Introductory Speech

Riiiiing. Riiiiing. Riiiiing. Riii—slam.

Eden's hand came down on the alarm, cutting off the noise in an instant. The room fell silent once more, save for the soft rustling of leaves outside his window.

The first golden rays of sunlight crept over the distant mountains, spilling over the academy and bathing the dorms in a quiet glow. A sliver of light pierced through the window, falling across Eden's bare torso, highlighting the contours of his lean, toned body. His muscles, though not bulky, were sculpted by discipline and necessity—each one a testament to his relentless training.

A gentle morning breeze drifted in through the open window, carrying with it the crisp scent of fresh dew. It rolled over his skin, cool and refreshing, a quiet contrast to the warmth of the rising sun.

Eden blinked, then, realization struck.

His eyes were open.

With a sharp inhale, he quickly shut them, schooling his expression before shifting his focus toward the other side of the room. His mana perception flared, locking onto Nyxen. The steady rise and fall of his chest told Eden everything he needed to know—his roommate was still deep in sleep.

Silently, he reached for his blindfold. A small pulse of mana, and the fabric reacted instantly, coiling around his eyes and fastening itself snugly.

He moved fluidly, slipping into light training clothes before grabbing his practice sword. Without a sound, he stepped out into the morning air, leaving the dorm behind as he made his way toward a hidden clearing among the trees.

Eden arrived at a training spot—a secluded clearing nestled deep within the trees near the dorms. A perfect place to start the day.

Even now, at the academy, he refused to stray from the discipline that had shaped him.

He began as always, grounding himself with controlled breathing, syncing each inhale and exhale with the steady flow of mana. His circuits warmed, his body falling into rhythm.

Then came the sword drills. Every motion was sharp, precise—effortless efficiency honed through relentless repetition. His training sword felt like an extension of himself, each strike calculated, his perception attuned to his surroundings, ever watchful for unseen eyes.

Finally, he turned inward.

Aether.

Unlike mana, it pulsed unpredictably, expanding and retracting as though alive. Control remained elusive. He could circulate it, feel its influence strengthening his body, sharpening his mind—but wielding it was another matter. For now, it remained a silent force, enhancing him in ways subtle yet undeniably present.

A thin sheen of sweat clung to his skin as he finished, his breath steady. The Aether within him dimmed, retreating into dormancy.

Rolling his shoulders, he sheathed his practice sword and made his way back to the dorm.

The walk back to the dorm was peaceful, the faint hum of early morning activity growing as more students began to stir. A gentle breeze drifted through the trees, carrying with it the scent of freshly cut grass. 

By the time he reached his room, the stillness had fully given way to the academy's morning bustle. He pushed open the door to find Nyxen already awake, buttoning up his uniform. His hair was still damp from a shower, and he glanced up as Eden entered.

"Ah, you're back," Nyxen noted, running a hand through his still-messy hair. "What time did you even wake up?"

Eden shrugged, grabbing a towel. "Early."

Nyxen smirked. "Figures."

Eden didn't reply, stepping into the bathroom for a quick shower. The hot water washed away the last remnants of fatigue, loosening any lingering tension in his muscles. When he emerged, Nyxen was already leaning by the door, arms crossed.

"You ready?" he asked.

Eden gave a small nod. And with that, they left.

The academy was now fully awake. The once-quiet paths were filled with students heading in different directions, voices blending into a constant murmur of conversation. Some were excited, some anxious. It was the first official day, after all.

As they walked, Nyxen took the opportunity to observe their surroundings. The scale of the academy was unlike anything he had ever seen before—massive courtyards, towering buildings, and countless Awakened moving about, each one carrying an air of determination. This was where the best of the best were trained, where the future elites of the world were forged.

And he was part of it.

He glanced at Eden, who, as usual, walked with the same measured pace, seemingly unaffected by the bustling energy around them. It was still bizarre how effortlessly he moved despite his blindness.

Soon enough, the towering structure of the Main Auditorium came into view. A massive, modern hall designed to hold thousands, its sleek design exuded both elegance and authority.

By the time they arrived, a large crowd had already gathered, students filing in from different entrances, each wearing the academy's pristine black-and-gold uniform. The low hum of conversations filled the air—introductions, speculation, hushed excitement about what lay ahead.

The two navigated through the crowd until they spotted a familiar figure.

Raella Saint stood near the entrance, waiting with an air of quiet confidence. Even among a sea of students, she stood out—her presence demanding attention without even trying. Her golden eyes flicked toward them as they approached.

"Right on time," she noted with a smirk.

The rest of their group was already gathered nearby—Ceris standing off to the side, arms crossed, gaze distant. Seraphine looked more relaxed, offering a slight nod and smile as they arrived. Idris, unsurprisingly, stood with his usual self-assured stance, scanning the crowd as if measuring his competition.

Raella motioned for them to follow. "Come on, let's grab our seats."

The group moved together toward the front rows, where a section had been reserved for the Chosen Disciples. As they sat, the murmurs around them shifted—eyes glancing their way, whispers passing between students who had yet to fully understand what it meant to be among the chosen.

Eden ignored it.

He simply leaned back slightly, adjusting his posture as he settled in.

The principals speech would start soon.

The massive auditorium buzzed with anticipation. A thousand students sat shoulder to shoulder, their excitement palpable, their whispers rippling through the hall like an untamed current. The air itself felt charged, thick with the weight of expectation.

Then—

A single footstep.

A presence unlike any other descended upon the room.

The moment Alistair Veldrin stepped onto the stage, the entire auditorium fell silent.

It wasn't a forced silence. It wasn't commanded. It was instinctual.

His very existence demanded attention.

His figure was imposing—tall and broad, every inch of him carved from discipline and dominance. His dark hair, streaked with silver, gave him the air of a seasoned warlord, while his crimson eyes burned like embers, scanning the crowd with an unreadable intensity. Power radiated from him—not just in mana, but in sheer presence.

When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of a storm—deep, slow, and resonant, filling every inch of the auditorium without need for amplification.

"Look around you."

A pause.

"Thousands of you have gathered here today, each carrying a name, a legacy, or perhaps nothing at all. Some of you were born into greatness, others clawed your way up from nothing. Some of you believe yourselves strong, while others tremble at the mere thought of failure."

His piercing gaze swept over the students, watching their reactions—watching who held his stare and who averted their eyes.

"But let me tell you something. Strength does not care for your bloodline. Power does not respect your past. And the enemies outside these walls will not ask who your parents were before they rip the life from your body."

The room felt colder. The energy shifted, an unspoken weight pressing against every chest.

"You stand here today at the entrance of the greatest Awakening Academy in the world. But do not mistake this for a place of safety. This academy does not exist to protect you. It exists to break you. To shatter your limits, to forge you into something far beyond the weak creatures who walked through those gates."

His crimson eyes gleamed as he took another step forward, the floor beneath him almost humming from the weight of his mana.

"Outside these walls, the world is cruel. The weak are devoured. The hesitant are forgotten. And the foolish?"

A small smirk ghosted his lips.

"The foolish are the first to die."

He let those words linger, suffocating the room with their stark reality. Some students clenched their fists. Others swallowed hard.

"But that is why you are here. That is why you chose this place."

His voice shifted, slow and deliberate, yet carrying a quiet intensity that sent chills down the spine.

"You did not come here to be ordinary. You did not come here to be another nameless soldier in the war against oblivion. No."

"You came here to become monsters."

The words hit the audience like a thunderclap.

A shudder rippled through the crowd. Some eyes widened. Some students leaned forward, drawn into the sheer gravity of his speech.

"A monster is not shackled by weakness. A monster is not bound by rules. A monster does not bow."

"And yet, even among monsters—only a few will reign at the top."

He raised his chin slightly, his gaze sweeping over the front rows where the Chosen Disciples sat.

"Some of you believe you will stand among them. Some of you already think you are unstoppable. But let me be very clear—your strength is nothing."

"Not yet."

The weight of his mana pulsed for a split second, thick, suffocating, crushing. It vanished just as quickly, but the message was clear—this was the gap between them and a true powerhouse.

His smirk returned, this time laced with something dangerous.

"For the next three years, you will fight, you will struggle, and many of you will break. Some of you will crawl your way to greatness. Some of you will vanish, forgotten in the dust of those stronger than you."

"And a select few?"

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"A select few will leave this place as true kings and queens of war."

"That choice is yours."

He turned slightly, as if to leave, but then paused—one last sentence left lingering on his lips.

"Prove to me that you deserve to stand in this place. Prove to the world that you were born for something greater."

With that, Alistair Veldrin stepped away from the podium.

Silence.

Then—

A thunderous roar of applause. Some clapped in awe, others in sheer, electrified terror. The weight of his words still hung in the air, settling deep into the bones of every student in the room.

The speech had been concise, direct—yet it left an impact that would linger far beyond this day. After all, it wasn't every day that one received words of encouragement from a being ranked among the top ten strongest in the world.

Alistair Veldrin's presence alone had been enough to suffocate the unprepared. His voice had cut through the room like a blade, his crimson gaze weighing on them like an unspoken challenge.

Some would rise to meet it.

Others would break beneath it.

But the message was clear.

Their first day had begun.

As the applause gradually settled, a woman stepped onto the stage—poised, professional, her pristine uniform marked with the insignia of the academy's administrative board.

She adjusted the microphone, then spoke with crisp authority.

"Now that the Principal's speech has concluded, let us move on to the next order of business—introducing the Chosen Ones of your generation."

A ripple of excitement spread through the auditorium, murmurs rising as students straightened in their seats, some craning their necks to get a better look.

The Chosen Ones.

The title alone carried weight. They were the prodigies, the elites—the ones expected to surpass all others. And now, one by one, they would be presented to the academy.

"First, let us welcome the Chosen Disciples of Class 1..."

Her voice rang out across the hall.

"Please welcome Head Professor Raella Saint and her disciples!"

A wave of cheers erupted, the excitement in the air almost palpable. Some clapped in admiration, others in barely concealed envy. 

Raella Saint stood at the forefront of the stage, an effortless smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. With the grace of someone completely at ease under the weight of hundreds of stares, she motioned for her disciples to follow.

The five walked in unison, each carrying themselves in their own way.

Idris strode forward with unshaken confidence, his expression unreadable, yet his presence unmistakable—he walked like he belonged there. Ceris, ever composed, stared ahead with little interest, letting out a quiet yawn as if the occasion was nothing more than a formality. Seraphine held herself with an elegant, unhurried grace, offering small nods as if acknowledging the silent admiration in the crowd. Nyxen, on the other hand, practically glowed with excitement, barely containing the grin tugging at his lips.

And then there was Eden.

Silent and unassuming, yet he was among them.

He felt the weight of countless eyes on them, the murmurs rippling through the crowd.

"That's them?"

"I heard the Sinclair heiress is in this group!"

"That guy with the gold sash—that's Idris, right? From that family?"

"But why is the blindfolded one up there?"

A few quiet gasps and hushed exchanges followed as students took in the sight of the first Chosen Ones. These five were supposed to be the most promising of their generation—the ones expected to rise above the rest. Looking at them, there was no doubt that they exuded something untamed, something sharp. Like young tigers yet to grow into their full power.

But there was a discrepancy.

Among the five, one figure stood out—not for his strength, but for his lack of presence.

A slim but toned boy with short black hair and a blindfold covering his eyes.

Compared to the others, his presence was nearly nonexistent. The contrast was glaring—standing beside prodigies like Ceris, Idris, and Nyxen only made his apparent weakness all the more visible.

Nyxen's excitement faltered slightly, his gaze flickering toward Eden as the whispers turned into speculation.

"Who is that?"

"Is he really supposed to be up there?"

"A blindfold? He must be handicapped—how did he even get chosen?"

The doubts spread like wildfire.

Eden, as always, remained unreadable. The whispers, the judgment, the questioning gazes—it was all white noise. If they wished to doubt him, let them. Their opinions did not concern him.

At the podium, the administrator stepped forward, addressing the audience.

"These five students have been personally chosen by Head Professor Raella Saint," she announced, her voice carrying through the auditorium. "They are expected to reach the highest peaks of strength in their generation—to become warriors, leaders, and the protectors of humanity's future."

Then Raella stepped forward, her sharp golden gaze sweeping across the sea of students.

"I expect great things from these five," she said, her voice effortlessly commanding.

"And so should you."

No further words. No unnecessary flourishes.

With a light bow, the five stepped back, making way for the next group to be called.

"…Please welcome the professor of Class 2, Rorik Earthborn, and his chosen disciples!"

And so, one by one, the remaining groups were called to the stage. Each professor stepped forward, presenting their five carefully selected students—elite among elites, the ones deemed to have the greatest potential in their generation.

Each group carried an undeniable air of strength, their presence commanding the attention of the entire auditorium. From prodigies with prestigious lineages to mysterious outliers with unknown depths, the ten cohorts stood as proof of the academy's standards—only the best had been chosen.

With a final bow from all the Chosen Ones, the ceremony came to an end.

The crowd's murmurs filled the space once more as students whispered amongst themselves, already assessing their competition. Expectations had been set, rivalries had begun to form, and the first seeds of ambition were taking root.

And with that, the students dispersed, returning to their dorms to prepare for what lay ahead.

In one hour, the real challenge would begin—the first class of the semester.