Class of Knights

Ray stood before the mirror in his dorm, adjusting the knot of his tie with meticulous precision. The suit clung perfectly to his lean frame—sharp black pants, a crisp white shirt, dark vest, and a deep blue tie tucked under a fitted blazer lined with silver thread. The Royal Spirit Academy's dress code was strict, and its students were expected to uphold its legacy through every detail of their appearance. Even if Ray cared little about appearances now, he wasn't going to give anyone an excuse to question him.

The uniform reminded him of the old days—back when he wore government-issued clothes at the Imperial Administrative College. Polished shoes, neutral ties, dull speeches. But today, the clean folds of his suit didn't feel like a cage. They felt like armor. A symbol of his new path.

He stepped out into the corridor of the dormitory wing, already bustling with students. Laughter, chatter, the scent of perfumed colognes and fresh parchment mixed in the air. Some students looked nervous, others thrilled. Most carried swords strapped to their hips or held staffs with embedded spirit stones—tokens of their chosen path.

Ray's boots echoed against the marble floor as he walked. The halls were grand, their walls etched with brass and silver patterns of swirling spirit energy, and large banners hanging down with the crest of the Empire: a sword pierced through a radiant sun.

He didn't walk fast. He observed.

A few students whispered as he passed. Some with curiosity. Some with awe. He had expected that. News of his A-grade awakening had already spread across the academy.

As he turned a corner, he caught sight of a group of second-years laughing near the sparring courtyard. Their uniforms carried insignias denoting their knight ranks—Bronze, Silver, and even a rare Gold. Ray's eyes lingered for only a second. He wasn't intimidated. Only interested.

He reached the classroom labeled: "Spirit Knight Fundamentals – Instructor Heron."

It was a large, open hall styled like a lecture arena. Polished wooden floors, circular rows of stone benches rising upward, and a wide central floor where demonstrations would be performed. The space buzzed with energy.

He stepped in.

A few heads turned instantly. One boy elbowed his friend. "That's him—Ray Illustrious."

Ray ignored the stares and took a seat near the center, not too far back, not too close to the front. Close enough to be involved, far enough to watch.

More students trickled in, and then—

"Is this seat taken?" came a voice from beside him.

Ray looked up.

A tall, dark-haired student stood there with a bright smile and sun-tanned skin. He looked more like a noble's son raised on the training grounds than in a palace. Broad shoulders, confident posture. A longsword rested on his belt.

"No," Ray said simply.

The boy sat down with a sigh of relief. "Thanks. Name's Darian Thorne. House Thorne. We're not one of the big names like Calden or Velorne, but we're trying."

Ray raised an eyebrow. "You're honest."

Darian chuckled. "I figured there'd be no point putting on airs with you."

"And why's that?"

"Because you've already got the room watching," Darian said, nodding toward the others. "A-grade, four affinities, Emperor's son. That kind of thing draws attention."

Ray gave a noncommittal hum.

Darian tilted his head. "You don't talk much, huh?"

"Only when it's needed."

Darian grinned. "Fair enough. You're interesting, Illustrious."

Before Ray could respond, the classroom door creaked open again.

Instructor Heron entered.

A tall man with a hawk-like face and salt-and-pepper hair, Heron wore a long navy coat trimmed with golden lining. His eyes swept the room like a soldier inspecting a battlefield.

"Seats. Silence," he barked.

The room immediately quieted.

Heron walked to the center of the arena, arms crossed behind his back. "I am Heron Dalmor, your instructor for the foundational course in Spirit Knight combat and principles. This class will separate dreamers from the worthy."

His gaze swept across the students.

"Spirit Knights are not thugs with swords. You will learn form. Control. Spirit energy manipulation. How to sync with your contracted beast and wield your weapon as an extension of your will."

He let the silence settle, then gestured behind him.

A young assistant rolled in a rack filled with training swords of varying sizes and shapes. Wooden practice weapons for today.

Heron continued, "Each of you will stand, introduce yourself, and declare your weapon of preference."

One by one, the students obeyed.

Swords. Spears. Sabers. Axes. A few even chose dual-wielding styles.

When Ray's turn came, he stood slowly.

"Ray Illustrious. Longsword."

Heron gave a short nod.

Ray sat down again.

Darian elbowed him. "Good choice. Classic."

The rest of the class passed quickly—Heron gave a brief demonstration of basic spirit channeling through the sword. Most students could barely produce a spark.

Ray, when asked to try, called forth a glimmer of blue lightning along the edge of the blade. A few students gaped.

"Interesting," Heron said, his voice unreadable. "Sit."

"From this day, you'll be trained in swordsmanship, spirit channeling, footwork, beast combat, and formation tactics. You will be broken down and rebuilt into warriors. Those who cannot keep up—will be dropped."

A few students gulped audibly.

"You have a month to show potential," Heron continued. "After that, evaluations begin."

Heron's dark gaze landed on Ray.

"You've all heard of Prince Ray. He awakened A-grade. Four affinities. But make no mistake—if he cannot lift his sword in real combat, he'll be left behind like any other."

Some students looked surprised. Others amused.

Ray's lips curved slightly.

He's trying to challenge me? That's fine. I need the pressure.

"Now. Pair up. I want to see your current level."

Students shuffled. Nobles glanced at each other, unsure who to pick. No one dared approach Ray.

Except one.

"I'll spar with you," a voice said from the side.

Ray turned and narrowed his gaze.

Travis.

A commoner.

A nobody in the eyes of these nobles.

But in Ray's previous life… he had become one of the Empire's greatest knights. A war hero who led vanguard units in the Northern Campaigns and brought down dozens of beasts and enemy generals with nothing but his grit and blade. It had taken him years to rise through the ranks. He had died on the battlefield defending the Empire while those who mocked him lived in comfort.

Ray hadn't forgotten.

Travis stood there, arms crossed, a faint smile on his face.

No arrogance. Just calm confidence.

Heron raised a brow. "Name?"

"Travis Hale. Scholarship student."

Ray stood from his bench and nodded. "I accept."

The others backed away, whispering.

"A commoner versus the Prince?"

"This will be quick."

They stepped onto the sparring platform. Wooden practice swords were handed over.

Ray twirled his blade lightly, weighing it in his grip. Travis, too, checked his footing and narrowed his eyes.

"Begin," Heron said simply.

Travis moved first—fast, sharp footwork, not flashy but efficient.

He's unawakened, Ray thought, but his instincts are already strong.

Ray deflected the first strike easily but noted the weight behind it. Travis didn't waste motion. Ray countered, quick jabs meant to test, and Travis responded in kind.

The wooden swords clashed, sharp cracks ringing in the air.

Heron's eyes lit up with interest.

Travis landed a shallow strike on Ray's arm. Ray responded with a step forward and knocked Travis off balance slightly, then stepped back to avoid overcommitting.

The exchange lasted nearly two minutes before Heron raised a hand.

"Enough."

The room was silent.

"You two," Heron said, gaze flicking between them. "Far above the rest. I'll be watching closely."

Ray stepped down, passing Travis.

"Good instincts," he muttered quietly.

Travis blinked, surprised. "...You too."

It wasn't much.

But it was a start.

Back on the bench, Ray exhaled slowly. He didn't expect a challenge from someone unawakened.

But it was clear—Travis would rise again.

And this time, Ray would make sure he rose faster, stronger.

This life wasn't meant to repeat the old one.

By the time the class ended, Ray had made mental notes on at least a dozen students—how they moved, how they reacted, who showed confidence and who didn't.

As they filed out, Darian walked beside him.

"You've got real skill," Darian said. "Not just power. Control."

Ray didn't reply immediately.

Then he said, "There's no value in power if you can't control it."

Darian laughed. "Spoken like a knight already."

Ray looked ahead, silent again.

As they stepped out into the afternoon light, George was waiting near the courtyard's edge. The old butler stood in his usual crisp uniform, arms behind his back.

"You did well, Young Master," he said.

Ray looked to him. "Anything happen while I was inside?"

"Nothing suspicious," George replied. "Though several noble houses have started sending messengers."

"Already?"

"Word travels fast. And the Crown Prince's silence only adds fuel."

Ray narrowed his eyes.

It had begun—the slow game of politics, power, and positioning. The academy wasn't just a place of learning. It was the battlefield of the next generation.

Ray walked forward, feeling the sun warm against his skin.

He had taken his first step as a Spirit Knight of the Royal Spirit Academy.

But this was only the beginning.