Fractured Dreams, Silent Promises
Chapter 3 – Fractured Dreams, Silent Promises
Rikuo dreamed of warmth.
Not the gentle kind that came from sunlight or a hearth, but something softer—human. A presence beside him, close enough that he could feel it without touching. Fingers intertwined. Quiet laughter shared beneath a sky he could no longer remember clearly.
“Rikuo.”
The voice called his name gently, the way it always had.
He turned, smiling, already knowing who it was.
But the smile froze.
She was there… yet not.
Her eyes no longer rested on him.
They were fixed on someone standing just behind him.
Rikuo tried to turn, but his body refused to move. Panic crept into his chest as footsteps approached—confident, unhesitating. A presence that felt overwhelming without being aggressive.
A hand reached out.
Not for him.
For her.
She didn’t pull away.
She didn’t hesitate.
Instead, she stepped forward.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. Not to him—but past him. “This is the right choice.”
The world tilted.
Rikuo felt something tear inside his chest, sharp and sudden, like glass shattering under pressure. He tried to speak, to ask why, to demand an explanation—but his voice failed him.
The man finally stepped into view.
Golden light seemed to cling to him unnaturally. His posture was straight, his gaze unwavering, his presence commanding in a way that felt… ordained.
The Hero his best friend.
Rikuo met his eyes.
There was no hatred there.
Only certainty.
As if the outcome had never been in doubt.
She took the hero’s hand.
And walked away.
The warmth vanished.
The sky darkened.
And Rikuo was left standing alone, surrounded by echoes of something that had once been his.
Rikuo woke up gasping.
His heart pounded violently as he shot upright in bed, his breath uneven and shallow. His fingers trembled slightly as he pressed them against his chest, as if expecting to feel the crack still there.
“…Again,” he whispered.
The dream faded slowly, like mist under the morning sun, but the feeling it left behind was stubborn. Heavy. Hollow.
He looked around.
Stone walls. Clean floors. Tall windows framed by carefully carved runes. The quiet hum of enchantments layered deep into the structure itself.
A dormitory room.
Not House Seras.
Rikuo let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“…Santiago Academy,” he murmured.
Relief washed over him first—pure, undeniable. The dream had dragged him backward, but reality reminded him where he stood now. Far from that place. Far from those people.
Yet the relief didn’t last.
His gaze drifted downward, unfocused, as the memory replayed itself in fragments. Not the full truth—never that—but enough to reopen something that had never properly healed.
He swung his legs off the bed and sat there for a moment, shoulders slightly hunched.
“So this is how mornings start now,” he muttered quietly.
Still, he stood.
Rikuo washed his face, the cold water helping to ground him. He changed into the academy uniform, adjusting it carefully. The fabric was well-made, enchanted subtly to adapt to the wearer’s body.
He paused briefly, staring at his reflection.
Brown eyes. Black hair. A face that looked calm enough—too calm, perhaps.
“…No one needs to know,” he said softly.
With that, he left the room.
The dormitory corridor buzzed with life.
Students moved in clusters, their voices overlapping in excited chatter. Some compared sigils. Others boasted quietly about family backgrounds or whispered rumors about instructors.
Rikuo stepped outside just as the morning sun illuminated the academy grounds.
That was when he saw them.
“Rikuo!”
Izuo stood near the dormitory exit, waving energetically. Latris was beside him, her posture relaxed, expression gentle as always.
Rikuo blinked in surprise. “You’re both up early.”
Izuo laughed. “Couldn’t sleep. First day and all that.”
Latris smiled. “We thought you might like some company.”
Rikuo hesitated for half a second.
“…I would,” he admitted.
They began walking together toward the main academic building, falling naturally into step.
“So,” Izuo said, breaking the silence with ease, “we never really talked about sigils properly yesterday.
What’s yours, Rikuo?”
Latris glanced at him as well, curiosity clear but not intrusive.
Before Rikuo could answer, Latris spoke first.
“My sigil allows me to communicate with plants,” she said calmly. “Not just understanding them, but exchanging intent. It’s… subtle.”
“That’s still amazing,” Izuo said. “Way cooler than people think.”
She chuckled softly. “Thank you.”
Izuo then grinned and pointed at himself. “Mine enhances my physical growth through training. The harder I train, the stronger I get. Simple, honest, and painful.”
“That suits you,” Rikuo said sincerely.
“Right?” Izuo laughed.
Both of them turned to him expectantly.
Rikuo inhaled.
“My sigil is—”
“#########.”
Silence.
Latris frowned slightly. “I’m sorry?”
Rikuo tried again.
“It’s called— #########.”
Izuo stared. “Okay… that was definitely not a name.”
Rikuo’s brows furrowed. He opened his mouth once more.
“#########.”
Nothing changed.
Latris stopped walking. “Rikuo…?”
He exhaled slowly.
“…Broken Crown,” he said instead.
Both of them froze—not in fear, but in confusion.
“That’s… the name?” Izuo asked.
Rikuo nodded. “When I try to say the real one, it doesn’t come out. I don’t know why.”
Latris studied him carefully. “And what does it do?”
Rikuo looked away. “I’m not sure. I haven’t been able to use it properly.”
He hesitated, then added quietly, “My body can’t handle it very well.”
Izuo’s eyes lit up—not with concern, but excitement.
“Then let’s train,” he said immediately.
Rikuo blinked. “What?”
“If your body’s the problem, we fix that,” Izuo said, grinning. “You’re not doing this alone anymore.”
Rikuo looked at him, startled.
“I mean it,” Izuo continued, energized. “We’re friends now, right? Training together is what friends do.”
Latris nodded. “We’ll help.”
Something eased in Rikuo’s chest.
“…Thank you.”
The classroom they entered was enormous.
Rows of reinforced desks. Wide open space. Walls layered with defensive enchantments.
“Ooooh,” all three muttered instinctively.
They sat together—Rikuo in the middle.
"Dooong Dooog"
The academy bell rang, deep and resonant.
The classroom fell silent the moment the man stepped inside.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a build that spoke of years spent breaking limits rather than teaching theory. His presence alone carried weight—not authority born of fear, but of experience.
“Sit,” he said.
Every student obeyed instantly.
The man crossed his arms, surveying the room with sharp, assessing eyes, as if already measuring how many of them would endure.
“My name is Doran,” he said at last. “I am the instructor responsible for Physical Training.”
He paused, letting the title settle.
“You are currently assigned to Class C,” Doran continued. “Del Santiago Academy has five classes in total.”
With a flick of his hand, glowing letters appeared in the air behind him.
A.
B.
C.
D.
E.
“Each class contains exactly fifty students,” he said. “No more. No less.”
Rikuo straightened slightly.
“Your class ranking is determined by your overall performance,” Doran explained. “The higher your class, the greater the privileges and recognition you will receive upon graduation.”
A murmur spread through the room.
“Do not misunderstand,” Doran added sharply. “All classes receive the same education, the same instructors, and the same opportunities. The difference lies in what awaits you after this academy.”
He turned, eyes hard.
“Those who graduate from Class A receive priority—military commissions, noble sponsorships, direct guild access, and royal invitations.”
A pause.
“The lower your class, the fewer doors open for you.”
Silence followed.
“Your grades are calculated through a bimestral system,” Doran continued. “Every two months, you will undergo two evaluations.”
He raised two fingers.
“The first is a theoretical exam. This will test your understanding of subjects that do not rely on physical exertion or direct combat.”
He lowered one finger.
“The second is a practical evaluation.”
The room tensed.
“These evaluations test your Sigil, your combat aptitude, and your ability to apply what you have learned under pressure. These may take the form of duels, survival exercises, simulated battles, or academy-sanctioned events.”
Doran’s gaze sharpened.
“The higher your combined score, the higher your chance of advancing.”
He turned fully toward the class.
“But understand this clearly.”
“When you rise—someone else falls.”
A heavy silence followed.
“There are only fifty seats per class,” Doran said. “If you advance from Class C to Class B, one student from Class B will be demoted to Class C.”
Some students swallowed.
Others clenched their fists.
“This academy does not create winners without creating losers,” Doran finished. “Get used to it.”
He then shifted his tone slightly, more instructional than intimidating.
“At Del Santiago Academy, you will attend a wide range of classes,” he said. “These include, but are not limited to—”
Glowing symbols appeared again, listing subjects as he spoke.
“Mathematics and logical reasoning.”
“World History and geopolitical studies.”
“Social Classes and Noble Etiquette—many of you will interact with nobles, generals, and political powers. You will be taught how to survive those interactions.”
A few students nodded uneasily.
“Alchemy,” Doran continued. “Optional.”
“Magic Theory and Mana Control.”
“Physical Training.” He tapped his chest. “That’s me.”
A brief pause.
“Theology,” he added. “Optional. Primarily for clerics and those who wield divine-based magic.”
“And finally—Monster Biology-Monster Studies,” Doran said. “Where you will learn the anatomy of known creatures classification, behavior, threat levels and how to deal with them efficiently.”
Rikuo listened closely.
This wasn’t a school.
It was preparation for survival.
“The academy itself functions as a self-contained city,” Doran continued. “Outside the main gates lies an affiliated city under academy jurisdiction.”
A faint glow appeared, forming the symbol of a guild.
“There, you will find the Adventurers’ Guild, supervised directly by this academy.”
“Students may accept missions issued by the city’s residents or by the academy itself.”
“And for completing those missions,” Doran said, “you will earn AP—Achievement Points.”
A ripple of interest passed through the class.
“AP is your currency here,” he explained. “Food. Supplies. Equipment. Elixirs. Specialized training materials.”
“All of it,” he said firmly, “is purchased using AP.”
Doran let the information settle before speaking again.
“Now,” he said, “before we head to the training grounds, you need to understand something fundamental.”
He turned toward the class.
“Sigils are talents granted to each soul at birth.”
Some students leaned forward.
“Nearly everyone possesses one,” Doran said. “They range from common sigils—such as Merchant or Craftsman—to rare and unique ones.”
He paused briefly.
“…Including sigils such as Hero.”
Rikuo felt a sharp ache in his chest.
He looked down, steadying his breathing, and forced himself to listen.
“There are rare cases of individuals born without sigils,” Doran continued. “They exist—but they are exceptions.”
He crossed his arms.
“My role, and the purpose of this class, is not to teach you how to activate your sigil,” he said. “It is to ensure your body can withstand it.”
“Sigils—mana-based or otherwise—place strain on the body,” Doran explained. “Just like muscles, they tire. They weaken. They break if overused.”
“With proper training,” he said, “your body adapts.”
“And the stronger your body becomes,” Doran finished, “the longer—and safer—you can use your sigil.”
The bell echoed through the classroom.
Doran turned toward the door.
“Welcome to Physical Training.”
End of Chapter 3
