Weeks had passed since Tristar submitted his application to the academy, but the wait felt endless. Each morning, he woke with a sense of dread, fearing that perhaps his letter of acceptance—or rejection—had been lost or delayed. The academy was his one chance to change his life, the first step on the path toward becoming the hero he had always admired.
Sitting on the edge of his bed in the orphanage, Tristar stared out the window. The other children were playing outside, laughing and shouting as they ran across the yard, but his mind was elsewhere. What if he wasn't accepted? His swordsmanship was decent, but without any extraordinary magical abilities, he worried that might not be enough.
The familiar sight of the orphanage grounds faded into the background as his thoughts drifted to the past. He could still remember the early days after the attack, living in fear and uncertainty, and then finding solace within these walls. The routines, the friendships—this place had become his home. Yet, even here, he'd never truly felt like he belonged. He needed something more. He needed to become a hero, not just for himself but for those who had no one to protect them.
Then, one morning, it arrived—the letter. The seal of the academy gleamed in the sunlight as he held the envelope in trembling hands. For a moment, Tristar hesitated. What if it wasn't good news? What if everything he had worked for amounted to nothing?
He forced himself to open it.
Congratulations, Tristar Klarent. You have been accepted into the Academy of Heroes.
His heart raced as he read the words again and again. It was real. He was going to the academy. The dream he had clung to since childhood—since that fateful day the hero saved him—was now within reach.
The day of his departure arrived swiftly. Tristar stood outside the orphanage, his bag slung over his shoulder, his sword strapped securely to his side. The other orphans gathered around him, their excited chatter filling the air. He couldn't help but smile at their wide-eyed curiosity.
"You're really going to the academy?" one of the younger kids asked, tugging at his sleeve.
Tristar nodded, ruffling the boy's hair. "Yeah. I'll visit when I can. Keep practicing your swings, alright?"
The headmistress, an elderly woman with kind eyes and a gentle smile, stood a little apart from the group. She approached Tristar, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"You've grown strong," she said softly, her voice full of pride. "But remember, Tristar, it's not just strength that makes a hero. It's heart."
He looked into her eyes, feeling the weight of her words. It was a lesson she had imparted to him many times, but today, it carried a deeper meaning. With a small nod, he thanked her, the lump in his throat making it hard to speak.
As he turned to leave, a young girl—barely five—ran up to him, clutching a small, handmade charm. She thrust it into his hand, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
"This is for good luck!" she said with a grin. "You'll need it!"
Tristar crouched down, taking the charm and fastening it to his sword's hilt. "Thank you. I'll keep it with me."
With one final wave, he walked away from the orphanage, his heart heavy yet full of hope. Each step felt like a step toward a new life—one where he could finally fulfill his dream.
The journey to the academy took several hours, winding through city streets and open fields. As the transport moved toward the academy's location, Tristar watched the world pass by through the window, his thoughts churning. The landscape shifted from the urban sprawl of the city to the more open, green expanses of the countryside, leading him to wonder how much the world had changed while he'd been sheltered at the orphanage.
The academy, renowned for training the world's most elite fighters, lay at the edge of a mountainous region. The closer they got, the more impressive the scenery became—tall, imposing mountains, lush forests, and rivers snaking through the landscape.
As the transport neared the gates of the academy, Tristar's pulse quickened. The academy was enormous, far larger than he had imagined. Majestic stone buildings lined with banners of different houses loomed ahead, and massive training grounds stretched into the distance. He could see students practicing already, their swords clashing in perfect synchronization.
The academy's towering gates opened slowly, revealing the grand courtyard beyond. Tristar took a deep breath as he stepped off the transport, his heart pounding. This was it. This was the place where he would begin his journey to greatness.
The dormitory stood on the eastern side of the academy grounds, a sturdy building with ivy climbing up its stone walls. As Tristar made his way down the hallway, the sound of his footsteps echoed off the walls. The building felt quiet, almost expectant, as if it were waiting for the new students to settle in.
Tristar found his room at the end of the hall—a small but cozy space with a bed, a desk, and a window that overlooked the academy's training grounds. He set his bag down on the bed, his fingers brushing over the neatly folded sheets. It wasn't much, but it was his space. After spending so many years sharing a room with other orphans, having a place of his own felt strange.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, the weight of everything finally hitting him. He had made it to the academy. But now that he was here, the realization of what lay ahead felt heavier than ever. This wasn't just a school; it was a place where only the best would survive. He wasn't just competing with himself anymore—he was surrounded by students with abilities far beyond his own.
He reached for his sword, resting it across his lap. The smooth, familiar weight of the blade comforted him, grounding him in the midst of his swirling thoughts.
"I'll make it," he whispered, tightening his grip on the hilt. "No matter what."
After settling in, Tristar decided to explore the academy grounds. The evening air was crisp, the sky tinged with orange as the sun dipped below the horizon. He wandered past the training grounds where a few upperclassmen were still sparring, their swords flashing in the dimming light. Each movement they made was precise, fluid—years of experience and practice evident in every swing.
Tristar felt a surge of determination rise within him. He might be a newcomer now, but one day, he would be the one moving with that kind of skill, his sword an extension of himself.
He continued his walk, passing by the grand main building where classes would be held. The sheer size of the academy was overwhelming, but Tristar knew that within these walls, he would either find his path or be left behind. There was no room for failure here. The academy demanded everything, and Tristar was prepared to give it.
That night, as Tristar lay in bed, he stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. The dormitory was quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of footsteps in the hallway. His thoughts kept drifting back to the hero who had saved him all those years ago, the one who had given him hope when all seemed lost.
He clenched his fists, his resolve hardening.
"I'll become a hero," he whispered to the empty room. "Just like him."
The image of the hero's reassuring smile filled his mind once again, that light piercing through the darkness. For the first time in weeks, Tristar felt calm. He had made it this far. Tomorrow, his training would begin, and he would take his first step toward his destiny.