The return to the Academy after seeing Emily was like plunging back into a cold bath. The warmth of the Convent's garden faded, replaced by the rigid stone of the lecture halls and the constant, vibrating hum of the Citadel's mana-veins. However, the atmosphere in the Academy had shifted during the weekend. A new instructor had arrived to fill the vacant "History of the Old Wars" chair, a position famously difficult to keep due to the controversial nature of the subject.
Matthew sat in the back of the auditorium, his Aegis Dampers hidden under his sleeves. Beside him, Andrew was meticulously organizing his quills, while Andre was surreptitiously trying to fix a spring in the music box he was building for a girl in the D-class.
The doors at the front of the hall creaked open. Instead of the usual aged scholar in heavy robes, a man walked in wearing a simple, worn leather duster over a tactical military tunic. He walked with a slight limp, his boots thumping rhythmically on the wood. He had a salt-and-pepper beard and eyes that looked like they had seen the sky burn.
He didn't go to the lectern. He stood in the center of the pit and looked at the sea of students.
"My name is Professor Silas," he said, his voice like gravel. "For the next term, I am going to teach you why most of what you've been told about the 'Great Victories' is a lie. History isn't written by the winners; it's written by the survivors who didn't lose their minds."
The Roll Call of Fate
Silas began to read the registry, his voice flat. He stopped when he reached the middle of the list.
"Matthew of Oakhaven. Stand."
Matthew felt a chill go down his spine. He stood slowly, the eyes of the entire class—including Lucius and his sycophants—turning toward him.
Silas walked up the stairs, his limp more pronounced as he approached the back row. He stopped three feet from Matthew. He didn't look at Matthew's uniform or his Rank 0 badge. He looked straight into his eyes, searching for something.
"Oakhaven," Silas whispered, loud enough for only the nearby rows to hear. "Your father's name was Thomas, wasn't it?"
Matthew nodded, his throat dry. "Yes, Professor."
Silas stared at him for a long, heavy moment. A flicker of something that looked like grief—and deep respect—crossed the old soldier's face.
"I served with him," Silas said, his voice suddenly thick. "Twenty years ago, during the Siege of the Iron Gate. We were surrounded by a horde of Blight-Walkers. Most of the 'Noble Knights' had already retreated to the secondary line."
The classroom went dead silent. Even Lucius stopped whispering.
"Your father," Silas said, turning to address the entire room, "was not a Noble. He had no title and no land. But when the gates buckled, he didn't run. He stood in the breach for six hours with a broken shield and a rusted sword. We called him The Brave One. He was the only reason three hundred civilians made it out of that valley alive."
Matthew felt the air leave his lungs. He knew his father was a soldier, but Thomas had always spoken of his service as "boring guard duty" or "marching in the rain." He had never mentioned being a legend of the Iron Gate.
"Thomas was a warrior of the old breed," Silas continued, looking back at Matthew. "He didn't fight for stars or ranks. He fought because it was the right thing to do. It's a shame the Academy doesn't teach that kind of 'History' anymore."
Silas turned and walked back to the front of the room, leaving Matthew standing there. The murmurs started instantly.
"The Brave One? His father was a war hero?"
"I thought he was just a farmer."
Lucius looked back at Matthew, his sneer replaced by a confused scowl. To the Elites, lineage was everything. If Matthew's father was a "Brave Warrior" recognized by a veteran like Silas, the "peasant" insult lost its edge.
"Open your texts to page 112," Silas barked, slamming his hand on the desk to regain control. "Today, we talk about the Logistics of the Void. We talk about what happens when the mana-veins fail and you have to rely on the person standing next to you rather than the core in your chest."
Throughout the lecture, Matthew couldn't focus on the notes. He kept thinking about his father's calloused hands—the same hands that had taught him how to hold a wooden sword. He realized that the "Brave Warrior" hadn't just died in Oakhaven; he had spent fifteen years trying to hide that warrior so his children wouldn't have to follow in his footsteps.
After the class ended, Silas caught Matthew's eye and gave a sharp, subtle nod toward the side door—an invitation.
"Go on," Andrew whispered, nudging him. "We'll save you a seat at dinner."
Silas's office was cluttered with old maps and rusted armor pieces. The Professor was pouring a cup of dark, bitter-smelling tea.
"You have his eyes," Silas said without looking up. "But you have a different kind of fire. Or rather, a lack of it."
"You knew him well?" Matthew asked, stepping into the room.
"He saved my life, boy. More than once," Silas said. He sat down and gestured to a chair. "Thomas was the best of us. When he disappeared to that village, we thought he was crazy. But looking at you... I see he was just protecting something."
Silas leaned forward, his expression turning grave. "The Dean didn't hire me just to teach history, Matthew. He hired me because he knows I can recognize a soldier when I see one. He wants me to train you in the 'Old Ways'—the combat techniques used before everyone relied on mana-shields and fireballs."
"I'm already training with Lyra," Matthew admitted.
Silas let out a dry, raspy laugh. "The Ignis girl? She'll teach you how to be a flame. I'm going to teach you how to be the dirt that smothers it. Your father was 'The Brave One' because he knew how to endure. If you want to survive what's coming, you need to learn that bravery isn't about not being afraid—it's about being the last one standing when the world goes dark."
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a heavy, iron-bound whetstone. "Tonight, 9:00 PM. The back training fields. Bring your Aegis Dampers. We're going to see if you've inherited your father's grit."
Matthew took the whetstone. It felt like a torch being passed. He wasn't just a Zero anymore. He was the son of the Brave One