Riven and Modred tore through the forest like blades cutting wind.
Branches snapped underfoot. Wet soil kicked up behind them as they pushed past exhaustion, past pain, toward Division Two's headquarters—the heart of the camp.
Modred glanced sideways.
Riven's face was rigid. Veins stood out along his neck, his grip locked so tight around his halberd that his knuckles had gone white. The rage rolling off him was raw, barely contained.
Modred smirked.
"Give Four-Eyes hell," he said casually.
Riven blinked, caught off guard for half a second—then his breathing steadied. The fury sharpened into focus. He flashed a grim grin back.
"Likewise," he replied. "Make that bastard pay for what he did to Lysara."
They didn't slow.
The air ahead warped.
Albert stepped out directly into their path, boots settling against the ground as if he'd been waiting all along. His spear rested loosely in his hand. A faint, amused smile tugged at his lips.
Riven stopped.
Dark Arcana surged.
Shadow bled outward from his body, crawling along the ground like ink poured into water. His eyes turned pitch black, pupils swallowed whole as the darkness answered his call.
"I'll handle him," Riven said, voice flat.
Modred didn't argue.
He stepped past him without looking back.
The headquarters was decorated like a royal chamber.
Polished stone. Draped banners. Gold inlays that didn't belong in a battlefield.
A cadet stood inside.
Modred crossed the distance in a blink.
The cadet hit the ground hard, air knocked from his lungs. Modred pressed a knee into his chest.
"Where is Marcel."
The cadet gasped, choking. "R–River. Clearing near the river."
Modred stood and left him there.
Albert twirled his spear lazily.
"You Valcrests never learn," he said. "All that bloodline pride, and still failures."
Riven didn't respond.
He vanished.
Albert barely raised his spear before Riven reappeared at his flank, halberd carving through shadow. The strike missed by inches as Albert leapt back, light exploding from his Arcana to blind the area.
Riven pushed through it.
Darkness wrapped around his body as he moved, his steps silent, precise. The halberd struck again—then again—each swing heavy, deliberate, meant to kill.
Albert blocked, light clashing violently against shadow.
"You're slow," Albert mocked. "Just like your sister."
The words landed.
Albert's spear punched forward, light detonating on impact. Riven was thrown back, skidding across the ground, blood spraying from his mouth.
Albert advanced.
"Your mother screamed the same way," Albert continued calmly. "Begged just as pathetically."
Riven struggled to rise.
"She died because you were weak."
Albert raised his spear.
Riven's vision blurred.
Then—
Don't give up.
Modred's voice echoed in his head.
We're entering the Academy. No matter what.
Riven laughed.
A low, broken sound.
"Guess," he muttered, pushing himself upright, "I still owe that idiot."
He inhaled slowly.
Everything went silent.
The shadows around him deepened, folding inward. His halberd disappeared into darkness, then reformed—heavier, sharper.
Albert frowned.
Riven moved.
Albert's light shattered as Riven tore through it, halberd ripping across Albert's torso. Another strike crushed his ribs. A third slammed him into the ground.
Albert tried to stand.
Riven's boot crushed his chest.
He looked down at him, expression empty.
"Who's pathetic now."
Albert didn't answer.
He was unconscious.
Riven turned and walked away
The river flowed quietly beside the clearing.
Marcel waited.
His massive sword was embedded deep into the soil. He sat on a stone, posture relaxed, eyes fixed on Modred with calm, killing intent. His face was darker than before—stripped of pretense.
Modred stopped several paces away.
Emerald light burned steadily in his eyes.
They stared at each other.
"Do you know why nobles rule?" he asked calmly.
He didn't wait for an answer.
"We carry responsibility," Marcel continued. "Power isn't given to us for comfort. It's given so we can decide who deserves to live."
His gaze hardened.
"Those without blood, without lineage, exist to be tested. To be killed if necessary. Their deaths strengthen us. Their fear sharpens us."
His voice never rose.
"Killing them isn't cruelty," he said. "It's duty."
Modred's jaw tightened.
Marcel went on, conviction deepening, warped but absolute.
"If the weak die, it's because they fulfilled their purpose. If they resist, even better. Stronger tools make stronger rulers."
He looked at Modred.
"You should be grateful."
Modred exhaled once.
"Cut the crap."
Marcel chuckled softly.
He reached for his sword, fingers brushing the hilt.
"Don't rush," he replied. "I'll show you the difference—"
He lifted his sword.
"—between a mongrel… and nobility."
Far from the forest, the observers watched in silence.
Igred's fist tightened against the edge of the table.
"I should have warned him," he muttered, frustration seeping through his voice.
Magnus didn't look away from the projection.
"He's just like you were," he said calmly.
Igred stiffened.
"And that charisma. Just like his father."
The words struck harder than any blow.
Slowly, Igred reached into his coat and pulled out a worn photograph. His fingers trembled as he looked down at it.
A young man stared back at him — long dark hair, an easy, reckless smile frozen in time.
"…Rodain," Igred whispered.
"My son."
The image trembled in his grip.