Renard walked through the outer gate of Veilspire Academy just before sunrise, alone, cloak hooded and boots still damp from the forest. The guards at the post barely looked up. A baron's son out too early for training? Not unusual. Not important.
He passed through the stone archway, down the old corridors where the torchlight flickered against weathered banners and polished shields. The Academy was waking. Bells rang distantly. Servants carried crates of bread to the hall kitchens. Disciples of noble houses emerged from their dorms, yawning and adjusting their belts.
Renard kept walking, silent and unnoticed.
No one knew that three hours ago, he'd buried seven corpses in the woods.
[Phantom Unit – Status: Concealed]All members accounted forMorale: TenseCommander Loyalty: 78%
Commander Skill Progression: 22% to Rank II
He closed the window with a flick of thought. The system kept its voice low—like a whisper only he could hear. That was good. If anyone ever saw his real interface, the Academy wouldn't even hold a trial.
They'd just kill him.
The mess hall was busy by the time he entered. Renard didn't sit with anyone.
He never did.
He took his tray—dry bread, half-warm stew, an apple—and sat in the far back near a dusty pillar. The same spot he always used. It kept him in the shadows.
He chewed slowly, eyes lowered, listening.
Whispers fluttered from nearby tables like leaves in the wind.
"Did you hear? Bandits slaughtered near the Spine.""A whole camp. No survivors. They say it was surgical.""Crimson Wolves deny it. Said it wasn't them.""Mages from Orleia, maybe?"
A few noble boys with polished boots and clipped accents leaned close, excited by the rumor. They imagined heroes behind it. Named mercenaries. Glory-hunters. Someone impressive.
Not a disgraced baron's son with dirt under his nails and forbidden blood on his blade.
No one looked at Renard.
That was exactly what he needed.
After breakfast, he returned to the training yard—not the broken ruins where he drilled his unit, but the public one, polished and proper.
He went through the motions. Sword forms. Footwork. His stance was still too high. His strikes, too tight. Instructors barely spared him a glance. The system wasn't helping, either.
[Swordsmanship: F-Class – 6% Progress to F+]Improvement: Marginal
Still a joke.
Still a failure.
Perfect.
Later that afternoon, Renard walked the outer halls of the academy, past stone-carved heroes and embroidered flags of old campaigns. The tower windows let in pale sunlight, broken by stained glass murals of past warlords, champions, and duelists.
Every single one of them wore a sword at their hip and pride on their face.
None of them commanded from the shadows.
He paused at the central tapestry—Warlord-King Albrecht Varion IV, crimson fang on gold, holding a spear aloft over a fallen demon.
People bowed before that symbol.
Renard narrowed his eyes. One day, they'll bow to mine.
"Didn't expect to find a ghost haunting the war halls."
The voice came from behind, smooth and confident.
Renard turned to see Rodric Faelin, third son of Viscount Faelin and Academy darling, approaching with a half-smile.
His academy coat bore silver pins—dueling distinction, riding rank, bloodline pedigree. His blonde hair was tied back perfectly.
"I thought you were too busy eating dirt in the dueling pits," Rodric added.
Renard didn't answer. Just turned back toward the window.
Rodric joined him, uninvited.
"Strange, isn't it? The rumors about the Spine. Seven dead. Not one survivor. Clean kills. Almost like… coordinated strikes." He glanced at Renard sideways. "But that can't be you, can it? You're not even qualified to train squires."
Renard kept his voice even. "Maybe it was just luck."
Rodric smiled. "Or maybe someone's playing with knives they shouldn't touch."
A beat of silence.
Rodric's tone darkened, just slightly.
"Watch your steps, Valtierre. Low-borns pretending to be tacticians usually trip over their own lies."
And then he walked away.
That evening, Renard made his way toward the old east yard—the forgotten ruins where broken towers leaned and cracked stone tiles hadn't been walked by nobles in years.
This was where the Phantom Unit waited.
Not inside the walls. Not in the light.
Hidden, like they had to be.
Elric sat on a toppled column, tossing a coin into the air.
"Nice of you to visit, commander," he said. "Was starting to think you'd ghosted us for real."
"Don't say that word," Maera muttered. She stood with arms crossed, her hood pulled low. She hadn't looked Renard in the eyes once.
Tarn leaned against the far wall, as silent as always.
Renard didn't say anything at first. He let the silence settle.
"I was seen," he said finally. "Not doing anything. But Faelin's suspicious."
"He going to talk?" Elric asked.
"He doesn't have proof."
"Yet."
Maera stepped forward. "What happens when he gets it?"
"Then we disappear," Renard said.
Maera stared at him. "Disappear?"
"We don't exist. Not to the Academy. Not to the court. The moment that changes, we're enemies of the crown."
Tarn finally spoke. "Then we stay hidden. For now."
Elric flicked his coin again. "Can't hide forever."
"No," Renard agreed. "But we can choose when to strike."
That night, back in his personal quarters—a plain cell of stone with a desk, a cot, and a cracked window—Renard opened his journal and began writing again.
Doctrine Entry – Phase I:A commander must never outshine his own army. Let the world see the blade, not the hand that guides it.
Phantom warfare succeeds not through strength—but silence.
Identity is a liability. Legacy is earned in shadow.
He stopped.
Then slowly added, beneath it:
I don't want to become a killer. But I'll become what I must.
[Doctrine Entry Saved]Perk Progression: 8% to "Doctrine Architect"
Upcoming Threat: Suspicion Tracking [Low] – Target: Rodric Faelin
Renard leaned back in the chair, eyes to the ceiling.
The Academy thought it knew war.
But it had never seen one like him.
Not yet.