"Over one thousand years have passed since the Tower of Babel emerged in the heart of Ukraine, concluding the conflict between Russia and the alliance within the West. A beginning many welcomed of fear of the Third Great War." Magister Illyro began, snapping shut the book in his hand with a solid thud. A smile emerged upon his otherwise wrinkled expression. He expectedly nodded, stroking his well-forged beard, Illyro's pride, and joy that hung nearly to his waist for over a decade. "Young Master, can you tell me why peace never came despite WW3 never happening."

Seated in his desk near the window to allow light to peer in, Altair laid silently. Rows of exhaustion hang beneath the lids of his eyes. The boy appeared no more than nine, carrying a small frame those his age held. It was neither overly large but neither was it small. His long lash shuddered to close as strands of long jet-black hair trickled over his face, masking his features within the shadows.

He slept.

"Young Master? Can you hear me?" Magister Illyro asked but was returned with silence. He frowned. It had been the seventh time Altair had fallen asleep during his lecture. "Young Master." He called again, louder. But there was no response.

"Let him be, Illyro. He's merely a guest." Ser Flinn Aros, Head Knight of House Aros, commanded, emerging from the classroom's threshold with a stone expression. "It would seem our private lessons are being squandered." He bore a thin veil smile bearing down at the young Altair, his cyan eyes narrowing. "What a waste."

"Should I tell his Mother?"

"No," The head knight replied. "I'll tell the Elders instead. Perhaps their words might hold some weight over Lady Tenebrae. This is the seventh time this week. I–"

"I'm awake," Altair blurted out, his voice draggy. He already knew he couldn't sleep long but hoped Illyo would drag out his lectures like usual. He lifted his head, his obsidian eyes glistening under the sun's kiss.

Be it Magister Illyro or Flinn. Both couldn't help but marvel at the sight of the boy, charmed by his child-like features. They'd never seen a more handsome child, to which many believed he was a Child of Aphrodite or at least held the honor of receiving her blessing. It wouldn't be the first time one of the Gods had taken favor on a mortal.

Ser Flinn's hard expression dipped under the pleading eyes of Altair. "You—"

"Uncle Finn, please don't tell Mama!!" Altair pleaded, his heart beginning to hammer against his ribs. "I was just tired from the harsh training from the master of Swords and—"

"Which isn't an excuse," Flinn concluded in an affirming tone, arms folding over one another, leaving no room for excuse. He slid his gaze to Magister Illyro and almost smiled. " But… If you can answer Magister Illyro's earlier question. I shall hold my tongue."

He tensed, snapping his gaze to Illyro, who welcomed his radiance with a smile. "It was about peace, was it not?" He began almost recalling what little he could before the silence came. He thought for a second or two, unable to stop the panic from entering. "Peace never occurred because of the Tower of Babel during the Months of 2023. While the Tower might have stopped the war, a new Era was forced upon humanity. One between the New and Old Gods.

"And because we failed to complete the challenge the Gods of the Tower issued, humanity suffered. Hundreds of Dungeons granting opportunities for power emerged one after the other. But such power came at a price. World powers began to cave beneath the pressure of the various monsters that slowly appeared within our home: Goblins, Vampires, Werewolves, Kabolts, and more all began to be conjured. Modern weaponry at the time failed, and after fifty years, almost every government perished. And if that wasn't bad enough. We, humans, began creating fractions amongst ourselves, leading to the accelerated decline of the various states. "

Surprise took hold of Magister Illyro and Ser Flinn, but neither exposed it. Not that they had to. Altair had been trained since birth to recognize the smallest details, whether they be invisible or not. His conditioning allowed him to perceive many things even elites would miss.

"Well done." Magister Illyro remarked joyously with a hefty laugh, his palm stroking at his beard, and the tension smoothed out of Altair. "But that doesn't excuse why you were asleep for the seventh time in my class."

Altair winced, scratching at the mischievous smile clinging to his lips. "Mother took me to Genesis last week. You know, the one in space. The Mega Colony of—"

"We know it." Said Flinn calmly.

"Well, it was amazing!" He said cheerfully. "But due to the time zones within the colony, my sleeping schedule has been a bit off. And the Master of Swords training this week is also tough. So—."

"It takes ten long years of dedication to the Sword to receive the Swordsmanship Skill." Ser Flinn interrupted the hardness of his voice returning. "I just hope you weren't sleeping in his class."

'Never!" Said Altair hastily. Recalling the whip within the Master of Sword's hand. He shook. Shaking his head, almost tasting the heat of his whip, which crackled like thunder with each swing.

"Good," Flinn said. " As you might already know. Skills all have requirements. But to achieve them. No one can escape hard work, even if you are an unparalleled genius. Have you already been to the Master of Sword today?" Altair nodded. " Good. Then, as punishment, you will head there again today after your lesson with Magister Illyro has been concluded. After with, you will be expected to be in the meditation chamber for the remainder of the day. Clear?"

Altair expression paled, but he knew better than to talk back. He could see Ser Flinn's frustration, the tension within his shoulders that grew each day when he spoke. He was worried. It had been a month since the Second Son of Duke Garel Aros, Paul Aros, had left for a newly discovered dungeon. Paul was merely fifteen, the ripe age for most to descend into dungeon diving. And being a core member of the first-rate elite family, he was expected to risk his life to preserve his noble house. It was his duty, as was everyone else around him.

And yet, there had been no word.

'I hate this place!' Altair thought, holding his anger in check.

"Yes, Sir."

"You may go now, Young Master." Magister Illyro said. "Our lesson is done. Tomorrow, we will discuss proper etiquette. If you are to stay at our Noble House, you will learn to act as a nobleman. Even if you are a commoner without rank."

Magister Illyro's words came as the gospel to the young Altair as he rushed out before they could change their minds and tattle to his mother, whom he dared not disappoint. If there was one thing he never wanted to see, it was to witness his mother's loving smile curl down.

Altair grimaced to himself, making his way down the hall with a brooding expression: 'Why did Mother bring me to these people? An entire year it's been. Why are we here? Gods! I wish we could return to Aries Villa.'

He smiled, recalling the field of effervescent crimson overtaking even the skies, the cool winds caressing his cheeks, and the soft, ethereal hymns of his mother's lullabies. It was far in contrast to the Aros Duchie that felt as solemn as any cathedral.

He groaned but made his way towards the training grounds near the western courtyard, avoiding eye contact with the various servants and children around his age. And in turn, the servant pretended he didn't exist. He was, after all, a Guest in their home. One without any Noble Rank, much less any achievements. He paid them no mind, finding their arrogance to be expected rather than surprising.

It was barely noon when he arrived on the training grounds, surrounded by a mass of children his age, all of them gripping some form of weaponry. Be it a bow, Pistol, Sword, Dagger, or Ax. They all stood there awaiting the Master of Swords.

'So I made it in time. Damn. And I'd taken the slow route, too.' He thought, finding a wooden double-sided sword near an open barrel, and hastily got into formation with the others, awaiting his second lesson. He sighed, unwilling to reflect on the aching burn that came with each lesson the Master of Swords delivered. Nor the numbness that followed, which seemed even more terrifying than the aching sting of his already sore muscles.

'I hate this place.'

Suddenly, the murmurs grew silent, leaving only the grim echos of metal echoing with each footstep; like the ringing of tolls at a funeral, horror swelled, carrying an unsavory sensation at the tip of their tongues. None dared to speak, much less gather the courage to look up. None but Altair, who stared at the cross-shaped scarred man plastered over his face.

Plated in chain mail forged by the Drexion Clan that hung over a dark leather jerkin, a scarlet cloth shrouded the soldier, revealing the noble crest of Aros, the Hawk bearing down upon its prey. The Master of Swords came to a halt. His eyes swayed from left to right, finding Altair, but his gaze never lingered for longer than a second.

"I've got an announcement." He started, his voice harsh as though gravel rang from his throat. "In the following days. The Reverend Mother shall appear. I needn't tell you her importance nor the honor of being in her presence. You will mind your tongue, or it will be mine. Are we clear!"

"YES, SER!!!!"