The gates of Virtuoso Academy loomed tall like the walls of a castle, its frame forged from ancient steel and mana-inscribed stone. Over a hundred students stood outside, all buzzing with conversation, nerves, or the effort of trying to look calm.
Tyron Taiōji stood near the center of it all, silent among the noise.
He scanned the crowd—faces he didn’t know, voices that blurred together. But then…
“You took your time.”
Tyron turned.
Standing beside him was Kyron Namakazo, as stoic and unreadable as ever. His coat fluttered lightly in the wind, his posture as straight and calm as a blade still in its sheath.
“I knew you’d come,” Kyron said. “You just needed time.”
Tyron gave a simple nod.
Before either of them could speak further, a loud voice broke through the crowd.
“TYRON!”
It was less of a call and more of a war cry.
Luka Toshibura charged through the sea of students, arms wide open.
Tyron shifted his stance just in time to absorb the impact as Luka hugged him tight.
“I knew you’d show!” Luka laughed, stepping back with a grin. “You look all serious but I know you’re excited too.”
Tyron smirked faintly. “You’re loud.”
“I’m celebratin’, dude!”
Then—Tyron felt it.
A familiar flicker of energy behind him. Light footsteps. Steady breathing. The faintest giggle.
He let it happen.
Kimiko Kitsune leapt up from behind and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, clinging to his back like a mischievous shadow.
“There he is,” she purred. “I knew you’d come around.”
“I sensed you five seconds ago,” Tyron replied flatly.
Kimiko pouted. “Aw, really? You ruined my dramatic entrance.”
He raised a brow. “You jump on me every time. I was prepared.”
She dropped down beside him, tail swaying with delight. “I’m still doin’ it next time. You’re comfy.”
The crowd stirred again.
This time, it wasn’t subtle.
“BEHOLD!”
A single student forced his way through the gathering with a voice that echoed like thunder.
“Your future champion has arrived!”
Fredrick Von Fitzgerald raised both arms dramatically as students groaned, muttered, or rolled their eyes.
Fredrick flashed a grin. “You may now continue breathing. I permit it.”
“Why are we friends with him again?” Luka whispered.
Kimiko snorted. “Because we’re cursed.”
Fredrick finally joined them, straightening his shades. “What’s up, losers. You ready for the best four years of your lives?”
Tyron deadpanned, “You’re going to be unbearable, aren’t you?”
“I’ve always been unbearable. But now, I’m officially elite.”
Before anyone could fire back, a heavy gust of wind swept the front gates.
The metal creaked.
And then—he appeared.
A tall, gruff man stood in the open doorway. Ash-smeared blacksmith attire, scorched leather apron, thick gloves, and a lit cigarette clenched between his teeth.
He smelled of smoke, steel, and raw grit.
He scanned the crowd with narrow, unimpressed eyes.
No one dared speak.
He took one long drag from his cigarette, then exhaled slowly before stepping forward.
“The test begins now,” he growled. “No turnin’ back.”
He pointed over his shoulder.
“Front yard. Move it.”
The massive gates groaned fully open, revealing the academy courtyard beyond.
Tyron and his friends filed in with the crowd.
Virtuoso Academy – Front Yard
The yard wasn’t just an entry space—it was an arena.
Circular stone tiling formed a wide battle ring. Banners fluttered overhead. Weapon racks lined the far walls, and a raised stage waited at the center, where a row of instructors already stood.
One of them stepped forward.
She was tall, slender, dressed in an elegant but functional suit. Her black hair was pulled into a sharp bun, her violet eyes practically glowing.
She carried herself like a queen—but not one you wanted to cross.
“I am Vice Principal Sakuragi Nanami,” she said, her tone cutting through the crowd like a blade.
“I’ll keep this brief. If you think you’re already the best, if you came here expecting special treatment, or if you’re the type who folds under pressure—leave.”
Silence.
She continued. “This institution does not exist to pamper you. You will earn your place here with discipline, skill, and a mind that doesn’t crumble under failure.”
Still no one moved.
“Good,” she said, satisfied. “Then allow me to introduce the instructors who will determine your worth.”
She stepped back as the instructors began to present themselves.
Mr. Tachibana Kento, the blacksmith-like man from before, stepped forward again, hammer slung across his shoulder.
“Name’s Kento. Division A. I handle weapons and survival training. You’ll learn to fight like your life depends on it—because it just might.”
He glanced around the crowd.
“I’ve trained soldiers, mercs, and monster hunters. If you think that wooden sword from your village makes you special, I’ll personally break it.”
He stepped back without another word.
Next came a large man with a wide smile and intense energy.
“Yo! Name’s Rin Kobushibo—call me Coach Rin!” he said, raising a fist. “Division B! Physical combat and endurance. I’ll be the one breakin’ ya until your body hates you, then buildin’ you back up even stronger!”
He grinned wider. “It’s gonna hurt. A lot. You’ll thank me later!”
He gave a peace sign and stepped back.
A quiet man with glasses approached next, his tone calm and warm.
“I am Fukuro Yuuji, Division C,” he said softly. “I specialize in mana efficiency and strategic application. You will learn how to think, calculate, and apply mana like a second heartbeat.”
He adjusted his glasses. “Some of you may have raw power—but unrefined mana is wasted potential.”
Then stepped forth a woman with soft features, eyes like spring water, and robes flowing with subtle enchantment.
“I am Green Merlin,” she said kindly. “Division D. My focus is elemental flow and mana adaptation. Magic is alive. Treat it with respect—and it will listen.”
Her voice carried a motherly warmth that contrasted the hard-edged tone of the others.
Then came a tall woman in high heels, hips swaying as she strutted forward.
Long violet hair curled down her back, and she radiated charisma.
“I’m Void Lunar,” she purred. “Division E. I specialize in spatial rifts and history. That means teleportation, distortion, and bending the rules of space.”
She winked at the crowd. “Try not to fall in love, yeah?”
Someone coughed awkwardly. Fredrick waved.
She smirked and stepped back.
Next came a tall, clumsy-looking woman with a long coat and nervous energy. Her hands fidgeted with her sleeves as she spoke.
“I-I’m Kaia Nakajimi. Division F. I help students with mutation control… and uh… emotional support.”
Her voice trailed. “If you have… weird powers or… scary transformations… I’ll help you not freak out…”
Despite her awkwardness, her sincerity was clear.
Then came a cold presence.
A sharp-dressed older man with white-gray hair and piercing silver eyes stepped forward.
“Professor Caelus Reignhart,” he said simply. “Division G. I mentor only those who show elite-level aptitude.”
His gaze cut across the crowd like a scalpel. “Perfection is the minimum.”
He stepped back. No further explanation.
Finally, a serene woman with gentle eyes and glowing threads wrapped around her wrists stepped forward.
“I am Yora Ainsleigh, Division H,” she said, her voice soft as rain. “Support training, recovery, and emotional grounding. Your health—physical and mental—matters more than you think.”
She bowed gracefully and stepped back.
Vice Principal Sakuragi returned to center stage.
“Each of these instructors is an expert. Respect them—or you will be dismissed.”
She was about to continue when—
ROOOOOAAAAARRRRRRR!
A bestial cry erupted from the skies above.
Every head turned. Students panicked. Some ducked, others stared wide-eyed at the sky.
A massive wyvern descended from above, its wings spanning nearly 60 feet. Its scales glinted blue and white like frostbitten steel. Each beat of its wings created a shockwave of wind across the field.
Screams. Panic. Disbelief.
Except for the teachers, who didn’t flinch.
And Tyron… who, though nervous, stood still.
Because standing atop the wyvern’s head—
Was a man.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a long, black-tailcoat reinforced with golden cuffs and a crimson trim. The coat’s torn ends fluttered as if alive, dancing behind him like flames. His dark slacks were pressed, his boots grounded, and the crimson tie beneath his black undershirt stood out like blood on ink.
His presence wasn’t loud.
It didn’t have to be.
Even atop the wyvern, his posture was relaxed—commanding. No reigns. No saddle. Just balance, certainty, and absolute control.
As the beast descended, its wings kicking up a massive gust, the man stood still. When it landed, he dropped down effortlessly, landing without a sound. His boots hit the ground with a soft thud—not a tremor, but a statement.
He pulled a silver fish from his coat, gently offering it to the wyvern. The creature lowered its head, accepting the gift with a low growl of contentment as he stroked its scaled neck.
The teachers bowed in perfect unison.
The students didn’t.
Because they couldn’t.
They were frozen—each instinctively aware that they were in the presence of someone who measured greatness by silence, not volume.
Then, slowly, he turned to face them.
A scar cut across the left side of his face, and his crimson eyes—burning from beneath a crown of dark hair swept back with streaks of gray—locked onto every student like a brand.
And when he spoke, the very air responded.
“My name,” he began, voice calm, yet vast, “is Salomon. Salomon Vlad King.”
The weight of his words hung like storm clouds.
“Headmaster of Virtuoso Academy.”
Silence. No one moved. No one dared breathe too loudly.
His gaze swept the field once more.
And then—he spoke again, this time lower, sharper.
“Welcome… to greatness.”
