With the sunrise, movement began to spread throughout the grounds.
The first class passed with heavy slowness; traces of drowsiness still lingered on some students' faces, while yawns overtook others.
Even the lecturer himself seemed weary—teaching during the first hour was always exhausting, especially in the chill of autumn.
At exactly ten o'clock, the students gathered with Instructor Draven in an open clearing deep within the Southern Forest, located far behind the academy grounds. Reaching it had required nearly half an hour on horseback.
Once everyone had assembled, Draven gestured to his assistant to step forward.
The man appeared to be in his early thirties, with dark black hair and sharp eyes. Dark circles beneath them suggested he hadn't slept well in quite some time. Despite his worn appearance, his voice carried a firm authority as he raised a sheet of paper.
"My name is Louis Smith, assistant instructor. By the trainer's order, I will be supervising this field examination."
A few murmurs rose among the students, but he ignored them and continued.
"I know I don't look particularly trustworthy… but I'm the one chosen for this task. So stop staring at me like that."
A dry smile tugged at his lips as he adjusted his glasses, then he pointed at the paper in his hand.
"The test itself is simple. You will be divided into two teams: Red and Green.
For organizational and evaluation purposes, each team will be split into four pairs.
Each pair will wear an armband bearing their team's color and will be assigned either to steal a flag or to defend it."
He lifted his gaze to meet theirs.
"The attacking team must steal the target pair's flag within a limited time. The defending team may flee, set traps, or delay the attackers.
However, if you fail to engage or show no tactical thinking, points will be deducted from your final evaluation.
Assessment will not be based solely on results, but also on cooperation, combat skill, and strategy."
He paused, scanning their faces.
"Any questions?"
No one answered. Silent gazes met his—some filled with quiet challenge, others tight with tension.
He nodded, feigning satisfaction, and gestured toward a wooden box in front of them.
"Good. Step forward and draw your team color from the box, then take the rod marked with your pair number."
Movement began, and the results were as follows:
1. Lucas Hertford & Beatrice Driessen — Red Team (Defense)
2. Eccles Christopher & Athena Klein — Red Team (Defense)
3. Arthur Florence & Leo Spencer — Red Team (Attack)
4. Raymond Baskerville & Gilbert Klein — Green Team (Defense)
5. Elliot Kent & Oliver Rothschild — Green Team (Attack)
6. William Astria & Oscar Stanhope — Green Team (Attack)
…
The participants' gazes crossed, as though fate itself had begun to weave something unseen in the shadows.
Raymond, however, barely registered what was happening around him. His face was pale, his expression distant.
Once the roles were assigned, attackers were sent westward, defenders eastward. A strict rule was enforced: pairs from the same side or team color were forbidden from engaging one another. Each pair was bound to its designated opponent.
At the signal whistle, everyone rushed into the forest—each toward an uncertain confrontation.
Pale sunlight stretched across the tops of towering trees, while scattered birdsong pierced the silence hesitantly.
The Southern Forest appeared calm at first glance.
Yet something unsettled lurked deep within it—something perceptible only to those accustomed to reading what lay beyond the shadows.
Gilbert advanced at the front of his pair with steady steps, Raymond following a few paces behind.
Most students were busy refining their plans, checking weapons, or mentally rehearsing strategies for the flag-stealing challenge.
But Raymond… was completely elsewhere.
His mind was consumed by fragments that had haunted him since he first set foot in the academy.
He halted briefly, staring down the shaded path ahead.
His gaze faltered—as though the dream he had tried to deny was forcing its way back into his awareness.
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady the chaotic flow of thoughts, then murmured, barely audible:
"The sound of water… a distant waterfall… a cliff at the edge of a sea of trees…"
His voice was soft, almost like a trance-born whisper.
He didn't realize that Gilbert, who had paused to survey the path ahead, had heard every word.
Gilbert turned to him, deep confusion reflecting in his eyes.
What is he talking about? Is this really the time to drift into fantasies?
Before he could say anything, however, a faint sound reached his ears—
The unmistakable murmur of flowing water, echoing somewhere far ahead… as if a hidden waterfall lay deep within the forest.
That sudden realization drew them forward unconsciously, until they reached a high point overlooking a vast expanse of intertwined treetops.
From there, the cliff was unmistakable—steep, sharp, towering.
To their right, a river flowed quietly, pouring over the abyss to form a cascading waterfall, its rushing droplets crashing against jagged rocks far below.
Raymond Baskerville froze.
His eyes widened as he stared at the scene before him.
(Is this… the same? Exactly like the dream?)
Gilbert stopped beside him, first studying the view, then Raymond's face—trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
Raymond remained silent, just as bewildered.
Is this merely coincidence? Or has he seen this place before? But when?
This area is supposed to be restricted—accessible only to academy staff with special permission, or the imperial family…
The air around them felt different—heavier—as if the forest itself were holding its breath.
It was only a brief moment, yet it was enough to anchor something new between them.
No words. No explanation.
Just the vague sense that something deeper than logic was unfolding.
After confirming the path ended at the cliff, they retreated and chose another route in search of their assigned opponents.
Gilbert led the way, eyes scanning the dense greenery, while Raymond followed in silence—unable to shake the coincidence he had just witnessed.
Suddenly, Arthur Florence leapt down from above, bursting through the branches toward Raymond, assuming him an easy target due to his distraction.
But Raymond, without even turning his gaze, raised his arm abruptly and deflected the attack with a powerful side strike, sending the attacker stumbling backward.
His instincts were razor-sharp—far beyond what one would expect from a mid-level opponent. Gilbert realized this instantly.
A brief exchange of looks between Gilbert and Raymond was enough.
An ambush.
The attacker's footsteps retreated rapidly through the trees, deliberately luring them toward a specific location.
"He's drawing us into a trap."
"I know," Gilbert replied calmly, eyes following the movement.
"Let's follow them."
"So you want a direct confrontation?"
Gilbert glanced at him, then smirked faintly.
"Why? Are your knees already shaking?"
Raymond stiffened, irritation flaring once he caught the sarcasm.
"Shaking? Even as a joke, that wasn't funny."
At that moment, Raymond's expression hardened.
Meanwhile, a barely visible smile flickered across Gilbert's lips as he observed his partner's reaction, before refocusing on their target.
A thought crossed his mind, unbidden.
He's fallen for it.
Manipulating others' confidence—nudging their focus elsewhere—was a habit Gilbert had picked up over time. And now, he was testing it on his partner to sharpen his awareness of what lay ahead.
The forest felt wider in its silence, its paths swallowed by thick shadows. Birdsong faded as the exercise neared its peak.
The training session was built on paired confrontations—teams racing to steal flags across a wide stretch reaching the forest's edge.
Gilbert and Raymond had been placed together despite barely exchanging words since the academy began. Adaptability was precisely what the test aimed to measure—and those who succeeded had already taken a step forward.
Their opponents were persistent, exploiting the terrain and slipping effortlessly between the trees.
Yet it felt as though they were being led in circles—intentionally.
Gilbert appeared intensely focused.
Or so it seemed.
Something inside him was wrong.
The first signs surfaced—numbness in his limbs, irregular heartbeats, and a tightness in his chest that made the air feel suffocating.
Not now… not here… just endure a little longer.
One thought dominated his mind.
He had to take down the opponent here and now—then withdraw quietly before things escalated.
He kicked off the ground and lunged forward.
But his vision blurred.
An unexpected strike came from the side—Leo Spencer—nearly landing, if not for Raymond's timely intervention, blocking it at the last instant.
Raymond had noticed the instability in Gilbert's movements.
"What's wrong with you all of a sudden?!" he shouted.
Gilbert didn't answer.
His face had gone paler than usual, his hands trembling.
"Sorry… looks like I'll only hold you back…"
Everything's hazy… the nausea is suffocating…
He staggered backward, lost in thought.
I need to retreat before something disastrous happens.
One step back.
Then another.
Only then did he realize—too late—that there was no ground behind him.
His foot slipped at the edge of the cliff.
When did we get here…?
His body tipped backward as the void opened beneath him.
"Gilbert!"
Raymond lunged without thinking, grabbing his arm at the last second and yanking him away from the edge.
But the outcome wasn't what he expected.
The sudden force threw Raymond off balance instead.
Their roles reversed.
Raymond plunged over the edge, his body swallowed by open air.
Despite his condition—despite the fog in his mind—Gilbert moved without hesitation.
He leapt forward, catching Raymond's wrist while his other hand latched onto a thick branch jutting from the cliffside.
They were suspended.
Raymond hung completely in the air, while Gilbert strained to hold his loosening grip.
His teeth clenched against ragged breaths, blood spilling from his mouth.
Though he fought the urge to cough, a burning sensation spread through his insides, slowly numbing his limbs.
"Grab the ledge… quickly… I don't think I can hold on much longer!"
His voice was hoarse and heavy, each word tearing through his throat.
Hot droplets of blood escaped his lips—one landing against Raymond's cheek.
Raymond's eyes widened in horror at Gilbert's condition, his limbs trembling as shock drained the color from his face.
(What is this? Is he injured? Why is he coughing up so much blood?)
Despite the shock, Raymond forced himself to focus. He reached out, gripping the rocks beside him, easing the strain on Gilbert's arm—if only slightly.
But time was against them.
Gilbert's body was failing. His vision wavered, and the blood he had lost turned his face ashen.
Then—
His hand slipped from the branch.
Raymond screamed, trying to hold on, but their combined weight was too much.
Balance broke.
Both of them fell together, plunging into a dense canopy of trees below the cliff—hidden from all sight.
As for Arthur and Leo, they witnessed the scene with pale faces before bolting through the forest to alert the instructor, uncertain whether those who fell were still alive… or already dead.