Who Is She?

Dinner came to an end as the dining hall gradually emptied, the once noisy space now settling into quiet murmurs and the occasional clatter of trays. Elias stood from the table along with the others, still trying to process everything that had happened.

"Heading to your room?" Kaelrix asked, walking beside him.

Elias gave a small nod. "Yeah."

"Ours is right next to yours." Slain chimed in cheerfully. "Let's go together."

Elias tilted his head slightly. "You two are roommates?"

"Yes." Slain said with a proud grin. "There are two other guys in the room too. They don't talk much, but they're cool. We'll introduce you to them tomorrow."

"Uh… sure. Sounds good." Elias replied, though the idea of meeting more new people made his stomach flutter with unease.

"Well then, I'll leave you guys here." Serelith spoke up, brushing her golden hair behind her shoulder. "I have to go to my room."

She gave them a soft wave and walked off down the hall, her presence lingering even after she disappeared around the corner.

Slain turned to Elias, still full of energy. "We've been given three days off to prepare for the trial, so we should use them wisely. Let's do our best."

Kaelrix nodded in agreement. "No slacking."

As they walked down the corridor together, Kaelrix glanced at Elias curiously.

"So… what are you best at? Mana? Martial? Or both?"

Elias inwardly winced.

Who's gonna tell him? Me, obviously. I suck at both, dude.

He gave a faint laugh. "Well… I'm not really good at either, to be honest."

There was a short pause.

"Oh, you're just being humble." Kaelrix said with a casual wave of his hand.

"Yeah, don't downplay yourself." Slain added, clearly unconvinced.

"Am I?" Elias chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm not so sure."

They reached the end of the hallway where the dorm rooms were lined up. Warm lantern lights flickered on the walls, casting a soft golden glow. Elias stopped outside his room, while Slain and Kaelrix headed toward the door beside his.

"See you tomorrow morning!" Slain said with a wave before the door shut behind them.

Elias stood alone for a moment, staring at his door.

Friends. A team. People who actually want to talk to me.

He wasn't sure what had changed, or why it was happening now—but part of him didn't want to question it. Not yet.

He pushed open the door to his room and stepped inside, the quiet hum of the hallway fading behind him as the door clicked shut. The lights inside were dim, casting a soft golden hue across the walls. The room was just as he had left it—neat, quiet, and cold in its silence.

Except for one thing.

Dante was already there, sitting on his bed, a book open in his hands. His back rested against the headboard, legs casually crossed, eyes skimming the pages with practiced ease. He didn't look up immediately, but Elias could feel the shift in the air the moment he entered.

Elias walked quietly to his own bed and sat down with a sigh, trying not to think too much. His gaze drifted for a moment—only to meet Dante's.

Those sharp, grey eyes were on him now.

"What?" Elias asked, brows furrowing.

Dante didn't answer right away. He closed the book with a soft snap and set it aside on the nightstand, leaning forward slightly.

"Just wondering something." he said at last, his voice calm but heavy with implication.

Elias tilted his head. "About?"

Dante stood from his bed, slow and deliberate, every movement measured. His footsteps echoed slightly on the wooden floor as he approached.

"You." he said simply.

Elias stood up as well, instinctively, the tension curling in his shoulders. Their eyes locked, the space between them small and charged with something unsaid.

"Huh? What about me?" Elias asked, though he already felt the hostility beneath Dante's words.

Dante's lips curled into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm wondering if you're planning to do what you always do." he said smoothly.

"Which is?"

Dante's voice dropped, colder now.

"Tell your daddy dearest to put you in the tournament without any effort. Just like last time."

Elias blinked. The words hit like a slap—not for their truth, but because of how confidently Dante said them. The accusation.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Last time? The memory was hazy. Did that actually happen? Or was it just another twisted part of this world rewriting itself now that he was living inside it?

"Is that really what you think?" Elias asked, his voice quieter, more controlled.

Dante leaned in slightly, his glare unwavering. "I don't think. I know. Privilege follows you like a shadow, Astiars. You wear it like a second skin."

Elias didn't respond at first. Not because he didn't have anything to say—but because the weight of being judged for something he didn't even fully understand yet felt heavier than it should.

"We'll see." Elias finally said, stepping back toward his bed, his voice low. "If I get in, it'll be because I earned it."

Dante watched him for a beat longer, then gave a scoff and returned to his own bed without another word.

The room fell into silence once again, but the tension lingered—thick and sour in the air.

Elias lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

"I have three days. And I'm already being treated like the enemy."

Elias lay still in the dark, the thought echoing in his mind like a slow, rhythmic drum.

"Then maybe it's time I become someone worth fearing."

The dormitory was quiet, but not silent. The faint creak of the door opening stirred the shadows on the wall. Zaden, Ashton, and Nantos stepped in, their uniforms slightly rumpled, hair damp with sweat—clear signs of intense late-night training. They whispered among themselves, their laughter low and edged with fatigue, before settling into their beds.

The Academy had permitted students to train at any hour—except after midnight. A strange rule, but one that was strictly enforced.

Dante was already asleep, his breathing even and shallow.

But Elias wasn't. Not really.

He lay on his side, eyes closed, body still—pretending. His mind, however, was anything but at rest. It twisted and spiraled, tangled in knots of anxiety, frustration, and a weightless kind of dread. Every word Dante had said earlier still stung like salt in an open wound.

Even when the rest of the room went silent and steady with sleep, Elias remained awake.

Staring at the backs of his eyelids. Listening to the stillness. Letting the pressure build in his chest.

It wasn't until the exhaustion weighed too heavy that his eyes finally closed for real, dragging him down into the world that waited beneath consciousness.

---

The dream didn't begin gently.

It slammed into him.

"Because of you, she's dead!"

The voice cracked like thunder in his ear—familiar, furious, and full of betrayal.

Elias staggered back, his breath caught in his throat. Dante stood inches from him, eyes blazing with fury, his face twisted in a way Elias had never seen before—not in real life. Not this raw.

Elias's hands instinctively rose, pushing Dante away from him.

"Do you think I give a damn about her?" he snapped, words spilling from his mouth before he could stop them.

His voice was sharp, cold—one he didn't recognize as his own.

"I don't care if she's dead. She wasn't useful to me even when alive!"

The moment the words left his mouth, silence fell. Not peaceful silence—dead silence.

Dante's expression crumbled from rage to something deeper.

Disgust.

Hurt.

Finality.

"You've done it, Eliasm" he whispered, voice like ash.

"You don't deserve to live."

And then it happened.

Without warning, the scene shattered like glass—light and space twisting—and Dante's blade sliced through the air.

Elias barely saw it.

One moment, Dante stood still. The next, steel flashed in the air, singing its cruel promise. It cut clean across Elias's chest.

He gasped, staggering backward, eyes wide as blood bloomed across his shirt, hot and sticky. The pain didn't feel like a dream—it felt real. Too real.

He fell to his knees, vision flickering. And just before everything faded—

He saw her.

A figure at the edge of the dream, half-lit and half-forgotten. A girl. A face he couldn't quite see and recognize, but one his heart seemed to remember.

And then—

Darkness.

Elias shot up in bed, a strangled breath ripping from his lungs. His chest heaved. His skin was damp with sweat, heart pounding like a war drum inside his ribcage.

The room was dark and still. Everyone else still asleep. No blood. No sword. No Dante looming over him.

Just a dream.

But the echo of it clung to him like a shadow.

Who was she?

And why did he feel like the dream hadn't come from his imagination—but from something buried?