The night air around Amabel Academy was cold. An autumn breeze rustled softly, carrying the scent of wet leaves and damp earth. Squeezed between two magnificent noble dormitories was a narrow, seldom-used alleyway. Its old, moss-covered stone walls seemed to swallow all sound, creating a pocket of silence isolated from the academy's splendor. The only source of light was a single magical lantern at the far end, its flickering glow seemingly reluctant to illuminate the darkness.
Within the deepest recess of a wall, a figure stood motionless. His entire body was wrapped in a pitch-black cloak, its hood pulled so low that it completely obscured his face. He exuded no aura, made no sound. He simply waited with the patience of a spider in its web.
Before long, the sound of unsteady footsteps approached the mouth of the alley. The steps faltered slightly, punctuated by a soft mumble. A tall, blond-haired youth entered the alley, the faint, sweet scent of quality wine wafting from his clothes.
It was Artur de Medeiros—the Golden-ranked genius, the 15-year-old war hero, the idol of the entire kingdom, titled "The Saint of Solian." And at this moment, he was slightly drunk.
His steps came to a halt as he saw the cloaked figure at the end of the alley blocking his path.
"Who are you?" Artur's voice was hoarse, his tone more a command than a question. "Get out of my way, or I'll move you myself."
The cloaked figure did not reply. In the tense silence, he simply drew a sword—a plain, cheap-looking practice sword, devoid of any adornment.
Seeing the pathetic weapon, Artur let out a short laugh, one laced with arrogance. "You must have a death wish, don't you?"
Without further warning, Artur drew his own sword. Instantly, the dark alley was flooded with a dazzling golden light. A tremendously dense and powerful Golden-ranked Aura erupted from his body, causing the very stones in the walls to tremble. He lunged forward, his sword swinging with lightning speed, intending to end this annoyance in a single blow.
However, the cloaked figure moved in a peculiar way. He made no attempt to counter Artur's power directly. Instead, he flowed like the wind. With minimalist and efficient footwork, he evaded. As Artur's golden sword slashed, he tilted his body. As Artur thrust, he pivoted slightly. Each movement was just enough to avoid the fatal blow, nothing more.
"Can you only run, you rat?!" Artur snarled, frustration creeping into his voice. The alcohol had thrown his precision off, and every failed strike felt like a personal insult.
The cloaked figure continued to retreat as if he were being overwhelmed, allowing Artur to press him deeper into the alley. Further and further back, until his back was nearly against the dead-end wall. Artur, seeing his opponent cornered, smiled victoriously. He raised his sword high, gathering his golden aura for a final, devastating attack.
Just then, his foot landed on a specific spot on the stone floor.
A misstep, thought the cloaked figure from under his hood.
THOOM!
A magical explosion erupted from beneath Artur's feet. Not an explosion of fire or ice, but a colorless shockwave that slammed into his body. It was a "Mana-Shattering Rune." The golden light on Artur's sword instantly extinguished like a candle in a storm. He was thrown backward, coughing up blood, truly wounded and confused.
The cloaked figure, who had been cornered, now walked forward calmly.
"You..." Artur hissed, looking up at the figure with eyes full of pure hatred. His hero's mask had crumbled away. "You piece of trash... how dare you... My uncle will—"
"Enough playing around," whispered a cold voice from beneath the hood.
The plain sword in the figure's hand suddenly felt different. The faint aura surrounding it now felt ancient and deadly. He raised his sword.
"Slash Flower."
A single, horizontal slash. The movement was so fast, so clean, so beautiful. It was less like a sword strike and more like the brushstroke of an artist. In the wake of his blade, an illusion of pink cherry blossom petals scattered, dancing in the air of the filthy, dark alley. It was a jarringly beautiful, yet lethal, spectacle.
The head of Artur de Medeiros, "The Saint of Solian," fell from his neck with a dull thud, his eyes still wide with shock. His body collapsed a moment later.
But the story was not over.
As Artur's life truly faded, a pitch-black, malevolent aura erupted from the headless corpse. It formed a horrifying shadow for a moment, letting out a silent scream that could only be felt by the soul, a wave of pure terror that slammed into the cloaked figure and threw him against the wall.
For a second, he felt absolute chaos. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the black shadow vanished into the night sky.
The cloaked figure rose with difficulty, breathing heavily. His robe was slightly torn, but his body was fine. He stared at the corpse before him, then up at the sky.
'That... wasn't in the novel,' he thought, a tremor he had never felt before running down his spine.
The panic lasted only a moment. His pragmatic side took over. Methodically, he cleaned his blade until not a single drop of blood remained, then sheathed it. He erased the remnants of the rune on the ground, and scanned his surroundings one last time, ensuring nothing was left behind.
As he turned to leave, one of the illusory sakura petals from his technique, which should have vanished with the rest, instead floated down gently and landed in the pool of blood. It did not disappear. It had become real.
The cloaked figure didn't notice. He melted into the darkness, disappearing from the narrow alley.
Leaving behind only silence, the body of a hero, and a single flower that should never have existed.