The image shimmered Shinrei folding and snapping like a living thing every strike, every spark, every shattered cry played across the glass with cruel clarity. Master Isen's fingers drummed once against his knee. Lucere popped another kernel of popcorn into his mouth, eyes bright with mischief.

"A Dragon Knight… ahahahahahahahaha." Lucere's laugh rolled out, too loud, too easy. It filled the space like a challenge.

Isen's jaw tightened. He didn't laugh. He watched the battlefield with an intensity that made the light of the screen tremble. "Touch Khael and I will kill you for real, Lucere." His voice was flat, an ice-edged blade disguised in a quiet tone.

Lucere raised his hands in mock surrender, a grin still tipping his lips. "Whoah, so serious. I didn't think you'd get so… attached." He chewed, then tilted his head toward the shimmering image. "Who is he to you, Isen?"

Isen's eyes never left the courtyard where Khael fought like a myth given flesh. He felt the old, familiar weight settle in his chest, the ache that belonged to memory and the living. "You don't need to know." The words were more sand than steel, and Lucere's grin flickered at the corner.

Lucere's amusement didn't die; it warped into something colder, more curious. "Now that I think about it… he looks a lot like her." The name fell from his lips like a denouement. "Master Yuna—the Dragon Knight from our era."

Isen's expression shifted. For the first time since they had sat down, something like light left his face. He felt a ghosty hand press against his ribs: memory of a woman who laughed like wind, who had carried the weight of a world and still made room to tend its wounds. (Yuna.) The thought was a whisper that would not die.

Lucere watched Isen carefully, as if savoring the way the old man tightened around a single name. "Don't look at me like that," he said with a mock-shudder, "it gives me goosebumps." But his tone had softened, the jibe a blade wrapped in velvet. "You always did protect what you loved, Isen. It's very… human."

Isen's hand closed around the Sealed Spear at his side, a small, instinctive motion that carried more meaning than the room's dozen words. His voice was quiet—dangerous because of how calm it was. "I have kept worse promises than this."

Lucere's eyes glittered. For a breath he looked almost wistful, then the nostalgia folded back into his habitual coyness. "Promises are heavy things. Did you ever think one day they'd weigh you down enough to crush you?" He let the question hang there, not really asking. He was playing, prodding at old scars to see how they'd bleed.

On the screen, Khael rallied. His wings snapped wide like a flag in a storm; a dozen small hands reached for him and failed. Isen felt the pull of that raw moment teacher to student, parent to orphan, warrior to legend and it pulled something fierce and paternal up out of him.

(Keep him safe.) The thought was not spoken; it needed no voice. It sat between them like an order.

Lucere crushed the popcorn in his fist with a small, deliberate crunch. "I wonder," he said softly, "if a dragon knows it's a legend. Or if it only knows hunger." His eyes, for a blink, were unreadable pools hungry, amused, and very old.

Isen let out a breath that could have been a laugh or a prayer. "Then don't feed it," he said. "Whatever your designs are, Lucere, stay your hand. This ends badly for everyone if you don't."

Lucere leaned back, the chair creaking under him. "Bad ends are the most fun to watch," he murmured. The amusement in his voice was a scale too light to be harmless, too heavy to be entirely jest.

The screen burned on. Outside, the battle would decide nothing and everything. Inside the small room, two old ghosts argued in half-formed jokes and sharp cautions, the past and present entangled like twin threads.

"Do not touch him," Isen said again, quieter this time, and the words carried the echo of someone who had lost too much to risk even a heartbeat of wavering.

Lucere's smile thinned into something like respect brief, private. "Very well, Isen. I'll watch." He lifted the popcorn tin to his lips and took another bite, eyes never leaving the young dragon on the screen.

For a moment, they were only two men and a screen. But every quiet word was a pledge.

Every twitch of his spear and every kernel of popcorn felt like fate arranging itself around one small, stubborn life: Khael Corzedar, the boy who might be a legend reborn or a beacon that would burn them all.

Meanwhile The place was in ruins. Cracks webbed across the floor, pillars groaned as if the weight of the world pressed against them, and the air itself shimmered from the clash of powers.

Sloth stood in the center, their chains swaying like predatory serpents. Cuts laced their arms, dark bruises bloomed across their body, but every wound hissed and sealed with unnatural regeneration. Their voice was calm, but it carried the edge of disdain.

"How long… will this futile fight last?"

Blood dripped from Kurozawa's cheek. Zeke's chest heaved, flames flickering unevenly across his arms. Raiden's lightning sparked but came sluggish, his movements no longer sharp but weighted. Even veterans bled.

The rookies weren't better, Ceyla's healing light was dimming, Juno's knuckles were raw, and Baek Suwon clutched his ribs where a chain had almost caved him in. Khael, though standing tall, breathed in ragged bursts. His dragon aura still roared around him, but even that power trembled at the edges, straining to keep its form.

Ceyla's eyes flicked to the two boys at her side. "Khael…" she whispered, the plea in her voice trembling between faith and fear.

Juno clenched his fists tighter, glaring at Sloth with defiance that burned even through exhaustion. (I won't fall here. Not when he's still standing.)

Baek Suwon's voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp but tired. "Khael… at this rate…" His words faltered, the weight of reality choking him.

Khael's eyes burning, unyielding snapped to his comrades. His chest heaved, but his voice came out steady, iron under fire.

"At this rate… we win."

A silence fell. For a heartbeat, even Sloth tilted their head, curious.

And then another voice.

"We are here, Khael."

The air shifted. Every wounded student's eyes widened as figures emerged from the smoke.

Khael's lips curved into a rare, grim smile. "Took you long enough… Kaen. Shigeo."

From the dust stepped Kaen Suro, fire flickering wildly in his palms, his eyes brimming with stubborn flame. Beside him was Shigeo Motome, hands tucked in his pockets, expression unreadable but his presence solid.

Shigeo exhaled, his tone calm and detached.

"What a complicated world… I did what you said."

Khael's gaze softened, if only for a fleeting second.

"…Thank you."

Behind them, the reinforcements stood tall. Rael Eluron, blade gleaming. Lira Valenne, nature's aura spiraling gently around her. Saya Kurenai, her healing touch already glowing, her eyes sharp with resolve. Others followed, each battered but unbroken, ready to stand.

The battlefield's air shifted, where despair once lingered, resolve now roared.

Khael spread his wings, storm-fire blazing brighter than ever, his dragon-heart thundering like war drums. His gaze locked on Sloth, unflinching.

"Now…" he declared, voice thundering across the ruins, "…the real battle begins."

The ground quaked. The rookies and veterans tightened their grips. The reinforcements flared with power.

And for the first time Sloth's chains wavered, shadows stirring not with hunger… but with anticipation.

To be continue

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