The morning sun filtered through the narrow windows of a worn but tidy home, casting a soft, golden light across the sparsely furnished room. The quiet was a familiar companion, broken only by the distant rustling of leaves outside. Layzal sat at the wooden table, his hands resting on the smooth surface, his eyes fixed on the steaming cup of tea before him. He had always appreciated the solitude of mornings like this, the brief moments of control before the world demanded something of him.

But today, the peace felt fragile, like a thin sheet of ice over deep water.

The knock came suddenly, sharp and insistent. It echoed through the small house, breaking the stillness like a stone shattering glass. Layzal did not move immediately. His sharp red eyes remained on the cup, his expression unreadable, as if he could somehow will the intruders away by sheer force of will. He had known this day would come, yet the reality of it felt distant, like a story told too many times to still be believed.

Another knock, louder this time, followed by a voice that held the weight of authority. "Layzal Regula, by order of the King, open this door."

Layzal stood, his movements measured and deliberate, betraying none of the tension that coiled in his chest. He walked to the door, his footsteps silent on the worn wooden floor. As he reached for the handle, he allowed himself a single, slow breath, the only concession to the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior.

When he opened the door, three men stood before him, their armour gleaming in the morning light. The one in the centre, clearly the leader, held a parchment sealed with the insignia of the King. His gaze met Layzal's, a flicker of recognition passing through his cold blue eyes. He knew what he would find here based on the descriptions of the nearby villagers—a man known for his composure, his unwavering calm even in the face of adversity.

"Layzal Regula," the leader began, his voice flat, "by decree of the King, you are hereby conscripted to the Academy for War. You will leave immediately."

Layzal said nothing. His expression did not change, nor did his posture falter. He simply stood there, absorbing the words as if they were an inevitability, as if this moment had already played out in his mind a thousand times. And in truth, it had. The academy was a machine, one that consumed lives and spat out soldiers, and now it had come for him.

The leader extended the parchment, but Layzal did not reach for it. "I don't need to see it," he said, his voice low and steady, devoid of emotion. "I know what it says."

The leader's eyes narrowed slightly, but he withdrew the parchment, tucking it away as if the act were a formality. "Gather your things," he ordered. "You have five minutes."

Layzal turned without a word, leaving the door open as he moved back into the house. He didn't bother packing much—there was nothing he truly needed. A change of clothes, a small knife, and a worn leather book that he slipped into his bag with a careful hand. The rest, the life he had known, was already beginning to fade into the past.

As he returned to the doorway, the leader gave a curt nod, signalling to the others. "You'll follow us to the square," he said, his tone suggesting that defiance was not an option.

Layzal stepped outside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He did not look back. There was no need. This place, this life—it was no longer his.

The streets were empty as they walked, the village eerily quiet under the weight of what was happening. Layzal kept his eyes forward, his expression a mask of indifference. He had learned long ago that emotions were a luxury, one that could get a man killed or worse. The academy would try to mould him, to break him if necessary, but Layzal had no intention of letting them see inside.

As they approached the square, where others were already being gathered, Layzal allowed himself one final thought: Whatever they expected of him, whatever they believed they could take, they would find themselves disappointed.

He would give them what they demanded—nothing more, nothing less.

The academy could have his body, but his soul, his will—that would remain his own.

Layzal's eyes swept over the small crowd gathered in the village square, his gaze cold and detached. The faces around him were etched with a range of emotions: shock, despair, anger, even a fleeting glimpse of misplaced happiness. But beneath the surface, one feeling was universal, shared by everyone present—uncertainty. It clung to them like a shroud, this fear of the unknown, the dread of what the future held for them, for their families, for the world itself. Would they prove their worth and survive, or would their broken bodies be delivered back to their loved ones, a grim reminder of their failure?

Layzal's expression remained unchanged, his eyes calm and calculating as they returned to the three knights standing at the front of the crowd. The leader, a man whose face bore the hardened indifference of someone long accustomed to this ritual, surveyed them without emotion. "Now that everyone is gathered, we will lead you to the Academy called Alveus," he announced, his deep voice resonating through the still air. "This is where you will awaken your mana."

The crowd shifted, a murmur of unease passing through them, but no one spoke up. Satisfied with the silence, the leader continued, his tone as monotonous as before. "We will be heading to the outskirts of Lancea, the capital city. Once we arrive, you will have two weeks to prepare for war. Is it unfair? Yes. Do I care? No. This is for humanity."

His gaze swept over the group one final time, cold and assessing, before he stepped back, allowing his fellow knights to take over. The knight on the left exchanged a brief glance with the one beside him before speaking up. "We will split you twelve into two groups of six. Those I call, line up in front of me. You will join my carriage."

As names were called, Layzal paid no attention, his focus shifting instead to the faces of those who stepped forward. He studied them dispassionately, noting the fear and determination in their eyes, but the names themselves held no meaning to him. What was the point of remembering names if most of them wouldn't survive? They were just bodies now, soldiers in the making—fodder for the academy's war machine.

Finally, his own name was called. Layzal stepped forward with the same measured calm that had defined his every move. The knight who had called him eyed him briefly, a faint glimmer of something unreadable passing through his gaze before he turned and led the group to the carriage.

Inside, the atmosphere was tense, the air thick with unspoken dread. The knight's voice broke the silence, as indifferent as the leader's had been. "The journey will take five hours. We'll arrive by noon. Sit down and prepare yourselves."

The wheels of the carriage began to turn, the rhythmic clunk of wood against cobblestone filling the air as they set off. Layzal settled into his seat, his eyes drifting to the window. The wind whispered against the glass, but he remained unmoved, his mind already far ahead of the road they travelled.

Whatever awaited them in Alveus, whatever trials or horrors the academy had in store, he would meet them with the same unyielding calm that had carried him this far. Let the others tremble; let them worry about names and futures. Layzal knew better.

In the end, only the strong survived.