Saint Academy

One week after the warlock invasion…

---

The sky above Saint Academy was quiet for once.

No screeching war beasts. No crackling flame of unholy sigils. Just clouds—still bruised and gray from the wounds of the past week—hung heavy like unspoken grief. The wind carried ash still trapped in the crevices of shattered stone, rustling through the Academy's walkways like whispered memories.

A rebuilt statue stood at the heart of the courtyard. Three saints raising their weapons toward a rising sun—its marble pristine, but the ground around it was still scorched black. An intentional decision, said the sculptor. "So they remember."

Damien Gray stood in front of the statue, his hands in his pockets, hood pulled up. His eyes didn't look at the marble heroes. They scanned the cracks beneath it, the fragments that hadn't been swept away. The smell of charred wood and holy oils lingered in the air. Even after a week of repairs, the scent of fear hadn't gone.

All around him, students moved in silence. Not the kind that came from awe. This silence was full of weight. Of uncertainty. Of aftermath.

He heard their murmurs.

> "That's him."

"The Voidspawn… they say he fought toe-to-toe with Ronan and won."

"They say he vanished into thin air mid-battle… appeared like a ghost."

"They say the High Saint is protecting him."

"They say he's not one of us."

Damien said nothing.

He simply clenched his fists as the wind pushed his coat aside, revealing the faint glow of his recently manifested Saint mark, still pulsing with an unnatural violet hue beneath the surface of his skin. A mark that had once been faint… was now impossible to ignore.

"You're not normal anymore." The voice from the Void echoed in his memory. "You never were."

---

From above, automated repair drones hummed softly, repairing cracks in the defensive walls with radiant mending gel and divinity-sealed lattice plating. The Academy sparkled in some places with its high-tech recovery, yet in others—like the shattered edge of the northern watchtower—it remained scarred.

Zeke Alastair leaned against a bench nearby, arms folded, flames flickering subtly from his fingertips. He hadn't been able to stop igniting since the day the war ended. He didn't care to.

"You ever get the feeling," he muttered without looking at Damien, "that we weren't supposed to make it through that?"

Damien didn't answer. He didn't have to.

Because the scars around them already had.

Zeke kicked a pebble and let out a dry laugh. "I'm not even sure I'm the same person I was before this war. I still smell ash when I sleep. Burnt robes, screams… stuff I can't unsee."

Damien turned slightly. "But you smile through it."

Zeke glanced sideways. "If I stop smiling, I burn."

The silence between them was broken by soft steps approaching. Amara Veyne walked up slowly, her uniform crisp but her eyes distant. She'd buried three students with her own hands after the battle. She hadn't spoken much since.

"We're getting the announcement soon," she said, not looking at either of them.

Zeke raised a brow. "What, already?"

She nodded. "Broadcast is in five."

---

Just as she said, across the sky, six silver drones flared to life and formed a circle above the statue. A golden projection shimmered into place, revealing the form of Headmaster Elijah Solen, his face half-lit by sun and half in shadow.

His voice boomed across the courtyard, carried by every speaker and broadcast node:

> "Saint Academy… You have endured what few before you could even comprehend. You have faced the unholy, and you have survived."

A pause. Faces lifted across the grounds.

> "But survival… is not victory."

Murmurs rippled.

> "Our walls stand again. But the illusion of safety has crumbled. From this day forward, no student will be treated as just a student. You are warriors now. Heirs of a world that needs protectors. Shields against the flame."

Zeke leaned in. "...Here it comes."

> "Beginning this semester, all year groups are eligible for field assignments. The war has already begun—and you will not wait behind these walls for it to reach you again."

Gasps. Some cheers. A few nervous murmurs.

> "Special courses will be introduced. Tactical warlock knowledge. Anti-flame survival training. Combat improvisation. From this day forward… Saint Academy is no longer your sanctuary."

He paused, voice gentler now.

> "It is your forge."

> "The crucible begins."

The projection flickered out.

---

As silence reclaimed the courtyard once more, Damien's heart beat harder.

He looked up, seeing not the clean towers of Saint Academy, but the ashes still clinging to the rooftops.

Behind him, Amara whispered, "They'll expect you to be more now."

Damien looked down at his palm—the faint shimmer of the Void dancing within it.

"I don't care what they expect," he replied.

"I just need to be more."

Three days after the Headmaster's broadcast, a new rhythm had taken hold of Saint Academy.

Gone were the soft lectures and the occasional duel simulations. Replaced by live combat drills, exposure tests, divinity synchronization courses, and grueling physical endurance exercises that made even Zeke—flame-born brawler of the arena—curse under his breath.

It was no longer an institution of guided power.

It was now a bastion under siege, sculpting protectors for a world spinning closer to collapse.

---

"Split into formation D-7!"

Instructor Khoren's shout echoed across the barren training ground.

The old eastern field had been converted into a cracked wasteland, intentionally left unrestored—a reminder of the warlock invasion. The terrain was hostile, dusty, and disorienting, mimicking real-world threat zones.

Zeke, Damien, and Amara raced across the field with five other first-years.

Explosive training orbs detonated around them, releasing pressure glyphs and illusory warlock visages.

"Left side breach!" Amara called, her eyes glowing faintly, already calculating trajectory and threat radius.

Zeke surged forward, flames coating his fists, and knocked the illusionary warlock skyward in a burst of kinetic fire. "You're not even real. Fight me for real, dammit!"

Damien slid past a glyph mine, using momentum to vault up a rocky ledge. His breath wasn't labored, but his expression was focused. The Void whispered again—not words, just instinct. The pressure of the training had awakened something sharper in his perception. Like he could feel the lies of the simulation before they even took form.

He let it guide him.

And just as an orb disguised as rubble tried to detonate beside Amara, Damien flung a shard of dark matter from his palm, disabling it with a pulse of Void Disruption.

Amara blinked in surprise. "That… wasn't part of your set last week."

"I'm evolving," Damien replied flatly, eyes never leaving the field. "We all have to."

---

Later that day, students were dismissed early due to an instructor meeting. Many collapsed onto benches, their uniforms soaked with sweat, others simply laid on the ground, looking up at the cloudy sky.

Zeke dropped beside Damien near the rebuilt central tower.

"You think this fieldwork thing is real?" he asked. "Like… they'll send us out next week? Against warlocks?"

"They don't have a choice," Amara replied, joining them. "The world's bleeding and saints are being hunted. This isn't about whether we're ready. It's about whether we're willing."

Damien didn't speak. He simply looked toward the horizon, toward the sealed gates of the academy.

His mark pulsed again under his sleeve.

He'd begun noticing patterns.

The Flame. The infernal energy warlocks used… it sang to him like an echo of something familiar. Not friendly. But related—like the Void recognized it. Like it wanted to consume it.

---

Later in the Evening – Classroom 7-Zeta: "Know Thy Enemy"

Instructor Alara stepped in front of the projector screen. Her face bore the marks of recent battle—fresh scars, weary eyes—but her voice remained steel.

> "Today's lesson: Warlocks and witches."

Students sat upright.

> "They do not wield Divinity. They wield The Flame. Not elemental fire. Not heat. But corruption. Corruption that burns so hot it devours even laws."

The screen lit up with a terrifying diagram: seven sigils arranged in a flaming circle.

Each bore a different demonic rune.

Amara whispered to herself, "The Seven Princes of Hell…"

> "You will learn to recognize them by Flame signature." Alara pointed to the first.

Lucifer-class. The most powerful. Their flame is dark crimson wrapped in gold and black lightning. Only four confirmed users exist. Each one has erased cities from maps.

> "They are not to be fought," the instructor said clearly. "They are to be survived."

Next came Belphegor, Mammon, Beelzebub, Satan, Livyatan, and finally… Asmodeus—the lowest rank, but still lethal.

> "Even an Asmodeus-ranked warlock can rival a Chamael-class Saint. Underestimate none."

Zeke muttered, "Guess this means we're not just students anymore."

"No," Damien said. "We're targets."

---

Later That Night – Dorm Tower 3, Damien's Room

Damien sat at the edge of his bed, fingers tracing the edge of his Saint mark.

He heard wind rattle the windows… but no wind was blowing outside.

The lights flickered.

Then—

A black petal fell from the ceiling. Not a real one. A void petal.

He caught it in his hand and it dissolved into his skin.

Then a voice—calm, distant, ancient:

> "The fire will test you… but the void remembers. And so will the flames."

Damien didn't flinch. He simply closed his eyes.

> "Then let them come."

The Central Courtyard – The Following Morning

For the first time in days, the entire student body—what remained of it—stood gathered beneath the reconstructed statue of the First Saint, the one whose blade pierced the heavens, the one who founded Saint Academy itself.

But now the statue stood with cracks on its sword, and scorch marks on its legs.

A symbol of endurance. But not invincibility.

Headmaster Elijah Solen emerged from the central tower flanked by a pair of guards and three instructors. Behind them, banners of the seven core classes fluttered in the morning wind. One was missing—Class 3C—devastated during the invasion. Its students had either transferred out, were injured, or… didn't survive.

Solen's coat trailed behind him like a storm's shadow. He raised one hand, and silence fell.

> "One week ago… you were students competing in tournaments. Now you are witnesses to war."

His voice didn't rise, but each word hit with the force of judgment.

> "Our enemies thought they could fracture us. And maybe… they did. In part."

His eyes passed over the crowd. Some students looked away. Others clenched their fists. Others trembled.

> "But what is broken can be reforged. And when flame is refined… it becomes something stronger."

A hush, then murmurs of agreement. A slow nod from Instructor Alara. From the upper balconies, one of the Arch Saints, Kaelen Veilhart, observed silently—expression unreadable.

Solen continued.

> "You are no longer students in waiting. You are Saints in becoming. Starting today, all year groups are eligible for sanctioned field assignments. Classrooms will now include warlock strategy, trauma cognition, and mass-scale survival drills. You will leave the illusion of safety behind."

A murmur passed through the crowd like thunder.

> "You will be sent into the world. You will bleed. And one day… some of you will fall."

Silence.

> "But some of you will rise so high… the very sky will kneel."

The courtyard lit up with flame glyphs, radiant as halos. Projectors flared, and one by one, students' names and assignment routes appeared on floating screens.

Field Assignments: Begin in One Week.

Each student would be sent on a low-risk mission, guided by instructors—but even low-risk now meant potential encounters with the Flame.

Damien's name appeared on a separate screen.

> FIELD ASSIGNMENT: CLASSIFIED. INSTRUCTOR: HEADMASTER ELJAH SOLEN.

Even Zeke looked sideways at that. "You're going with the Headmaster? Damn. You really are Saint John Davis' student."

Amara said nothing, but her eyes lingered on Damien a little longer than usual.

---

That Night – Student Quarters Rooftop

Zeke, Damien, and Amara sat beneath the shattered moon. A piece of it had fallen during the invasion—a sliver now enshrined in the Academy's courtyard.

"The world really changed, huh," Zeke muttered, tossing a flame spark between his fingers. "We were just trying to win a damn tournament…"

"Now we're being sent out like scouts in a dying war," Amara said, arms around her knees.

Damien remained silent. He stared at the horizon. At the stars—at the void between them.

> "No," he finally whispered. "We're not scouts…"

He stood slowly.

> "We're the fire. The flame that lights what comes next."

---

Final Lines:

From the tower window, Solen watched his students.

Behind him, Arch Saint Kaelen spoke softly.

> "Do you really believe they're ready?"

Solen didn't blink.

> "No."

He turned.

> "But that's what makes them dangerous."