The sky hung low and colorless, a pale shroud stretched taut above the towering monument of stone. Before them rose the ancient edifice—an enormous cathedral whose skin was darkened by centuries of soot, storms, and silent prayers. It stood like a petrified titan, frozen mid-ascent toward the heavens, its blackened bones etched with the history of forgotten ages.
Twin spires stabbed upward like spears of judgment, each lined with a thousand narrow ridges and razor-like silhouettes of old saints and gargoyles. The left spire bore scaffolding—an ugly cage of modern steel that clung to the sacred tower like a parasite, its pale, lifeless bars in sharp contrast to the soot-stained grandeur of the old stones beneath.
Every inch of the façade told a story. Thin columns spiraled upward between the arched windows, each one delicately fluted, weathered smooth in some places, cracked in others—like the ribs of a long-dead leviathan. Between these vertical arteries stood panels of gothic tracery, stone lacework so fine and complex it seemed impossible that mortal hands had carved it. Some edges crumbled with age; others were sharp and precise, having defied time itself.
A massive arched window dominated the center—glass panes muted by dust and shadow. Its frame was a chaos of chiseled ivy, tiny angels, and grotesque faces, their mouths frozen in silent screams or twisted grins. Beneath it, the central portal yawned wide, its pointed arch rimmed with a dozen layers of sculpted theology. Each tier depicted a different narrative: seraphs blowing trumpets, demons dragging chained souls, kings kneeling with swords laid down at their feet.
Above the arch, a gable rose like a black crown, dotted with miniature spires and blind niches. In one of those niches, barely visible unless you were searching for it, crouched a broken gargoyle—its wings chipped, its fangs dulled, but its eyes still full of rage.
The stone itself—darkened to nearly pitch—seemed to drink the light from the sky. Lines of rainfall had etched themselves into the walls, leaving streaks of gray and rust, like tears on a warrior's face. Moss clung to the lower edges where the cathedral met the ground, a green whisper of life against the cold weight of the divine.
And through it all, the silence. A silence that felt not peaceful, but watchful. As if the cathedral, in all its grim majesty, was not simply standing—but waiting.
Yohan took a step forward.
The building did not move.
But somehow, it felt as though it was watching him.
As Shingen and Yohan approached the looming stone structure, the air grew denser—almost charged. The cathedral's sheer presence commanded reverence. But before that reverence could take hold, something utterly absurd happened.
A piece of cloth—tattered and soaked from the mist—suddenly fluttered through the air and smacked squarely against Shingen's face. It clung there like a desperate flag trying to surrender to him. Shingen stopped mid-step, unmoving, eyes slowly narrowing beneath the fabric.
From somewhere nearby, a sharp, irritated voice rang out.
"Hey, idiot! If you're not gonna take my clothes, are you planning to die today or what?! Got no sense in that thick skull of yours?!"
Before either of them could react, another voice fired back, equally venomous.
"I am taking your damn clothes! Even a dog would drop dead if it wore this stuff when it's this wet! And if I ever see your moldy shirt in our room again, I swear you'll wear it as your funeral shroud!"
A gangly boy suddenly emerged from behind one of the cathedral's buttresses, wrestling with a heap of clothes under one arm and clearly trying to keep his dignity intact. He yanked a piece of cloth from a low-hanging gargoyle, but the moment his eyes locked with Shingen's furious glare, something in him broke.
His grip slipped. All four garments he held fluttered away like frightened birds into the wind.
He had seen them—Shingen's eyes. Cold. Wide. Quietly furious.
"What the hell…?" the boy muttered.
He didn't get a chance to finish the thought.
With one powerful, almost casual swing, Shingen hurled the drenched clothes—and the boy holding the last piece—clear across the courtyard. The poor soul flailed mid-air like a sack of potatoes tossed by a god, landing with a wet thud behind a stone pillar.
Yohan stood frozen, caught between awe and horror. He blinked twice, then slowly turned his head toward Shingen.
Am I joining the wrong squad? he wondered, deadpan.
Shingen, now brushing water off his shoulder like it had personally offended him, turned and gave Yohan a long, slow look.
"What's this?" he asked. "You just gonna stand there waiting for someone to hand you an invitation card? Is that the only way you'll go inside?"
Yohan stepped inside.
Eight people were already there — five boys and three girls — and all of them turned their heads to look at him.
From among them, a girl with dark hair stepped forward. She wore a t-shirt and pants, her expression relaxed and a little lazy. Her eyes were slightly droopy, and she had a bottle of rum in one hand. Her hair fell loose around her hairline, untamed.
"Well, well, a new hero, huh?" she said with a teasing grin. "Who brought you here this time? No idea what the Captain's thinking lately. Anyway… tradition's tradition. You've got to earn your keep—grab the rum, and drink."
Yohan glanced at the bottle and politely refused. "Thanks… but I don't drink rum."
The sunken-eyed girl burst into laughter, almost snorting. Then she flopped down onto a nearby sofa, sprawling like a cat. "Suit yourself, hero," she muttered, amused.
A moment later, the atmosphere softened. Shingles — the laid-back one with an odd sense of timing — arrived, visibly more relaxed as he took in the sight of everyone gathered. He munched casually on something, then cleared his throat.
"Alright, folks. Today, we've got two new members joining us," he said. "So I'd like everyone to get acquainted."
He gestured toward the girl standing beside Yohan. Her hair was short, silver, and left open, shimmering under the light. Her slim blue eyes held a calm confidence, and her outfit was both elegant and practical — striking without trying too hard.
She gave a small nod and spoke softly, "Hi… my name is Crystal. It's nice to meet you all."
After her introduction, the rest began sharing their names, one by one.
To the far left stood a boy in nothing but loose pants, his hair long and unkempt. He gave a casual smirk, trying a little too hard to look handsome.
"My name's Kim Park," he said.
Next to him stood another boy in a blue cap, dressed plainly. He kept his eyes hidden under the cap's brim, giving him an unreadable look.
"Aurther," he said simply.
Then, a boy dressed in full traditional Chinese style stepped forward, his long black hair tied back neatly. He gave a slight bow.
"My name is Aurel Ren ."
Then , a boy He stood there with effortless composure — tall, lean, and exuding a calm confidence that didn't ask for attention, yet commanded it.
His hair, a striking shade of silver, was tousled just enough to seem naturally perfect, as if the wind itself styled it in his favor. Beneath those soft locks were eyes like sharpened frost — clear, cold, and unreadable, yet somehow inviting, as if he saw something in you others missed.
He wore a charcoal-black polo shirt, its collar casually loose at the neck, sleeves rolled just enough to show the strength in his forearms. The shirt was tucked neatly into ash-grey slacks that hung cleanly along his frame, tailored to precision — not flashy, but sharp enough to tell you he cared. On his feet, white sneakers completed the look, a quiet rebellion against the formality of his otherwise polished appearance.
In one hand, he held a drink — tall, dark, and cold, like him — with a straw tilted just so, fingers relaxed around the cup as if he had all the time in the world.
There was a faint smile on his lips — not wide, not forced. The kind of smile that made you wonder what he knew that you didn't. His name is Keal Winter.
Last one Yohan who looks today different cuz Shingen buy dress for him . And he wor that and look like ,:
He stood there with effortless composure — tall, lean, and exuding a calm confidence that didn't ask for attention, yet commanded it.
His hair, a striking shade of silver, was tousled just enough to seem naturally perfect, as if the wind itself styled it in his favor. Beneath those soft locks were eyes like sharpened frost — clear, cold, and unreadable, yet somehow inviting, as if he saw something in you others missed.
He wore a charcoal-black polo shirt, its collar casually loose at the neck, sleeves rolled just enough to show the strength in his forearms. The shirt was tucked neatly into ash-grey slacks that hung cleanly along his frame, tailored to precision — not flashy, but sharp enough to tell you he cared. On his feet, white sneakers completed the look, a quiet rebellion against the formality of his otherwise polished appearance.
In one hand, he held a drink — tall, dark, and cold, like him — with a straw tilted just so, fingers relaxed around the cup as if he had all the time in the world.
There was a faint smile on his lips — not wide, not forced. The kind of smile that made you wonder what he knew that you didn't.
Lyra Wittelsbach (Age 18)
Tall and lithe (around 5'0").
Hair: Silver‐white, kept in a loose braid that falls halfway down her back; a few stray strands frame her pale face.
Eyes: Icy blue—calm but alert, as if she's always scanning for danger.
Clothing: A fitted dark‐blue tunic (long sleeves slightly ruched at the elbows) and ash‐gray trousers, with a lightweight cloaked mantle bearing the Wittelsbach crest embroidered in muted silver thread on the left shoulder. Soft‐soled boots allow for swift, silent movement.
Isolde (Age 19)
Appearance:
Medium height (about 5'0") but moves with a feline grace.
Hair: Jet black, cut to shoulder‐length; she often slicks it back behind her ears so that loose tendrils fall across her angular cheekbones.
Eyes: Deep violet, with a faint "glow" when she channels magic—riveting and unsettling.
Clothing: A fitted burgundy doublet embroidered with Grimaldi crest‐patterns in gunmetal gray. Black leather gloves cover her forearms up to the elbow (inscribed with subtle arcane runes), and she wears dark‐gray riding trousers tucked into knee‐high boots.
Cerys (Age 17)
Appearance:
About 5'1" with a compact, sinewy frame; her muscle tone is honed from years of martial training.
Hair: Raven black, shaved along the sides, with a long topknot that falls midway down her back. When she fights, she ties it into a tight warrior's knot.
Eyes: Warm amber—quickly shifting between kind warmth (when off duty) and predatory focus (in battle).
Clothing: A sleeved, high‐collared jacket of deep charcoal (trimmed in crimson) over simple black leggings. She straps twin short katanas at her waist in lacquered scabbards, and light, flexible boots laced to mid‐calf. Over it all: a sleeveless cloak of dark red—her clan's color—embossed with a stylized dragon crest.
Suddenly, a masseur entered the chamber, kneeling beside Captain Shingen and beginning to work skillfully on his shoulders. Shingen leaned into the massage, his eyes narrowing with a faint frown.
Noticing the change in his demeanor, Cerys tilted her head and asked quietly,
"Is something wrong, Captain?"
There was a pause. The rhythmic motion of the masseur's hands filled the silence. Then, Shingen exhaled sharply and spoke.
"Something unusual is happening in the northern stretch of the Orthodox Forest."
Cerys's eyes widened. "That's Windsor territory, isn't it?"
Lyra, standing near the window, crossed her arms and said coldly,
"He's gone to meet our misjesty ."
Shingen nodded slowly. "Yes. And now we've been handed the mission. We're to head there, observe whatever is going on, and return with a report. Nothing more."
The room tensed. Then, Shingen waved his hand, calming the room.
"But there's still time. We leave in a week."
He stood up, rolling his shoulder as the masseur bowed and left silently.
"I have other duties until then. So, for this mission, Lyra, Yohan, Ren, and Aurther—you four will lead the team. Consider it your trial as captains."
He paused, then added with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes:
"Rest while you can. Begin training immediately. You've got a week. And once we return…"
He looked over them with a raised brow.
"…the Magic Tournament begins. Every squad must participate."
He turned away, already lost in thought.
"Go now. We'll speak more later. I have things I must confirm…"