They summoned him before the third bell.
Not to the training yard. Not to the Crest Chamber.
To the Hall of Nas.
A place few cadets were ever called to. Fewer still returned from changed.
Leon walked in silence, bracers laced tight, mask left behind. The halls whispered with early wind and empty stone. Roth didn’t follow.
He didn’t need to.
Guards waited at the entrance. Older than him. Sterner. But they stepped aside.
Inside, light bled in from high stained glass. Nas carved into every wall. Each line a story, each story a life, finished or not. So had gold etching. Others were marked in red.
At the center of the chamber, a kneeling platform of dark wood.
Elric stood beside it.
Leon didn’t hesitate. He crossed the stone floor and stopped.
Elric spoke, low and even.
"You were chosen not for talent, but for resolve. Not for legacy, but for what you dared to beco without one."
Leon said nothing.
"If you kneel here, the academy marks you. Not just as a swordsman. Not even as a Crest-bearer. But as one who shapes the walls they carve into."
A pause. Then:
"Do you kneel?"
Leon lowered himself.
Knee to stone.
Back straight.
He didn’t flinch when they approached from behind. Didn’t move when they placed sothing cold around his neck. A chain. Weighted. Symbolic.
"Rise, Leon of House Thorne," Elric said.
Leon stood.
The chain didn’t choke. It steadied.
Another voice echoed from the chamber’s edge.
"Then let his na be carved."
Chisels struck stone.
Leon turned only once, to watch the carver etch the fresh na onto the lowest wall.
Leon Thorne. First of the Obsidian Gate.
And for the first ti, history bent forward to et him.
He left the Hall of Nas without fanfare.
But everyone saw him when he returned.
—
Word of his na on the wall spread faster than the noon bell. Whispers snapped through corridors like dry twigs underfoot. So faces turned when he passed. Others turned away. But no one looked through him anymore.
By afternoon, Roth had him run the Eastern Wall circuit twice, no words exchanged. Fena threw him a fresh blade during sparring drills—he broke the last one on his third match. He was faster now. Sharper. His form still rough in corners, but no longer wild.
At dusk, a letter found him beneath the maple tree.
Unsealed.
Your position is not yet final. One more stands before you. Prepare.
He folded the paper without expression.
By moonrise, he trained alone, blade flashing beneath lanterns. The chain remained around his neck. Heavy. Centering.
And in the courtyard shadows, figures watched.
Not instructors.
Peers.
They weren’t testing him anymore.
They were asuring themselves against what he’d beco.
—
The following morning, his door bore a mark. Chalked in grey—not the duel board’s white. A symbol most didn’t recognise. But Roth did.
He stood outside Leon’s quarters just after dawn, arms folded.
"You’ve drawn out the one who’s never been nad."
Leon checked his boots. "Good."
Roth studied him for a long mont. "It’s not a title. It’s a warning. This isn’t a challenge. It’s a reckoning. You know that right?"
Leon adjusted the chain around his neck. "I’m still going."
The match wasn’t listed publicly. No crowd gathered. No hall was prepared.
He was sent to the Northern Courtyard—the oldest ring in the academy, one used for rites, and not spectacle.
The sun hadn’t cleared the walls when his opponent arrived.
Cloaked. Silent. Their weapon a single-edged blade, curved slightly. Foreign.
No na was given.
They bowed once.
Leon nodded.
The fight began.
It wasn’t fast. It was precise. Silent, almost reverent. No grunts. No shouts. Just the scuff of feet and hiss of steel.
They were better than him. For the first ti in weeks, Leon knew it.
But he didn’t falter.
He adjusted. Adapted. Let the chain remind him. And fought with everything he had.
When he scored the final blow, it was not clean.
But it was earned.
The cloaked figure bowed again, deeper this ti, before vanishing through the gate.
No applause followed.
Just the wind.
But the mark on his door was gone when he returned.
And in the Hall of Nas, another line was added—beneath his.
Victor of the Silent Duel. Endorser of the Obsidian Gate.
—
That night, the halls quieted around him.
No footsteps followed. No tests ca. The weight of the academy’s gaze didn’t press the sa way—it lingered, as if waiting.
Leon sharpened his sword beneath the lantern by the East Wall, motions steady. The chain no longer felt cold. It felt familiar, as if it belonged to him now.
Roth joined him for a mont. Said nothing. Just watched.
Eventually, he spoke.
"You’ve crossed the line where others look up instead of across."
Leon didn’t pause. "I’m not done climbing."
Roth grunted, half a chuckle. "Good. Because the next rung doesn’t wait for readiness. It demands hunger."
He left without another word.
Leon continued sharpening.
Each scrape of steel sang quieter than the last.
But it echoed longer.
—
The lantern eventually burned low, and Leon set the blade down. His arms ached, but his mind didn’t drift. He sat against the stone wall, staring out into the courtyard as clouds moved over the moon.
Fena passed by, pausing near the archway. She didn’t approach, just offered a glance. "You still carrying the world on your shoulders?"
Leon leaned his head back. "It feels lighter now."
She smirked. "That’s because you’re changing it."
Then she walked on.
He watched until her steps faded. Then closed his eyes.
Not to rest.
To rember the mont.
The silence. The wind.
And the certainty that tomorrow would co faster than expected.
A bell tolled once in the distance, softer than usual. Leon’s eyes snapped open. No one else was near, but sothing told him the ssage was ant for him.
He rose, took up the blade again, and buckled the chain tight across his chest. Not just a symbol now. A promise.
The academy wasn’t finished with him.
And he wasn’t finished with it.
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