The carriage rocked gently as it moved along the narrow, winding path through the snow-capped mountains. Outside, cliffs towered like sleeping beasts, their shadows crawling across the road with every passing second.
Inside the carriage, Trafalgar sat beside Aubrelle, hands resting on his knees. The warmth from the enchanted interior clashed with the cold breath of winter just beyond the glass. For a long moment, they sat in silence—until Trafalgar turned slightly, his voice casual but curious.
"So… what exactly is the Academy like?"
Aubrelle smiled faintly, adjusting the folds of her crimson cloak. "Straight to the point, are we?"
He nodded. "Let's just say I don't want to go in blind."
Her expression softened. "That's fair. The Imperial Academy is… structured. Strict. And absolutely competitive. You'll find nobles from every major region, children of generals, dukes, archmages. Even foreign elites from kingdoms overseas."
"Sounds fun," he muttered dryly.
Aubrelle laughed lightly. "You'll be fine. We're assigned to classes based on aptitude and evaluation. The staff doesn't care about titles. Just talent."
Trafalgar leaned back, glancing at the scenery outside. Mountains rolled by like waves frozen in time. "Good. That's what I needed to hear."
"You're aiming to prove something?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Maybe."
The rhythmic clatter of hooves against stone filled the silence for a while longer, broken only by the occasional gust of wind whistling past the mountainside. Trafalgar turned back to Aubrelle with a question that had been itching at the back of his mind.
"So… this mana thing. How does it work exactly? I formed my core last night, but… what comes next?"
Aubrelle smiled, clearly pleased by his curiosity.
"Well, that depends. Once someone awakens their core, their growth speed is largely determined by one factor: talent. The stronger your talent, the faster you progress. Weak talent? You'll stall, no matter how hard you try."
Trafalgar absorbed that in silence.
She continued, "The system is ranked by cores. Eight, to be exact. Most students at the Academy are still in the first or second rank—Novus or Seeker. But some of us are already Fledgers. That's the third."
"You're a Fledger?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Mmhm." She leaned closer with a proud smile. "And soon, I'll break through to the fourth. But don't let the ranks fool you—it's not just about numbers. Everyone is born with a specific affinity, a natural role. Knight, Mage, Alchemist, Necromancer, Summoner… the list goes on. Your affinity shapes your potential."
Trafalgar looked down at his hands, flexing them. "And I don't know mine yet."
"You will," she assured him. "At the Academy's entrance test, they'll analyze your mana and tell you what role you're meant to fulfill."
He nodded slowly. The idea of having a defined role—something to guide him—felt strangely grounding.
'Alright… so I'm not just wandering blind anymore.' he thought. 'There's a system. A structure. I can work with that.'
Aubrelle leaned back with a smirk. "And who knows? Maybe you'll end up being something terrifying. I have a feeling about you."
The carriage dipped slightly as it rolled over uneven stone. Aubrelle's eyes flicked upward, her posture straightening. Her smile faded into something calmer—sharper.
Trafalgar noticed immediately.
"What is it?"
Aubrelle didn't answer right away. Her eyes were fixed on the window, lips slightly parted. Then, in a quiet voice, she said:
"We're being watched."
His brows furrowed. "What?"
She turned toward him, her tone measured. "There are more than twenty people positioned about twenty meters ahead. They're trying to stay hidden, but they're amateurs. My familiars spotted them."
"Familiars?" he echoed.
Aubrelle nodded, brushing a hand through her silvery-white hair. "I'm a Summoner. Animals are my specialty. Right now, I have four ravens circling above us—scouting."
Trafalgar leaned slightly toward the window, though there was nothing visible yet. "And you're this calm?"
"Of course," she said, eyes gleaming with quiet confidence. "They won't lay a single finger on us."
"…Right."
He leaned back, muttering under his breath, 'First a noble family, now assassins. What kind of prologue is this supposed to be?'
Aubrelle reached for the hilt of a short dagger strapped under her cloak, not out of fear—but habit. "Just stay seated, dear. Albert will take care of it."
The carriage slowed.
Trafalgar felt the shift before hearing the driver's voice—calm, yet firm.
"I'd advise you all," Albert called out from the front, "to think twice before doing something reckless."
A heavy silence answered him at first.
Then, from just ahead, a voice barked back. "Shut it, old man! Step aside and hand over the goods. If you're lucky, we'll let you crawl away."
A dozen men emerged from the treeline flanking the road—leather armor, crude weapons, and grins made of rot and malice. More followed behind. Twenty in total, just as Aubrelle had said.
Albert exhaled, slow and quiet. He stepped down from the carriage, using his walking stick for support. His movements were calm, almost casual.
Trafalgar narrowed his eyes from the window. "Is he really just a—?"
The question died in his throat.
Albert raised the walking stick—and twisted the top with a click. With a swift motion, the staff expanded, unfolding into a slender, gleaming blade.
The bandits hesitated.
The leader scoffed. "A sword? You think you can fight us with that old trick?"
Albert simply stepped forward.
Aubrelle's voice, calm as ever, drifted to Trafalgar. "Albert may look old, but don't be fooled. He's a Vanguard Core."
Trafalgar blinked. "A Vanguard… That's the fifth level."
He leaned forward, heart pounding slightly—not from fear, but anticipation.
'So the power system is the same as in the first game… that's good. At least the structure hasn't changed.'
Outside, Albert moved like water—calm, efficient, devastating.
The fight had begun.
Steel rang out in sharp, precise bursts.
Albert moved with frightening grace—each step calculated, each swing exact. He struck low, deflected high, spun his blade between ribs and joints like he had memorized every weakness a body could have.
The bandits didn't stand a chance.
Within seconds, five were down.
Within a minute, over a dozen writhed on the ground, groaning, some unconscious, some wishing they were.
From the safety of the carriage, Trafalgar watched in stunned silence.
"...He's a monster," he murmured.
Aubrelle crossed one leg over the other, expression unbothered. "He's efficient."
Only one man remained standing now—the leader, who had backed away toward the road's edge, eyes wide, breathing erratic.
Albert halted a few steps away from him, sword lowered but ready. His expression hadn't changed from the moment the fight began—serene, tired, but alert.
Trafalgar suddenly moved. He opened the carriage door with a gentle click and stepped out, boots landing softly on the gravel.
"Wait," he called out.
Albert glanced back over his shoulder, silently acknowledging him.
Trafalgar faced the bandit leader, green eyes calm. "Don't kill him yet."
The wind blew softly down the mountain path, brushing his coat as the scene froze—one man terrified, the other curious.
The prologue, it seemed, wasn't over just yet.