The morning sky was overcast when the summons arrived.
A thin slip of mana-infused parchment slid under Karl's dorm door, bearing the crest of the Combat Evaluation Board — a rarely used authority in Valdros Academy, usually reserved for rising talents… or rising threats.
Karl turned the note over.
A simple request:
"Report to Courtyard Nine for private demonstration. Your blade has history. We wish to see it speak."
Raiven stirred from the shadowed corner, his eyes glinting in the dim light.
"They saw what you did yesterday."
"And they want more."
"Or they want confirmation."
Karl strapped the blacksteel sheath across his back.
"Then let's give it to them."
Courtyard Nine was cordoned off by runic barriers, four instructors standing in a loose half-circle at the center. Among them stood Instructor Saelen, the war-hardened tactician who had first identified Karl's technique.
Saelen nodded as Karl stepped in.
"Thank you for coming. I asked for this personally."
Karl kept his posture relaxed, but his eyes were focused.
"What exactly do you want to see?"
Saelen motioned to the training field.
"The stance you used against Rhys. Show it again. From the start."
Karl unsheathed the relic sword.
The air shifted.
The blade didn't shimmer like typical enchanted weapons—it pulsed with quiet, ancestral intent.
He moved into the first stance.
His footwork was smooth. Shoulders loose. Blade held low but steady.
Then… he began.
The movements weren't flashy.
No mana burst. No spinning arcs.
Just pure form.
Calculated control.
But to the instructors, it felt like watching a ghost move.
Every step resonated with a tempo from another age.
And when Karl finished, Saelen looked pale.
He stepped forward.
"Where did you learn that?"
Karl didn't answer immediately.
Then: "It came naturally."
Another instructor scoffed. "That's impossible. The Six Echoes were erased over two centuries ago."
"So were the Veilbound," Karl replied evenly.
A moment of stunned silence.
Saelen's tone dropped.
"You've only shown one stance. If this truly is Veilblade, the others—"
"Will come when they're ready," Karl said.
"Or when the sword remembers more."
That's when the sword pulsed.
Not brightly.
But sharply.
Like a lock clicking open.
A low sound only Karl could hear.
A word—no, a name—etched itself into his mind in flame and frost:
"Eryndor."
Raiven's ears twitched.
"That name… it belonged to the blade's last true master."
Karl didn't speak it aloud.
But he felt it carve deeper into his memory.
Later that day, while heading toward the upper tower gardens, Karl passed a figure standing alone by the Academy's outer wall.
Dressed in a crimson-and-black uniform.
The one who had watched him before.
"You fought like someone from the archives," the boy said without turning.
Karl stopped walking.
"And you watched like someone with orders."
The boy chuckled.
He turned, revealing silver eyes, sharp as blades but smiling.
"Name's Lioren Kade. Second Division. Assigned to 'observe anomalies.' You qualify."
Karl narrowed his gaze.
"Why the sudden honesty?"
"Because I'm tired of pretending I don't want to know how far you'll go before that dragon inside you wakes up… and burns us all."
Raiven stirred.
"This one hides something. But he speaks truth."
Karl didn't blink.
"Then stay out of my way, Lioren."
Lioren grinned.
"I plan to. Until I'm told not to."
Then he vanished into the stone corridors, cloak swirling behind him.
That night, Karl sat beneath the high tower spire, unsheathing the sword once again.
He focused on the name—Eryndor.
The glyphs on the blade flickered.
Then one of them shifted, unlocking a second stance.
Faster. Defensive. Balanced like wind on a blade's edge.
Raiven watched in silence.
"It's waking up, Karl. Not just the dragon. Not just the sword."
"Then we'd better be ready when the past starts chasing us."
And far in the distance, beyond the mountains surrounding Veyhelm, a low tremor spread beneath the earth.
A seal cracked.
And something very, very old… began to open its eyes.