the Rain Family Patriarch.
Not a young man of potential.
Not a hero in the making.
Just a scared little boy—still shackled to a family that treated him like shit.
The reflection felt mockingly hollow.
His jaw clenched, a tremor in his hands as his knuckles turned white from the force.
'Calm. Calm. Calm…' He repeats in his mind like a mantra.
Walking out of his room, Arthur takes a glance at the time.
[07:38 am]
He hears a click from a neighbouring door, without even looking—Arthur already knew who it was.
"Hey, Tandav. Do you know what classes we've got today?" He asked, stepping into the hallway as another student exited his room.
Tandav turned to face him.
Slightly taller than Arthur—just enough to be irritating—he had bronze-tanned skin, dark blue eyes, and long, wavy auburn hair that looked like it belonged in a premium shampoo commercial.
He has a thin but lean build, like a professional swimmer. Wearing a light grey long-sleeve shirt and beige khakis.
Easily, one could understand why he ranked 7th on the academy's 'Most attractive students' forum.
Tandav gave Arthur a once-over, his eyes slowly trailing down the old-fashioned suit Arthur was wearing. He blinked, then stared blankly.
"…You know have arena today, right?".
Arthur froze. His soul visibly left his body.
"…If I fucking knew that why would I have asked you?" Arthur, looking for someone to blame, shot back at Tandav, who simply stared with a deadpan face—already bracing himself for the incoming tantrum.
"Why? Just why?" That question seemed to come from a place of great despair.
Tandav sighed, running a hand through his annoyingly perfect hair.
"Come on, man. You've been here for how long, almost a year now? You should know how Glory works. How do you think someone like Giuseppe made it to rank 1, huh? It sure as hell wasn't thanks to his academic ranking. That guy has the worst grades I have ever seen. I mean, seriously. You have to actively try to be that stupid,"
Arthur groaned, a deep sigh of defeat echoed from within.
He'd genuinely believed—hoped—that the day before D-Day would be light. Maybe a day off. Something. But no.
This was Glory Academy.
And there was only one principle here that truly mattered:
Might makes right.
Everything else might as well be background noise.
"…I guess I'll have to fight in this, then," Arthur muttered, looking down at his suit with resignation.
"Can't be bothered to change,"
Tandav shrugged, already walking ahead. "Suit yourself, Mr. Victorian Vengeance,"
"Oh, ha ha. Very fucking funny," Arthur rolled his eyes and followed.
"Anyway, let's go grab Daniel," Tandav added, glancing back. "He's probably buried in the library again,"
***
The wind blew dry and sharp through the towering spires of Sector A-7.
Somewhere in the depths of a desolate cavern—cold, metallic boots echoed against obsidian marble floors.
A figure stood within a room of darkness that was only illuminated by the scarce candles on the pillars. Suddenly, a stark white beam of light shone from above, like judgment itself.
The light shone on the sigil of the Judicator Corps—a scale—emblazoned in blood-red across the back wall. Below it, six figures kneeled—heads bowed in reverence, motionless.
A seventh figure stepped forward. Clad in matte-black, form-fitting armour with crimson tracings, his figure was draped in a black cloak with a fur-lined hood—with only two narrow holes of white light coming through his mask.
"The violation has been confirmed?" Came a voice from the white light above. Cold. Unfeeling. Absolute.
The Seventh Judicator did not speak. Simply nodded once, and held out a hand. In a blink, a holographic recording played in mid-air—clear footage of a man performing some sort of ritual on the corpse of a woman.
A clear violation of one of the Seven Laws of Humanity. Attempting to resurrect the dead—the gravest of offences.
"Name?" The voice asked.
"Atlas Elwright," The Judicator said at last. His voice was devoid of malice—just a quiet, inevitable finality.
A pause.
"Send the decree. Mark the target,"
With another nod. The six kneeling figures rose in perfect unison.
Chains clinked softly as one of them, far taller than the rest, held out an obsidian tablet etched with golden runes. A glowing red sigil pulsed on its surface: a brand of condemnation.
Far away, on the surface, a small black drone zipped silently through the sky and attached itself to an outer wall by the side of a window. It blinked once, then vanished from sight.
Back in the shadowed chamber, the voice from above whispered.
"No exceptions,"
And the lights went out.
__________
A/N ;)