The news of Leonhart Margrave's death swept through the academy like wildfire, cloaked in whispers and tension. Officials reported a monster ambush during a training detour—a tragic accident. But beneath the veil of polite condolences, suspicions simmered.
No one voiced them louder than Duke Reinhardt Margrave, Leonhart's father.
---
Inside the great marble hall of House Margrave, the coffin rested beneath a cascade of silver roses—noble funeral flowers. Reinhardt stood over it in full military regalia, the sharp lines of his uniform as rigid as the man himself. His eyes did not water. His jaw did not loosen. He stared not at the coffin, but at the weapon laid atop it: Leonhart's beloved sword, split cleanly down the middle.
No claw marks. No burns. No warping from elemental force.
Just a single, decisive cut.
"Monsters don't fight with elegance," Reinhardt murmured, his voice rough like cracked stone. "They don't duel. They devour."
Behind him, the nobles murmured condolences. None dared approach.
He turned away and barked an order to his personal aide.
"Dispatch our shadow unit. I want every trace of that night investigated. Leave no stone unturned. I want the truth. Not this farce."
---
Back at the academy...
Rael stood at the grave, dressed in mourning black, holding a bouquet of white lilies. The wind ruffled his hair as he bowed his head solemnly. Students gathered behind him, whispering in awe.
"He came even though Leonhart bullied him…"
"He's too kind…"
"He's… incredible."
Rael's hand trembled as he placed the lilies down, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. A perfect act. Not even the most seasoned illusionist could mimic sorrow with such subtlety.
But inside—there was only silence. Cold, calculated silence.
He remembered the final moments vividly.
---
That night…
Leonhart gasped for breath in the darkness of the forest clearing. His legs were broken—Rael made sure of it. The noble boy could neither run nor scream. His blade was already shattered by a feint slash that struck the handle with precise force.
"You should've stayed quiet," Rael said softly, his face still and unreadable. "You talk too much. Insulting a monster is one thing. Mocking the mask it wears? That's suicide."
Leonhart spat blood, trying to curse, but Rael raised his sword.
With brutal efficiency, he began simulating the scene of a monster attack—one slash across the cheek, ragged and claw-like. Another to the ribs, imitating the jagged bite of a beast. He dislocated the arms, fractured bones with targeted pulses of mana, and used illusion magic to coat the battlefield in false tracks—claw marks in the dirt, splashes of blood on the trees.
Finally, he stabbed the corpse in a frenzied, uneven pattern. It had to look wild. Chaotic.
When he was done, he cast a black mist over the area, a darkness enchantment meant to delay detection for a full day.
He stood over the body as his spell solidified, the moonlight glinting off his blade.
"Sleep well, Leonhart."
---
Back in the present…
Rael's tears were gone now. He turned slowly from the grave, every step calculated for dramatic effect. Students parted for him with reverence.
---
That afternoon, the Sword Circle Initiation was held—an elite tradition reserved for the top-ranked students. Three would be chosen for a rare honor: entry into the Sword Library.
A vast, ancient vault of forbidden techniques, blood-bound manuals, and the secrets of legendary warriors long dead.
Rael was the first name called.
---
Inside the Sword Library…
He passed beneath golden arches carved with scripture, into a hall filled with glowing manuscripts. Scrolls floated midair, guarded by runes that reacted to the reader's intent.
Other students might panic, unsure of what to choose. But Rael?
He simply touched the scrolls.
One by one, like flipping through childhood memories.
His photographic memory roared to life.
Ten books. Fifty. One hundred. Three hundred. Four hundred. Four hundred eighty-seven. Five hundred.
He absorbed centuries of swordsmanship in a single sitting: Elven edge-dancing, Dwarven ruin-breakers, cursed bloodfang styles from outlawed cults, royal dueling manuals sealed by the empire.
At the ninth hour, a final book caught his attention.
A sealed obsidian volume, marked only by crimson script.
"Bloodshade: The Final Dance"
He reached for it.
Then stopped.
"Not yet."
He whispered to the book and turned away.
"The world must still believe I'm the angel among them."
---
Outside the library…
Eris waited beneath the academy's sacred tree, her arms crossed—though more out of nervousness than irritation. When Rael emerged, drenched in sweat and eyes alight with power, her expression faltered.
"You look like you fought a hundred battles," she said, trying to sound casual.
Rael offered a tired smile. "I only read books."
For the first time, Eris looked away, her cheeks pink. "I… I'm glad you're okay. I was worried."
Rael tilted his head, angelic in the golden sunlight. "Thank you, Eris. That means a lot to me."
And it did. Because her affection was useful.
Very useful.
In her, Rael saw a pawn wrapped in nobility, a sword with a heartbeat, and possibly... someone who could vouch for him when the blood started flowing.
---
Later that night…
Rael sat in his dormitory. Floating around him were maps of the academy, files on nobles, dirt he had collected on teachers and student leaders. The web was growing.
Each secret, each favor owed, each weakness catalogued.
Rael, the soft-spoken genius.
The humble prodigy.
The angel in white.
And the devil beneath the mask.