Evenings at Crest Academy were quiet.
While most students gathered in dorm halls or relaxed by the firepits, Rayan often drifted elsewhere—drawn to the vast, towering library at the heart of the academy.
It was an unusual habit for someone in the combat division. But Rayan had learned early that the academy's standard drills weren't enough. His strikes were off. His timing lagged. No matter how many hours he spent on the training field, he couldn't match the natural talent of others.
Something was missing.
So he turned to the books.
One night, as he browsed through the Historical Techniques and Lost Schools section, a familiar pattern on a faded spine made him pause. He pulled the book from the shelf. The cover was cracked and dusty, but the title stood out in faded silver:
"Silver Fang Sword (Intermediate Volume)."
His eyes widened.
This was it—the next level.
Years ago, long before enrolling at Crest Academy, Rayan had bought a small, cheap manual from a roadside bookseller. It had no title, just a plain cover and a series of basic sword drills. He had practiced those movements in secret for years, never knowing where they came from—only that they worked better for his body than anything else.
Now, for the first time, he saw the name of the style he had unknowingly trained in.
Silver Fang Sword.
He opened the book. The very first line sent a thrill down his spine:
"To wield the Silver Fang is to abandon brute force. Ours is the sword of the hunter—swift, clever, and precise. Born beneath the crescent moon, it strikes before the enemy draws breath."
The words fit everything he'd been feeling.
Unlike the academy's rigid forms, the Silver Fang emphasized movement, misdirection, and speed over strength. It wasn't about overpowering your opponent—it was about outthinking them, outmaneuvering them, and striking before they even saw it coming.
Night after night, he returned to the library to study the intermediate techniques. The book expanded on everything he had already learned: sharper footwork, more fluid blade transitions, and breathing techniques that enhanced reaction time.
And early each morning, while the campus still slept, Rayan slipped behind the eastern tool shed—out of sight, out of mind—and trained.
At first, it was awkward.
But the movements gradually flowed into each other. The sword no longer felt heavy or uncertain—it became precise, silent, deadly. Like a fang in the dark.
His sparring matches improved. His strikes landed cleaner. His dodges came just in time. Even Captain Elric, known for his silence, began to give him the occasional nod after training.
Still, Rayan kept the Silver Fang Sword to himself.
Let them think he was just another average trainee. Let them overlook him.
For now.
Because here, hidden in the dusty shelves of the academy's forgotten knowledge, Rayan had discovered the true name of the path he'd unknowingly walked for years.
And now, he would walk it with purpose.
Not for applause.
But to survive.
And when the time was right
He would strike.