There were traditions at the Dragon Hunter Academy that every student heard whispers of, but only a few ever experienced directly.
One of them was the Sponsorship.
It was not officially written into the curriculum. Not sothing one could ask for, or apply to, or even prepare against. It ca quietly, like a shadow in the night, whispered about between the alumni with the reverence of those who had survived sothing greater than they could explain.
A Sponsorship ant that one of the Academy’s lecturers—powerful Dragon Hunters in their own right—had noticed you. More than that, it ant they had decided to back you, quietly but firmly, feeding resources, guidance, and opportunities that other students would never dream of.
But there was a catch.
No one ever knew who their Sponsor was at first. The letters were anonymous, the packages unsigned. A Sponsor could remain hidden until the very end—or reveal themselves at the mont it would matter most. So Sponsors guided with gentle hands, others with brutal tests. It was said that many of the Academy’s greatest alumni owed their entire rise not only to their talent but to the unseen hands that shaped their path.
As Draco sat at his desk, staring at the crimson-sealed letter, the thought was not lost on him.
"A Sponsor..." he muttered under his breath, breaking the wax.
The paper unfolded with a whisper. The handwriting inside was precise, sharp, like the edge of a blade that had cut through countless hides.
You have been selected.
Draco’s eyes narrowed. He kept reading.
Your progress has been noted. Your control over Dragon Hearts is abnormal, and your victories in Subjugation trials prove you are capable of more than ordinary students. As of this mont, you are under my Sponsorship. This is not a gift. This is an investnt.
Draco’s jaw tightened as the words pressed deeper. Whoever wrote this had studied him carefully. Every accomplishnt listed, every word dripping with scrutiny disguised as praise.
He read on.
If you wish to prove yourself further, step outside the east gates at midnight. You will find a special package prepared for you. Consider this a trial. Complete it, and the path forward will open.
There was no signature. No seal beyond the Academy’s own. And yet...
Draco leaned back, closing his eyes briefly. The hand behind this letter was obvious. The razor-sharp handwriting, the coldly analytical tone, the way it simultaneously praised and dissected—it scread one na.
"...Frost Winister."
The mont the na left his lips, a shiver traced down his spine.
Frost—the youngest lecturer in Academy history, already a figure of near-legend among students.
He was calm, yet ruthless in his instruction, clinical in his observations, unrelenting in his expectations.
If Frost was indeed his Sponsor, it ant every step Draco had taken was truly being watched.
’Why has his fascination with not subsided even though I’ve tried to limit my abilities?’ Draco sighed.
Drqco was far stronger than the rest of the students. That much was clear to him.
And if Frost was watching too closely...
Draco’s gaze dropped to his own hands. The System, the truth of his class, his identity as a Dragon Tar—things no one in this Academy, in this world, could ever be allowed to know.
For a mont, unease curled in his chest.
’What if Frost has already noticed sothing? What if he’s piecing it together?’
But then he exhaled, slow and asured.
"No," he whispered. "There’s no evidence. Nothing that would confirm it. To him, I’m just... unusual."
The comfort was small, but it was enough.
Draco refolded the letter, tucking it into his desk drawer. Midnight was only hours away. He considered refusing, ignoring the call. It wasn’t as though Frost could punish him for refusing a secret Sponsorship.
But...
His eyes narrowed.
’If he’s offering sothing... I can’t afford to throw it away. Not if it gives an edge.’
******
Midnight ca cloaked in silence.
Draco slipped through the Academy corridors, his steps asured, his presence masked by the sleeping air. The east gates stood tall and unmoving, lanterns unlit, their shadows deep. Beyond them, the training fields stretched into emptiness.
And there, on the ground, lay the package.
A small chest of black wood, reinforced with iron corners. No lock. No guard. Just sitting as if it had always been waiting.
Draco knelt, fingers brushing over the lid. With a faint creak, it opened.
Inside, two objects glowed faintly against the darkness.
The first: a Rank 2 D-H, its surface pulsing like the rhythm of a great beast slumbering within. Veins of yellow symbols glowed across its crystalline form, whispering of the power it contained.
The second: a vial of swirling liquid, glowing faintly golden amber. An Essence Vial.
And beneath them, a folded note.
Draco lifted it carefully and read.
This D-H contains the Breath of the Crimson Basilisk. Master it within a week. When you succeed, return to this place. Another package will await you: a Rank 3 D-H. Fail, and the Sponsorship ends.
The note ended there.
For a long mont, Draco stared at the D-H in his palm. Its heat pulsed against his skin, dangerous, hungry.
"...You’re insane," Draco muttered under his breath, shaking his head. A wry smile tugged at his lips.
"Completely insane."
But as he tucked the Heart and the vial into his pouch, that smile sharpened.
"At the sa ti... I couldn’t ask for a better Sponsor."
******
Elsewhere in the dormitories, another light burned against the midnight silence.
Jet Ashborne sat at his desk, a letter unfolded before him. His eyes were locked on the words, his hand clenched tightly around the paper as though to wring the truth out of it.
His jaw set, his shoulders rigid.
"...A Sponsorship," he muttered.
The letter in his hand promised him strength, guidance, opportunity—but at a cost.
It was not the sa as Draco’s, but the weight was unmistakable. Soone had seen him too. Soone had decided he was worth molding.
His fist tightened, crumpling the edge of the page.
"I don’t care what it takes," Jet whispered, voice low and fierce.
The lantern fla flickered, catching in his eyes like stormlight.
"If this gets stronger... I’ll do anything."
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