Darkness.

And then—

Voices. Echoes.

"Disgrace."

"You'll never amount to anything."

"Why did I even take you in?"

Jet's breath caught as the familiar sting of memory pressed against his mind. He stood again in the marble hall of the Ashborne manor, that place he had sworn never to remember.

The chandeliers blazed above, casting cold light on his father's form — tall, rigid, his expression carved from contempt. Every detail returned too vividly: the echo of boots on stone, the frost in his father's tone, the bitter scent of wine and disappointment.

"You're no son of mine," Lord Ashborne's voice spat like poison. "A boy without ambition, without power. You'll perish the moment you stand before a Dragon. I should have known you'd bring shame to our name."

Jet wanted to shout back, to explain, but his throat constricted. The words never came. He stood there, small again, weak again, feeling the weight of that house crushing his lungs.

"I…"

He tried, voice breaking.

"I'll prove you wrong."

The man scoffed, turning away. "You? You can't even tame a Rank 1 D-H without trembling. You'll die before you even learn what a Dragon's aura feels like."

The marble beneath Jet's feet rippled like water — the memory twisting, shifting. The hall melted away into darkness. Wind howled. The world lurched.

Now he stood beneath the broken sky again — the battlefield. The Rank 3 Dragon loomed above, its scales shimmering with molten gold and obsidian veins. Its maw opened wide, and the sound that came from it was a chorus of thunder and death. Around him lay shattered ground, smoking ruins, the acrid stench of burnt mana.

He remembered this.

The Dragon's eye — vast and glowing like a dying sun — locked onto him.

Then came the roar.

The blast of heat.

And then—

Teeth.

He screamed.

The Dragon lunged forward, jaws closing in a blinding instant.

Jet felt himself falling — darkness swallowing him whole.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.

He was inside the Dragon's maw.

He heard bones crunching. His bones.

And just before the world faded, his father's voice echoed one last time:

"I warned you. You were never meant for greatness."

Jet gasped.

His body shot upright, drenched in sweat. The sheets tangled around him like vines, his breath ragged, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The world around him was dim — faint moonlight filtering through the sick ward's curtains. It was night. The room was empty.

He pressed a trembling hand to his chest.

"Just… a dream," he whispered, but the words didn't soothe. His pulse refused to slow.

The scent of medicinal herbs and mana-infused air filled the room. Rows of empty beds stretched around him. A faint hum from the healing wards glimmered on the walls. Outside, crickets sang in the cold air. The Academy at night felt eerily alive, like the world held its breath.

He turned — and froze.

Something sat neatly on his bedside table.

A letter.

Sealed with a wax insignia he already recognized.

It belonged to his Sponsor.

His heartbeat quickened again. Carefully, he reached for it, broke the seal, and unfolded the parchment. The handwriting was elegant yet strange — sharp strokes, deliberate, powerful.

Jet Ashborne,

If you wish to rise, come to the eastern training fields beyond the infirmary. Alone.

Your Sponsor awaits.

Jet's brows furrowed.

"My… Sponsor?"

Was he really going to meet with this mysterious figure?

He'd never met them before — only got a letter recently that confirmed that he'd been granted a mysterious benefactor who would support his progress in school.

He thought he would never get to meet this person. But now—

He stood, ignoring the dizziness that followed. His body still ached from the Dragon's attack; his muscles were heavy, his mana sluggish. Still, curiosity burned stronger than pain. Whoever this "Sponsor" was, they clearly knew him. And if they helped him get into this Academy… perhaps they had answers. Or perhaps they were testing him too.

He slipped into his boots, grabbed the letter, and quietly made his way out.

The corridors of the infirmary were empty. The bright lamps flickered with dim blue light. Outside, the air was crisp, the night sky heavy with stars. The moon hung like a cold blade above the horizon, its light painting the Academy grounds in silver.

Each step echoed faintly against the stone paths. The campus felt unfamiliar at night — vast and silent, as though the world itself were watching.

He crossed the courtyard, past the old training arena, until he reached the eastern fields — a wide expanse of grass bordered by ancient oak trees. The wind whispered softly across the plains.

And there — at the center of the field — stood a figure.

Tall, cloaked, face hidden beneath a hood. The moonlight failed to pierce the folds of the garment. Even their presence felt wrong — too still, too silent.

Jet stopped several paces away. "Are you the one who sent this?"

The figure nodded slightly. "I am your supervisor, assigned by your Sponsor." The voice was low, genderless, distorted slightly — like a whisper layered with echoes. "You survived the Rank 3 Dragon. Impressive. But survival is only the first step."

Jet hesitated. "Why… why did you call me here?"

"To ask a question," the figure said, taking a step forward. "Do you truly wish to grow stronger? Stronger than anyone else?"

Jet clenched his fists.

His body trembled — part fear, part conviction. The memory of the Dragon's jaws still lingered, the helplessness burning in his chest.

"Yes," he said. "I'll do anything."

The figure seemed to regard him silently for a moment.

Then, slowly, they extended a hand from beneath the cloak. Something shimmered there — faint, pulsing with azure light.

Jet's breath caught. It was a D-H. But not an ordinary one. The veins running through it glowed with bright blue energy, fierce and alive.

"Rank 3…" Jet whispered. "That's— that's impossible. Those aren't even permitted for first-years."

"Your Sponsor has made arrangements," the hooded figure said coldly. "You will master it before the Dragon Hunting Festival, two months from now. If you cannot, then there is no hope for you."

Jet stared at the stone.

The raw power emanating from it pressed against his skin, like standing before a storm. It pulsed, alive, dangerous.

He looked up.

"And if I fail?"

"Then you're exactly what your father said you were."

Jet froze.

His breath hitched. "You… you know about it?"

"I know everything about you, Jet Ashborne," the figure replied. "Your bloodline, your failures, your fears. You were born to a name that means nothing, and adopted by the Ashbornes. If you wish to rewrite that fate, then prove it."

Jet swallowed hard. His hands trembled, but he reached out — slowly — and grasped the D-H.

The moment his fingers closed around it, the air shifted. A surge of heat raced through his veins, wild and uncontrollable. He nearly dropped it, but he held on, eyes widening as the power thrummed beneath his skin.

He could feel it — the will of the Dragon inside. Ferocious. Untamed.

And yet, somewhere deep within, he felt something answer.

The figure's tone softened slightly — not kind, but weighty, almost solemn.

"Abandon childish things, Jet. Friendship. Fun. Those are luxuries for the strong. Focus only on your growth. Power demands sacrifice. Remember that."

Jet looked up again, but before he could speak — the figure was gone. The air where they stood shimmered faintly, then stilled.

Only the night remained.

He stood alone, the D-H glowing faintly in his hand, his heart pounding.

"…Power demands sacrifice," he repeated under his breath. The words felt heavy, ancient. He closed his fist around the crystal.

Then, for the first time in his life, Jet smiled — not with joy, but with grim determination.

*******

Morning arrived softly, sunlight spilling through the dorm windows.

The Academy hummed with life again — voices, footsteps, laughter. The scent of breakfast drifted through the air.

When Jet entered the classroom, the chatter dimmed. Heads turned.

"Jet!" Draco was the first to rush over, eyes bright with relief. "You're awake! We heard you'd been unconscious for days! Man, we were so worried—"

Jet brushed past him without meeting his gaze.

"I'm fine."

Draco blinked. "Huh? Wait—"

Lizbeth looked up from her seat, brows furrowing. "Jet, you shouldn't be up yet. You need rest. The healers said—"

"I said I'm fine," Jet repeated, his tone sharp—cold.

He reached his desk and dropped his bag onto it, not looking at anyone. His aura felt… different. Denser.

The miniscule warmth he used to have — gone, replaced by something heavy and distant.

Draco hesitated.

"Jet… are you okay? You don't sound like—"

"Stop," Jet cut in, finally turning toward him. His eyes glinted faintly with gold under the light — a flicker of the D-H's resonance. "I don't need your sympathy. I don't need friends. I need strength."

The words hit like a slap. The room fell silent. Even Lizbeth and the rest of the students looked unsettled.

"The Dragon Hunting Festival in two months. If I'm not ready, I'll lose to you, Draco. I must continue to be the Prime Student… to become the strongest. That's all that matters." Jet turned away, sitting down.

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it.

It wasn't that he didn't understand Jet, but this change felt too sudden.

And Jet didn't intend to explain.

He was too immersed in his thoughts, his mind boiling and swirling with an untamable passion.

'I'll never be weak again… Never!'

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