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Chapter Text

Trails of a New Hope (Star Wars/Sen no Kiseki)

Chapter 1: A Scholarship to Destiny

[~][~]

Countryside of Erebonia

March 31, S.1204, (Septian Calendar)

Luke lay on his cot, the faint glow of the setting sun filtering through the small window of the orphanage. Sleep had been slow to claim him, his mind still buzzing with the impossible news of his acceptance into Thors Military Academy. He closed his eyes, drifting into a slumber that was anything but peaceful.

The world dissolved, replaced by a swirling vortex of colors and sensations. He wasn't in his small room anymore, but somewhere vast and echoing, filled with the distant sounds of clashing steel and orbal energy. Before him, figures began to coalesce, indistinct at first, then sharpening into vivid detail.

He saw a young man with dark, unkempt hair with a blue tint and piercing fuchsia eyes, clad in a red and black uniform. There was an intensity about him, a quiet strength that seemed to anchor the others. Beside him, a young woman with a cascade of long blonde hair and striking scarlet eyes moved with a graceful, almost hesitant energy. Violet floral decorations adorned her hair.

Then came a bright-eyed young man with a mop of orange hair and turquoise eyes, his expression one of earnest curiosity. Following closely was a tall young woman with long indigo hair pulled into a high ponytail and amber eyes, carrying herself with an air of noble dignity.

A flash of icy blue eyes caught his attention, belonging to a young man with blonde hair who wore his crimson uniform with an almost defiant casualness. Next to him, a focused young man with messy dark blue-green hair, lime green eyes, and glasses adjusted his own meticulously buttoned uniform.

A small, agile figure with stark white hair and lime green eyes moved with a quick, almost predatory grace. She wore a short skirt and sneakers, looking ready for anything. Then, a serene young woman with a long plum-colored braid, mint blue eyes, and large, round glasses appeared, a quiet wisdom radiating from her.

Finally, a powerfully built young man with wavy brown hair tied into a short ponytail, tan skin, and light blue eyes stood firm, his uniform sleeves rolled up, an earthy groundedness about him.

They were all wearing the same red uniform, each styled uniquely, yet bound together by an unseen force. They moved together, fought together, laughed and struggled, their faces etched with determination, camaraderie, and sometimes, weariness. Luke felt a pull towards them, a sense of belonging he'd never known. He saw snippets of battles, moments of quiet contemplation, and flashes of powerful, untold magic. A sense of awe, tinged with a familiar, yet unidentifiable, longing, welled up within him.

The vision shimmered, the figures blurring and fading as the echoing sounds receded. Luke gasped, his eyes snapping open. He was back in his cot, the last rays of sunlight fading, leaving his small room in twilight. The familiar scent of old wood and dust filled his nostrils. It had been a dream, vivid and unsettling, yet leaving behind a lingering sense of profound connection. He lay there, heart pounding, the images of the red-clad figures burned into his mind.

Luke lay in bed, the lingering images of the dream flickering behind his eyelids. Who were those people? Why had he seen them so vividly? A strange mix of curiosity and unease churned within him. He tried to grasp at the details, at the feeling of connection, but the dream was already starting to recede, becoming a hazy echo. After a few moments, he shook his head, dismissing it as just that—a dream, likely brought on by the excitement and nerves of leaving for Thors.

He glanced at the old clock on the wall. Still early. Plenty of time. With a sigh that was more contentment than complaint, Luke pushed himself off the cot and began to pull on his work clothes. He'd spent most of yesterday meticulously preparing for his departure to Thors Military Academy, packing his meager belongings and saying his goodbyes. There wasn't much left to do. So, a bit of last-minute work on the Orphanage Farm was the least he could do. After all, it was the place that had raised him, fed him, and sheltered him for seventeen years. He owed it to them. Once he was finished, he'd change into his crisp new uniform, and then, his new life would begin.

Stepping out of the orphanage, Luke was immediately enveloped by the crisp, cool air of the early morning. The sky overhead was a canvas of soft pastels – streaks of rose, lavender, and pale gold bleeding into a widening expanse of cerulean. A gentle breeze, still carrying the faint scent of dew-kissed earth and burgeoning crops, rustled through the tall grass in the nearby fields.

The orphanage itself was a sturdy, but unadorned, two-story building of rough-hewn timber and plaster, its windows blinking like sleepy eyes in the dawn. Smoke curled lazily from a single stone chimney, hinting at the warmth of the kitchen where the matron, a kind-faced woman named Sister Melia, would already be preparing breakfast for the younger children. Surrounding it, the Orphanage Farm stretched out, a patchwork quilt of neatly tilled fields, a small chicken coop, and a modest barn. Beyond the immediate farm, rolling hills, still shrouded in the last wisps of morning mist, promised a tranquil, unassuming landscape.

Luke began his routine, his movements practiced and efficient. First, he made his way to the chicken coop, the clucking of the waking hens already a familiar sound. He unlatched the door, allowing the feathered residents to spill out into their run, scratching at the damp earth for early worms. Inside, he collected the still-warm eggs, carefully placing them in a wicker basket, the smooth shells a testament to the farm's daily rhythm.

Next, he moved to the small patch of root vegetables. Kneeling, he meticulously checked the soil, pulling a few stubborn weeds that had dared to sprout overnight. He then headed to the barn, the lowing of the single cow and the soft grunts of the two pigs already reaching him. He measured out their morning feed, listening to their eager snuffles as they devoured their breakfast. He cleaned out their stalls, shoveling the fresh manure into a waiting compost pile, the earthy smell a comforting constant.

He topped off the water troughs, the fresh, cold water reflecting the rising sun. There were a few fence posts that had loosened during the night, and Luke grabbed his tools, methodically tightening them, his brow furrowed in concentration. The physical work was grounding, a stark contrast to the vivid, unsettling images of his dream. As the sun climbed higher, casting longer shadows and warming the air, Luke felt the familiar ache in his muscles, a comforting reminder of his purpose here. He glanced back at the orphanage, a quiet sense of satisfaction settling over him. He was ready.

With the last fence post secured, Luke wiped his brow with the back of his hand, a small smile playing on his lips. "That's it," he murmured to himself, a quiet sense of triumph swelling within him. His final chores on the farm were done. Now, it was time to wash away the dirt and don the uniform that symbolized his future.

A wave of anticipation, mixed with a healthy dose of nerves, washed over him as he headed back inside. He still couldn't quite believe it—he, Luke Skywalker, an orphan from the countryside, was going to Thors Military Academy. He remembered another orphan, just a few years older, who had gone to Thors, and they'd shared the same dream: using the Academy as a stepping stone to escape the quiet, predictable life of the farm. Both of them had envisioned soaring through the skies, pursuing a career in piloting airships.

While Luke was undeniably grateful for the orphanage, for Sister Melia's kindness and the stable home it had provided when he was left at its doorstep, the truth was, he yearned for more than the monotonous rhythm of farm life. His passion lay not in tilling soil, but in the boundless expanse of the sky. He'd spent countless hours gazing upwards, imagining himself at the controls of an airship, navigating the clouds, exploring horizons far beyond these humble farmlands. Thors wasn't just an academy; it was the key, the one way to make that deeply held passion a reality.

The thought of the journey to Trista, of walking through the gates of Thors, sent a thrill of excitement through him, quickly followed by a tremor of apprehension. It was a massive step, a leap into an unknown world, far removed from the familiar fields and the gentle clucking of hens. What would it be like? Would he fit in? Could he truly make his dream come true? Despite the nervousness, the overriding emotion was a powerful sense of hope. This was it. His chance had finally arrived.

Washed and dressed, Luke headed for the kitchen, the scent of fresh-baked bread and sizzling bacon drawing him in. He found Sister Melia already bustling about, her movements a testament to years of early mornings. She was a woman of gentle strength, her face framed by a simple white wimple that hinted at her devotion to the Septian Church. Kind, warm blue eyes twinkled behind a pair of spectacles perched on her nose, and a few strands of graying brown hair peeked out from beneath her head covering. Her modest, earth-toned habit, with the subtle gleam of a golden medallion bearing the Septian Church's symbol around her neck, spoke of her unwavering faith in Aidios, the Goddess in the Sky.

"Morning, Luke," she greeted, her voice soft but clear as she turned from the crackling stove. "Just in time. Breakfast is almost ready."

Luke smiled, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the stove. He knew the church's presence stretched across Zemuria, with its churches and chapels in nearly every settlement, and even cathedrals in major cities like the High Seat of Arteria. And it was thanks to Sister Melia and the Septian Church's commitment to education that he and so many other orphans at the orphanage had received their schooling. Their Sunday Schools and classes, held in the unassuming room attached to their local chapel—a room with desks, a chalkboard, and even a small area for musical performances—had provided the foundation. Without her patient guidance, without the knowledge he'd gained there, he never would have been able to pass the rigorous entrance exam and secure his scholarship to Thors. He wouldn't be standing here, on the cusp of his dreams.

"Morning, Sister Melia," he replied, taking a seat at the worn wooden table. "Smells incredible, as always."

The kitchen hummed with the quiet rhythm of the morning, a familiar comfort he was about to leave behind. He glanced around the simple room, knowing that even though he was moving on, a piece of this place, and of Sister Melia's unwavering kindness, would always be with him.

Sister Melia set a steaming plate before Luke: fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and a thick slice of freshly baked bread. Luke bowed his head for a brief, silent prayer, a habit ingrained from years under Melia's care, before eagerly picking up his fork.

"It truly gladdens my heart, Luke," Sister Melia said, her voice soft as she watched him eat, "to see you finally taking these first, important steps toward living your own life. You've always had such a bright spark in your eyes, a longing for something more. This is your chance to find it."

Luke swallowed a mouthful of eggs, his gaze meeting hers. "I know, Sister Melia. And I couldn't have done any of it without you." He gestured around the humble kitchen, a silent acknowledgment of all the years of care, the lessons in the small classroom attached to the chapel. "Without your teaching, without the orphanage… I wouldn't have even passed the entrance exam, let alone gotten the scholarship. Thank you. For everything."

Sister Melia chuckled softly. "Oh, Luke, I was simply doing my duty. Someone has to take care of the only orphan who hadn't managed to find a family."

Luke grinned, a playful spark in his eye. "Maybe everyone's standards are just too high." He took another bite of bacon. "Not that I mind, though."

In his mind, a familiar pang of melancholy settled. It was true. For seventeen years, no one had come for him. While other children had left with new parents, he'd remained. It was a little depressing, he admitted, to be the one always left behind. But he'd made his peace with it, grateful for the stability the orphanage provided, patiently waiting for his chance to step out into the world. The Thors scholarship wasn't just an opportunity; it was the opportunity, his escape route from a life that might otherwise have been static.

"Now, hurry along with that meal, dear," Sister Melia urged, her eyes twinkling. "You don't want to be late for the first train to Trista, do you?"

Luke certainly didn't want to be late. He scarfed down the rest of his breakfast, the delicious food barely registering as his mind raced. As he finished, a sudden thought struck him, bringing with it a sense of urgency. There was someone important he needed to see before he left. Someone who had taught him much, not just about defending himself, but also about the strange, innate gift he possessed. Fortunately, this hermit lived along the way to the train station.

"Sister Melia," Luke began, pushing his plate away, "do you think I could bring some breakfast with me? For my teacher?"

Sister Melia paused, a knowing smile gracing her lips. "Ah, your reclusive mentor. Of course, dear. I'll pack a little something extra for him. It's a long walk, and he'll appreciate the thought."

[~]

The forest path was well-worn, familiar to Luke's stride. Sunlight dappled through the dense canopy, painting shifting patterns on the mossy ground. A gentle breeze sighed through the leaves, carrying the earthy scent of pine and damp soil. The air was cool and incredibly still, a stark contrast to the bustle of the orphanage kitchen. In his hand, Luke carried a small, carefully wrapped package of breakfast, still warm from Sister Melia's stove.

He understood completely why his teacher chose to live out here. The peaceful atmosphere was almost palpable, a quiet embrace that seemed to absorb all worries. The chirping of unseen birds, the distant murmur of a stream, and the rustle of leaves underfoot were the only sounds disturbing the profound tranquility. It was a place where thoughts seemed to unfurl and settle, a haven from the clamor of the world. Even though he was headed for the excitement of Thors, Luke felt a quiet appreciation for the calm of these woods, a stillness that had often been a refuge during his upbringing.

As Luke walked deeper into the forest, the familiar, comforting weight of his new Thors Military Academy uniform settled on his shoulders. He'd changed into it after his chores, eager to shed the farm dust and embrace his new identity. The fabric was a crisp, dark green, a color he'd expected. According to the Student Guidebook that had arrived with his acceptance letter, the uniform's color was a clear indicator of one's social class: white for nobles and green for commoners. He wasn't surprised; it was just the way things were. Still, the quality of the material was good, and the school's emblem, a proud, stylized lion, was emblazoned on the breast pocket. He straightened his shoulders, a sense of quiet pride swelling within him. He couldn't wait to show it off to his teacher.

The air grew stiller as Luke approached a small clearing. Nestled amongst ancient, gnarled trees stood his teacher's hut. It wasn't much more than a collection of rough-hewn logs, expertly fitted together, with a steeply pitched roof made of overlapping wooden shingles that seemed to blend seamlessly with the forest floor. A wisp of smoke, a rare sight, sometimes curled from its single stone chimney, but today, it was cold and silent.

The windows were small and square, covered with thick, opaque panes that offered no glimpse inside. A sturdy, unpainted wooden door, its hinges slightly rusted, faced the path. Around the hut, a few hardy wildflowers pushed through the undergrowth, adding a touch of color to the otherwise rustic scene. A small, weathered stool sat by the door, and an unlit fire pit, surrounded by a few smooth stones, suggested occasional outdoor meals. There was an undeniable sense of solitude about the place, a quiet dignity that suited its inhabitant perfectly.

Luke stepped up to the door and rapped his knuckles against the rough wood. "Ben? Are you home?" he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness. No answer. He tried again, a little louder this time. "Ben? It's Luke! I brought breakfast!"

A few moments passed, punctuated only by the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of a bird. Luke sighed, a familiar wave of resignation washing over him. It wasn't unusual for his teacher to be away, only to reappear whenever he pleased, sometimes showing up at the orphanage unannounced to teach Luke lessons about his unique gift.

Speaking of his gift, Luke closed his eyes, focusing inward. He reached out, trying to sense a presence, a flicker of that pervasive energy that bound all living things together. He pushed his awareness outward, past the wooden walls of the hut, searching for any ripple, any disturbance in the quiet flow of life around him. He felt the gentle hum of the forest, the faint life-force of the trees and the small creatures within them, but no distinct beacon, no familiar warmth that would signify Ben's presence. To his disappointment, it seemed Ben wasn't home.

Despite Ben's absence, Luke decided to leave the breakfast. He carefully set the wrapped package on the small stool beside the door, knowing Ben would find it eventually. Then, he pulled a small piece of parchment and a charcoal stick from his satchel to write a note.

"Dear Ben," he mumbled as he wrote, reading the words aloud to himself. "I'm on my way to Thors Military Academy now." A faint wistfulness touched his voice. "I'm going to miss the orphanage, but I'm also really excited."

He paused, a more serious tone entering his voice as he continued. "I wanted to thank you for teaching me how to defend myself, and... for showing me how to harness my gift." He pressed the charcoal a little harder on the parchment. "Especially after that day."

Luke stopped writing, his hand hovering over the parchment. The words had conjured a vivid, unwelcome memory, a flicker of chaos and fear. He shook his head, pushing the recollection away with a deliberate effort. Not now. He needed to focus on the present, on the path ahead. He took a deep breath, steadied his hand, and resumed writing.

He finished the note, a final message for his reclusive teacher. "If you need anything at all, you know where to find me, or you can send letters to Thors. I hope you get back before the ants feast on that breakfast." A small smile touched his lips as he added, "If you were here, I bet you'd see me off with the usual, 'May the Force be with you.'"

Luke paused, a wave of affection and gratitude for his mentor washing over him. He pressed the charcoal one last time to the parchment, adding a final, heartfelt sentiment.

"May the Force be with you...wherever you are."

Luke gently placed the note on the stool next to the breakfast, a final gesture of respect and farewell. He turned and began retracing his steps, the path back to the orphanage seeming longer now with the weight of his impending journey. He mentally mapped out the route to the train station, a familiar journey that suddenly felt charged with new significance.

Then, a thought sparked within him, a reminder of the lessons he'd just acknowledged in his note. He had the Force. Ben had taught him how to tap into that raw energy, how to make it his own. Recalling Ben's instructions, Luke focused, drawing upon the pervasive energy field that surrounded him. A surge of power coursed through his limbs, a familiar warmth spreading outwards from his core.

With a silent command, he pushed off, his movements becoming a blur. The forest, which had moments ago been a tranquil, walking pace, now seemed to slow around him. Trees flashed by in streaks of green and brown, the ground blurring beneath his feet. He could feel the increased pump of his heart, the heightened awareness in every fiber of his being. This was Force Speed, a burst of accelerated motion that allowed him to cover ground at an astonishing pace. He felt the wind whip past his face, the sensation exhilarating, a thrill of pure, unadulterated freedom.

He knew this might be one of the only times he could freely demonstrate such an ability. Ben's warnings echoed in his mind, clear and potent.

"There are those who would exploit your abilities, Luke,” Ben told him once. “They would try to control you, or turn you into something you are not. These gifts are meant to protect, not to show off. When you use them too openly, you draw unwanted attention, like a bright light in the deepest night. Your gifts are special, Luke, but they are also deeply personal. To use them carelessly risks harm, both to yourself and to those around you. The people here wouldn't understand. They might be afraid or try to use you. Sometimes, the greatest strength lies in remaining unseen."

The words resonated deeply. He knew the risks. If anyone in Erebonia saw him doing this, they wouldn't see a boy with a gift; they'd see a demon, a witch, or a cursed individual. It could lead to ostracization, violence, or terrifying attempts to "cure" him of his very nature. But here, in the secluded depths of the forest, he was safe. For these precious moments, he could truly be himself, letting the Force flow through him, carrying him swiftly towards his new destiny.

The familiar rush of the forest gave way to the open, bustling space of the village train station. Luke slowed, the heightened perception of the Force Speed fading, leaving a slight tingle in his muscles. He stood for a moment, catching his breath, before taking in the scene before him.

At the entrance to the old stone station, a small crowd had gathered, a familiar and beloved sight. Sister Melia stood at the front, her warm smile a comforting anchor. Beside her were the rest of the orphanage staff – Mrs. Gable, who always smelled of freshly baked bread, and old Mr. Henderson, whose gruff exterior hid a surprisingly gentle hand with the younger children. Behind them, a gaggle of orphans, ranging from toddlers clinging to the staff's skirts to pre-teens with wide, curious eyes, waved excitedly.

"Luke! Good luck!" shouted one of the older boys, his voice thin but earnest.

"Don't forget us!" yelled a little girl, bouncing on her toes.

Luke's heart swelled. This was his life, simple and uncomplicated, yet filled with genuine affection. He remembered countless evenings spent crowded around the crackling fireplace, listening to Sister Melia read stories from ancient texts. He recalled boisterous games of tag in the fields, his laughter mingling with that of the other children. He'd learned to mend clothes with Mrs. Gable, and Mr. Henderson had taught him how to coax stubborn seeds into vibrant crops. Every scratch, every shared meal, every comforting word had woven an unbreakable tapestry of connection.

He walked towards them, a wide, genuine smile spreading across his face. This was his family, the people who had nurtured him, provided him with a home, and celebrated this very moment with him. He was leaving the only world he had ever known, but he carried a piece of it, and every one of them, with him.

[~]

Unbeknownst to Luke, Ben had been nearby, watching from the deeper shadows of the forest when Luke approached his hut. He had been there all along, not truly absent, but cloaked by the subtle art of Force Concealment, a technique so refined that even Luke, with his burgeoning abilities, couldn't pierce it. He’d observed the boy’s earnest attempts to sense him, a faint smile touching his lips.

After Luke had departed, the old hermit emerged from his hidden vantage. He picked up the carefully wrapped breakfast and the note, his gaze softening as he read Luke's heartfelt words. With a quiet sigh, Ben then made his way through the trees, moving with a silent, almost ethereal grace, until he found a secluded spot overlooking the train station. From there, he could see Luke, surrounded by the warmth of the orphanage family, embarking on the next chapter of his journey, without being spotted himself.

As Luke, a small figure in a green uniform, finally disappeared through the entrance of the train station, a faint ripple in the Force shimmered beside Ben.

"He's off, Obi-Wan," a calm, familiar voice whispered, carrying the wisdom of ages. Qui-Gon Jinn, a shimmering, ethereal presence, materialized beside him, his gaze following the path Luke had taken.

"Indeed, Qui-Gon," Ben replied, his voice a low murmur, a subtle tension in his posture. "And I still have my reservations about this Thors Military Academy. He's growing, of course. His connection to the Force strengthens daily, and he's learning to wield it with a surprising natural aptitude. But sending him into such an environment, with all its rigid structures and political undercurrents… it goes against every instinct."

He sighed, gazing out at the distant, cultivated fields. "I've tried to keep my distance, to allow him a measure of normalcy, to grow without the shadow of his true heritage looming over him too soon. But the world has a way of intruding, doesn't it?"

Ben turned his gaze to the horizon, where the burgeoning industrial smoke of Erebonia could almost be imagined. "This Erebonian Empire… it reminds me too much of home, Qui-Gon. The power, the aristocracy, the burgeoning technology, and the way it seems to be consolidating its reach across the continent. It echoes the rise of the Galactic Empire, the one that rose on the ashes of our Order and the Republic, a little too closely for my comfort."

Qui-Gon's Force Ghost shimmered, a knowing presence. "I am aware of your fears, my old Padawan. And yes, the parallels are striking to one who has lived through such a cataclysm. However, there is a fundamental difference here. The Erebonian Empire, for all its might and ambition, is not ruled by the Sith. It is a place of ambition and conflict, certainly, but also a place with a genuine chance for change. There are forces at play, currents of reform and dissent, that were absent in Palpatine's rise. Luke will not be entering a realm entirely devoid of hope, Obi-Wan. Perhaps, in this place, he can be a part of that change."

"What kind of change?" Ben countered, his voice sharp with underlying fear. "A change that pulls him down the same path as his father? I won't let that happen, Qui-Gon." His gaze swept over the distant landscape, a subtle shift in his aura indicating his heightened awareness. "Especially if our suspicions about the true nature of this world are correct. If Septium and this 'Orbal energy' are indeed a local manifestation of the Force, then its pervasive presence here… it means this entire planet hums with an unusual vitality, a palpable connection to life itself. An energy unlike any other world I've encountered, perhaps even one with its unique elemental expressions, subtly influencing everything."

Qui-Gon's spectral form seemed to soften. "That's precisely why you're following him to Trista, isn't it, Obi-Wan?" His gaze drifted, as if sensing the planet's deeper currents. "Such a powerful, almost primal energy emanating from this world, particularly one with such a deep, perhaps even ancient and raw, alignment, could very well obscure your Force signatures from the wider galaxy. An ideal hiding place from the Empire. Think of it, Obi-Wan: the hyperdrive malfunctioned, did it not? Perhaps the Force itself guided you here, a specific design for Luke to be on this planet, immersed in its unique energies."

Ben said nothing, his gaze fixed on the train as it slowly pulled away from the station, a plume of steam rising against the morning sky. He felt Luke's presence onboard, a small, bright point of light amidst the other passengers, heading towards a future unknown. As the train gathered speed, chugging down the tracks and disappearing around a bend, a faint tremor ran through the ground nearby. A small, aged tree, its roots weakened by recent rains, leaned precariously towards the tracks just ahead. Without a word, Ben extended a hand, a subtle ripple in the Force causing the tree to gently settle back, its branches swaying harmlessly away from the passing train.

His hand instinctively went to the small, wooden box he held, its weight a familiar comfort and a heavy responsibility. He knew what lay within, and that it wasn't yet time. Not for Luke. Not until he was ready for the truth of his heritage, and the true origins of Ben himself. Until that day, Ben vowed silently, he would ensure he did not fail Luke, not as he had failed his father.

[~]

The rhythmic click-clack of the train on the tracks was a new, soothing sound, a stark contrast to the familiar quiet of the orphanage farm. Luke sat by the window, his new Thors Military Academy uniform still feeling a little stiff, but already a part of him. He pressed his face lightly against the cool glass, watching the landscape of Zemuria scroll past like a moving painting.

The rolling hills he knew so well slowly gave way to denser forests, then to patches of cultivated land interspersed with small, unfamiliar villages. He saw the gleam of distant rivers, the occasional towering orbal factory with its distinct plumes of smoke, and the subtle shift in the architecture of buildings as they moved further from his home village. Every passing mile was a step further into the unknown, a journey not just across the land, but into his future. He felt a quiet hum of excitement beneath the surface, a sense of adventure truly beginning. The world outside the window was vast, and he was finally a part of it.

"Wonder how long it'll take to get to Trista," Luke murmured to himself, leaning back in his seat. The journey, while exciting, felt long already.

He glanced around the train car, observing his fellow travelers. The carriage was a microcosm of Erebonian society. There were other students, easily identifiable by their new uniforms—some in the crisp white of the nobility, others, like him, in the deeper green of the commoners. Beyond them, a few distinguished-looking aristocrats occupied their seats with an air of quiet entitlement, their clothes finer, their postures more rigid. Interspersed among them were common folk, dressed in practical, simpler attire, their faces showing the wear of everyday life.

If the different colored uniforms weren't enough of an indication, Luke could feel it. A subtle, almost imperceptible hum resonated from each person, a tapestry of emotions he was beginning to distinguish. From the nobles, he sensed a cool reserve, a quiet pride, and sometimes, a faint undercurrent of dismissiveness. The common folk radiated a more direct array of feelings: a shared weariness, a stoic acceptance, but also sparks of quiet hope or simple contentment. Ben described it as Force Empathy. A nascent ability to pick up on the emotional echoes of those around him, painting a clearer picture of the deep social stratification that defined the Erebonian Empire, far more eloquently than any guidebook could.

After a while, the novelty of the passing scenery began to fade, and the chatter of his fellow passengers settled into a low hum. Luke shifted in his seat, the subtle hum of the Force within him stirring. He decided to do as Ben had always encouraged: meditate.

He closed his eyes, taking a slow, deep breath. Ben had often said, "Meditation is about more than just forging a deeper connection to the Force… It is about gaining a deeper understanding of ourselves. It is a means of obtaining greater control over our thoughts and emotions. Peace. Serenity. Harmony. We must master ourselves before we can hope to master the Force."

Luke focused on the subtle rhythm of his breathing, trying to quiet the mental chatter, the anxieties about Thors, the lingering images of his dream. He sought that quiet space within himself, emptying his mind, letting thoughts and emotions drift by like clouds, acknowledging them but not holding onto them. He wasn't trying to achieve anything grand; just to find that core of stillness.

He felt the familiar connection to the vast, encompassing energy that permeated everything, a connection that always deepened when he meditated. It was like a river, and he was simply allowing himself to float within its current, to be filled by its quiet power. He breathed, and he let go, feeling the subtle shift within him as he sought a deeper state of relaxation and awareness. This wasn't just about his gift; it was about finding an inner peace, a harmony within his being, something Ben had always stressed was essential for control.

Luke didn't know how long he'd meditated, nor how many times the train had stopped for passengers to board and disembark. He'd been lost in the quiet depths of his mind, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels a soothing backdrop to his focus. But then, a crisp, female voice broke through his tranquility, echoing from the intercom.

"The Ministry of Railways wishes to thank all passengers for their patronage. This train is bound for Bareahard via Celdic. The next stop is...Trista. Trista. We will be stopped at Trista for one minute. When disembarking, please ensure no belongings are left behind."

Luke's eyes snapped open. A wide, excited smile broke across his face. Trista. He'd made it. He pressed his face against the window again, the view no longer a blur of passing trees and fields, but a vibrant tableau of his destination. Spring was in full bloom here; splashes of bright green and budding blossoms painted the landscape, a welcoming sight to his journey's end.

[~]

The train hissed to a stop, and Luke, with a newfound spring in his step, quickly gathered his meager belongings. He was one of the first off, eager to step onto the platform. The air was fresh, carrying the scent of blooming flowers and distant green.

He exited the station, and the sight of Trista unfolded before him, exactly as he'd imagined from the guidebooks, yet far more vibrant in person. A wide, cobbled main street stretched out ahead, paved with irregular, warm-toned stones that glowed faintly in the morning sun. On either side, charming, multi-storied buildings with dark, timbered frames and steeply pitched roofs lined the thoroughfare. Some, like the one on the left, boasted inviting awnings and outdoor seating with colorful umbrellas, hinting at cafes or bakeries already stirring to life.

Elegant streetlights, designed with an ornate, almost gas-lamp aesthetic, dotted the length of the street, each one contributing to the town's refined atmosphere. To his right, a paved walkway bordered by neat, low fences and established trees, their leaves a lush green, offered a pleasant stroll. Further down, a small, manicured plaza with benches and more lampposts provided a quiet respite. In the distance, beyond the last of the buildings, verdant, rolling hills rose, culminating in the gentle, mist-kissed peaks of mountains under a clear, bright sky. Trista was beautiful, a perfect blend of quaint charm and purposeful elegance, and Luke felt a surge of excitement knowing this was his new home for the next two years.

As Luke took in the charming vista of Trista, his gaze was drawn to the trees lining the street and gracing the small plazas. They were crowned with an abundance of delicate Lino Flowers, their soft petals a gentle blush against the vibrant green of the newly unfurled leaves. The air was faintly perfumed by their presence, adding another layer to the serene beauty of the town. They swayed gently in the breeze, a silent, exquisite welcome.

"I'd love to look around more," Luke murmured to himself, inhaling the sweet scent of the Lino Flowers. "But it'd be pretty awkward to be late on the first day." He chuckled, then brightened. "Doesn't mean I can't do both while asking for directions."

He approached the nearest passerby, a kindly-looking woman carrying a market basket. "Excuse me, ma'am," Luke began, offering his most polite smile. "Could you point me in the direction of Thors Military Academy?"

"Of course, dear," she replied, gesturing vaguely northward. "Just follow the main road, and you'll see it. Plenty of students heading that way already."

Indeed, as Luke set off, he noticed the streets were gradually filling with young men and women, many wearing variations of the Thors uniform—a clear sign he was heading in the right direction. This influx of students and faculty gave Trista a lively, purposeful buzz.

As he walked, Trista continued to reveal herself. He passed a charming park, its green expanse a welcome splash amidst the buildings. Surrounding it were several establishments: a cozy Cafe & Inn with the inviting aroma of coffee wafting out, a quiet Bookstore with shelves visible through its window, and a vibrant Gardening Shop bursting with potted plants and colorful blooms. Luke made a mental note of the gardening shop; it might be convenient to put his farming skills to use if the opportunity arose. Further down, he saw a stylish Boutique and a well-stocked General Store.

He also walked past a stately Septian Church, its architecture grander than the small chapel back home, with the familiar golden emblem of Aidios prominently displayed above its heavy wooden doors. Past the church, the road presented a fork. To the left, he could glimpse a more ornate, perhaps more imposing, building, while to the right, a slightly simpler, yet still substantial, structure stood. From what he could discern through his empathic sense, the left building radiated an aura of quiet formality, a certain elevated distinction, while the right felt more grounded, bustling with a different kind of energy. He instinctively knew—these were likely the Student Dorms, the one on the left meant for the Upper Class and the one on the right for the Lower Class. His path, he presumed, would lead him to the right.

Luke followed the flow of students, opting for the middle path that seemed to lead directly into the heart of the academy grounds. As he approached, the grandeur of Thors Military Academy slowly revealed itself, far surpassing anything he could have imagined from the printed pages of his guidebook.

He arrived at the academy gates, and the sight took his breath away. Stretching before him was an impressive expanse of manicured lawns and stately architecture. The main building, a magnificent structure of pale stone, dominated the scene, its central tower soaring skyward, topped with a dark, pointed spire and a visible clock face. Dark, vertical stripes adorned parts of its facade, adding to its distinguished appearance. Flanking the main building were two large, equally elegant wings, their windows gleaming in the sunlight. The entire complex was surrounded by an ornate wrought-iron fence of intricate design, with sturdy stone pillars marking the grand entrance gates. Beyond the fence, manicured hedges and young, conical trees added splashes of vibrant green against the pale stone. In the far distance, majestic mountains with snow-capped peaks provided a dramatic backdrop to the prestigious institution. This was it. Thors Military Academy.

As Luke stepped past the ornate gates, a cheerful, clear voice rang out, "Welcome to Thors Military Academy!"

From his right, two figures emerged and stood before him. One was a somewhat petite young woman, her long brown hair tied in a ponytail accented with a blue ribbon. She wore a neat green blazer with a prominent white horizontal stripe across the middle and a bow tie at the collar. A light brown plaid skirt, black tights, and sensible brown shoes completed her attire. On her left arm is a distinct armband. She exuded an air of cheerful competence, her eyes bright and welcoming, yet with a hint of underlying seriousness.

Beside her stood a large young man, his frame broad and sturdy. He had a head of messy brown hair, observant eyes, and a rather pronounced nose. His clothing was practical: yellow overalls, sturdy working boots, and a pair of goggles pushed up onto his forehead. He had a friendly, approachable demeanor, a ready smile on his face.

"We're here to help new students find their way," the young woman explained, her voice warm. "Just let us know if you need any assistance."

"Could you direct me to the entrance ceremony?" Luke asked, his gaze shifting between the two.

The petite girl smiled. "Of course! The entrance ceremony is being held in the auditorium. Just head straight back—you really can't miss it."

"Thank you both very much," Luke replied, already turning to head in the indicated direction. He was about to take his first step when the petite girl's voice stopped him.

"Oh, forgive me!" she said, a slight flush on her cheeks. "I'm so sorry, but before you go, could you possibly tell us your name?"

Luke paused, a faint sense of curiosity stirring. "Luke Skywalker," he introduced himself.

As he spoke his name, he felt a subtle shift in the aura around both the petite girl and the larger young man beside her. A distinct wave of relief washed over them through the Force, an unexpected sensation that piqued his interest.

"Is something wrong?" Luke inquired, a slight frown creasing his brow.

The petite girl wrung her hands lightly. "Wrong? Oh, no, nothing's wrong, Mr. Skywalker! Well, not that you've done anything wrong, that is. It's just… there's been a slight error regarding your class assignment."

"An error?" Luke repeated, pulling out his Student Guidebook. He flipped to the section on classes. "But the guidebook says I'm assigned to Class IV... one of the commoner classes. Classes I and II are for nobles only, right?"

The petite girl sighed, running a hand through her ponytail. "It's a long story, Mr. Skywalker. For now, please just attend the entrance ceremony, and then meet us right after. We can get this error squared away then. Don't sweat the details for now."

The larger student stepped forward, extending a hand. "Here, let me take your bag for you, Mr. Skywalker. I assume your weapon is inside?" He gestured to the satchel Luke carried.

"Weapon?" Luke blinked, surprised. "No, I don't have a weapon."

Both the larger man and petite girl exchanged a look of bewildered shock. The Student Guidebook had been very clear: a student should have a weapon of their own. Thors Military Academy was, after all, a military school, where students learned combat skills, trained as soldiers, and used weapons like swords, katanas, and pistols as tools for their education in the art of war. The academy's reputation for leadership development and character building was built on this foundation.

"I don't have a weapon," Luke reiterated, a slight smile playing on his lips, "because I don't need one."

He didn't say it aloud, but the reason for his lack of a conventional weapon was simple: Luke was exceptionally adept in unarmed combat. It was a skill he'd painstakingly honed over the years, thanks to Ben's rigorous training. Ben's voice often echoed in his mind during practice, reminding him to "trust in the Force, Luke. It will always be with you, always." Despite appearances, he had his weapon—the Force itself, flowing through his very being.

The larger boy and petite girl exchanged another look, their expressions shifting from shock to genuine concern.

"Don't worry," Luke said, offering them a reassuring smile. "I know what I'm doing. Besides," he added, a hint of his inherent confidence shining through, "I'm pretty sure I made that clear in my entrance exam."

Both still looked reluctant, exchanging one last glance, but they seemed to accept his answer. "Alright, if you say so, Mr. Skywalker," the larger boy conceded, still holding out his hand for the bag. "I'll take your bag for you then. I can leave it in your assigned dorm."

The petite girl quickly chimed in, "Yes, please hurry to the entrance ceremony, Mr. Skywalker! And don't forget to meet us right after. We'll be waiting. We hope you enjoy your first day at Thors!"

The larger boy added, with a genuine warmth in his voice, “We’re truly glad to have you. I hope these next two years will be a fruitful time for you.”

“I’m looking forward to it too!” Luke replied, a genuine grin spreading across his face as he handed his bag over to George. With a final wave, he turned and jogged off, eager to make his way to the entrance ceremony, the grand auditorium now his immediate destination.

[~]

"...Now, if I may," a deep, resonant voice boomed through the grand auditorium, commanding instant attention, "I'd like to say a few words in closing about this academy's illustrious history."

Luke sat among the assembled students, a sea of new faces all around him. The auditorium was vast, its high ceilings and ornate decorations speaking of a long and storied past. The student body was segregated: in the front rows, the crisp white uniforms of the nobles gleamed, their posture often rigid and proper. Behind them, stretching back into the hall, were the students in green, the commoners, Luke among them, a faint sense of solidarity radiating from their collective presence.

To the left of the stage, the faculty stood in a solemn line. On the stage itself, behind a polished wooden podium, stood Principal Vandyck. He was an imposing figure, a very well-built elderly man with kind but firm brown eyes and a shock of stark white hair and matching facial hair. Even in his advanced age, his muscles visibly filled out the form of his distinguished uniform—a black suit with golden tassels on the shoulders, trimmed with intricate silver and golden patterns. A red tie cord, inlaid with a striking turquoise gem, hung around his neck.

Principal Vandyck exuded an aura of profound wisdom and quiet strength. Luke could feel the weight of his experience, the disciplined calm of a man who had seen much. He looked every bit the former Imperial General, now dedicated to guiding this promising young generation, his presence a clear inspiration to those who aspired to follow in his footsteps. Though his expression was presently serious, Luke could sense a deep-seated humility and an observant nature beneath the surface, hinting at the sage counsel he likely offered, perhaps even a touch of sarcasm on occasion.

Principal Vandyck's voice, rich with history and authority, filled the auditorium. Thors Military Academy was founded almost two hundred and twenty years ago. Its founder, as I'm sure you're all aware," he paused, his gaze sweeping over the eager faces, "was none other than the great Emperor Dreichels..."

He continued, his voice resonating with pride, "The very same emperor who ended the War of the Lions and returned prosperity to the Erebonian Empire. Thirty years after becoming Emperor, in the later years of his life, he opened the doors of this institution. It was to be a place where young people like yourselves could learn the art of war."

A subtle shift in his tone acknowledged the changing times. "But with the mechanization of the military, many of our graduates now pursue careers outside the army." His gaze softened slightly, encompassing the diverse array of students before him. "Our mission, however, remains the same: to prepare our students to fulfill Emperor Dreichels' famous mandate..."

Principal Vandyck's voice rose, concluding with the powerful, enduring words that underpinned the academy's very purpose: "Arise, O youth, and become the foundation of the world."

Luke quietly pondered the words of the mandate, "Arise, O youth, and become the foundation of the world." It was a grand, sweeping statement, hinting at a responsibility far greater than he had ever considered for himself.

Principal Vandyck continued, his voice echoing through the vast hall. "Though much has happened these past two and a quarter centuries, the world is still the domain of the young." His gaze seemed to linger on each face, as if personally challenging them. "Yet still the question remains: what qualities must one possess to become a part of its foundation?"

He paused, letting the question hang in the air. "I hope this credo will serve as a guide and an inspiration to you during your two years at this academy." Vandyck's voice swelled with a final, powerful exhortation. "Go forth, my students. The world awaits the great things you will one day accomplish."

Luke continued to ponder Principal Vandyck's words long after the echoes of his voice had faded. "Arise, O youth, and become the foundation of the world." The weight of such a statement, especially from a man of Vandyck's stature, settled deep within him. It was a challenge, a promise, and a profound expectation all at once.

A new voice, distinct from Vandyck's deep tones, then cut through the murmuring hall. "...And that brings us to the close of Thors' two-hundred and fifteenth entrance ceremony."

Luke's gaze shifted to the stage, where a refined, noble-looking man now stood beside the podium. "Next, please proceed to the class designated in your guidebook," he announced, his voice clear and formal. "There, you will go over the rules, as well as your class' curriculum."

He gave a crisp nod. "That is all. Dismissed!"

Every student rose from their seats, a rustling wave of green and white, and began to filter out of the auditorium. As Luke stood up to join the flow, his gaze was drawn to a distinct cluster of students still seated in the middle rows. They were all wearing red uniforms, a different shade from the commoner green or noble white. He'd noticed them when he took his seat, a small, distinct group. Now, as the others departed, they remained. He didn't know why, but a strange sense of familiarity prickled at the edge of his awareness, a feeling that he should know them, that he'd seen them before. The faces, though indistinct in his memory, felt… significant.

But Luke pushed those thoughts aside. He had a task. He followed the general exodus outside the auditorium doors, then veered away from the mainstream of students heading to their classes. Instead, he scanned the bustling hallway, searching for the petite girl and the larger boy who had greeted him earlier.

He didn't need to search long. Through the Force, he felt their approach, two distinct presences moving purposefully towards him. They seemed to radiate a faint sense of urgency, of having searched for him since the ceremony concluded.

"Mr. Skywalker!" the petite girl called out, a touch of relief in her voice as they reached him. "There you are! We realized we never properly introduced ourselves before sending you off." She offered a warm, slightly flustered smile. "I'm Towa Herschel, and this is my colleague, George Nome."

[~]

Luke found himself following Towa and George down a less crowded corridor, the hum of the departing students fading behind them. He learned quickly that Towa, despite her petite stature, was his senior, holding the esteemed position of Student Council President. She was also, surprisingly, a student in Class IV—the very class Luke had believed he was assigned to.

"So, about my class assignment," Luke began, breaking the comfortable silence. "You mentioned an 'error'?"

Towa sighed, a hint of weariness in her bright eyes. "Yes, it's a bit of a special case, Mr. Skywalker. Your class… well, it's going to be a special one. We would have sent you the uniform you were truly meant to wear, along with some other specific materials, but by the time the faculty noticed the error, it was simply too late to risk sending them. We didn't want to risk them not reaching you when you were already on your way to Thors." She gestured apologetically. "So, we decided it would be best to wait until you arrived. We've only had your name, and frankly, we've been questioning students all day, trying to track you down since the ceremony ended."

"That couldn't have been easy," Luke remarked, sensing the genuine stress emanating from Towa.

"No, it certainly wasn't," Towa admitted, a small, tired smile gracing her lips. "Trying to find one specific student in the chaos of orientation day is… quite the task."

"So, what class have I been assigned to?" Luke asked, his curiosity finally getting the better of him.

George, who had been listening quietly, spoke up. "You'll have to get the full details from your homeroom teacher, Mr. Skywalker. It's a rather unique situation."

Luke decided to hold off his questions about the mysterious class assignment for now. He'd get the full story from his homeroom teacher, as George suggested. But one thing was still bothering him.

"Excuse me," Luke interjected, a slight flush rising on his cheeks. "Could you both… stop calling me 'Mr. Skywalker?" He gestured vaguely. "I'm still pretty young, and it makes me feel like an old man." He offered a sheepish grin. "Besides, you're both my seniors here. Don’t you find it odd calling a freshman mister?"

Towa's face brightened, a relieved smile spreading across her features. "Oh, of course, Luke! I apologize, it's just a habit with new students."

George chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "Consider it done, Luke. Much better. Welcome aboard, truly."

Towa and George led Luke down another quiet corridor, finally stopping before an unassuming door. Towa pushed it open, revealing an empty room. Inside, bathed in the soft light from a single window, a few pieces of simple furniture stood, but what immediately caught Luke's eye was the table in the center.

Neatly folded upon it was a Red Uniform, a vibrant crimson that was strikingly different from the green he currently wore. Beside it lay a new, thicker Student Guidebook, and a sleek, intricate device—an Orbment. Luke had heard of these, of course. Whispers of their wondrous abilities had reached even the countryside, devices that harnessed orbal energy to produce various effects, to cast powerful orbal arts. But he had never actually seen one up close until now. It was a marvel of modern Zemurian technology.

"Here we are, Luke," Towa said, gesturing to the items on the table. "We'll wait outside. Once you've changed out of your green uniform and into the new one, we'll lead you to where your homeroom teacher is giving an orientation." She gave him a gentle, encouraging smile. "I'd suggest you hurry, though. You don't want to miss too much."

Towa and George exited the room, the door closing with a soft click, leaving Luke alone in the quiet space. After a few moments of contemplation, he began to undress, shedding the green commoner's uniform he'd worn all morning. As he pulled on the crisp, unfamiliar red uniform, a faint hum of excitement coursed through him. He could already guess; he was going to be in the same class as those students he'd seen in the auditorium, the ones who had remained seated.

Once fully dressed, Luke turned his attention to the table, picking up the Orbment. It was a sleek, palm-sized device, distinctly high-tech yet possessing an elegant, almost ancient aesthetic. The casing was a sophisticated blend of brushed metallic silver and matte black elements, held together by visible bolts, giving it a robust, utilitarian feel. The central face was a striking deep crimson, almost maroon, bearing the embossed golden inscription "THORS MILITARY ACADEMY" at the top. Below that, a magnificent golden lion's head, its mane flowing in intricate detail, formed the academy's emblem, giving the device a regal air.

In the lower left corner of the crimson face, a small, circular compass-like dial with precise markings and a needle was visible, hinting at its precision engineering. The back of the device, where it would likely be strapped to a wrist or arm, had a more ergonomic, curved design. There was a faint, almost imperceptible thrum radiating from it, a subtle vibration that Luke, with his heightened senses, could detect. It felt powerful, complex, and utterly fascinating. This wasn't just a tool; it felt like an extension of the very energy that pulsed through Zemuria.

Luke ran a thumb over the sleek surface of the Orbment, its weight surprisingly substantial in his hand. He thought back to the lessons he'd received back at the orphanage, the hours spent poring over textbooks and listening to Sister Melia's explanations. He remembered learning that the very first orbments were developed in S.1150, stemming from the meticulous observation and application of the "orbal phenomenon." It was the brilliant mind of Claude Epstein, through his understanding of the eight Oct-Geneses, who had unlocked their secrets. This groundbreaking invention marked the beginning of the Orbal Revolution, transforming every facet of life in Zemuria. Lights, heaters, domestic devices, even the mighty airships and weapons – all powered by this incredible technology.

He recalled the different organizations now at the forefront of orbment research and development: the esteemed Epstein Foundation in Leman, founded by Epstein's disciples; the renowned Zeiss Central Factory in Liberl, which had humble beginnings as a clockmaker's union; the powerful Reinford Group in Erebonia, originally an arms manufacturer, now a titan of industry; and the innovative Verne Company, a collaboration between the Basel Institute of Science and the Craftsman's Guild in Calvard.

To hold one in his hand, a direct product of that ingenuity, was a profound experience. It hummed faintly, a tiny, self-contained engine of the Orbal Revolution, and now, it was his.

Pocketing the sleek Orbment, its cool weight a new presence against his thigh, Luke neatly folded his old green uniform. He walked out of the room, and as expected, Towa and George were waiting.

"All changed?" Towa asked, her smile returning.

"Yep," Luke confirmed, holding out the folded green fabric. George immediately took it from his hands, tucking it away efficiently.

"Excellent!" Towa chirped, already turning. "Follow me, Luke. Your homeroom teacher is just through here." She began to lead the way, her short stride surprisingly quick.

[~]

Towa and George led Luke away from the main academy buildings, heading towards the northeastern edge of the grounds. The manicured lawns eventually gave way to a slightly wilder patch of greenery, and then, nestled amidst a cluster of mature trees, a building unlike any other at Thors came into view.

This was the Old Schoolhouse. It stood tall and imposing, a structure seemingly crafted from dark, weathered stone, its facade a muted blue-gray under the bright sky. The architecture was distinctly older than the main academy, with a somber, almost gothic charm. A prominent central tower, rising high above the rest of the building, featured an arched belfry at its peak, though no bell was visible. The roofline was a striking contrast of deep red tiles, adding a touch of color to the otherwise solemn stone. Numerous windows, some tall and narrow, others broad and multi-paned, were set into its walls, hinting at spacious interiors. The entrance was grand, with a small portico supported by sturdy pillars, its heavy wooden doors appearing unyielding. Though hints of wear and time were visible in its stone, a quiet dignity clung to the structure, a sense of ancient history.

As they drew closer, Luke's steps faltered. A shiver ran down his spine, unrelated to the cool morning air. A presence, vast and indescribable, emanated from the Old Schoolhouse. It wasn't hostile, not exactly, but it was profoundly other. An impossible sensation, like peering into a bottomless well where the water shimmered with untold depths, or standing at the edge of a chasm that stretched into an alien void. It was formless, yet undeniably there, a powerful, swirling energy that resonated with the Force, sending a strange, unsettling current through his very being. He stopped dead in his tracks, his gaze fixed on the old building, a silent question forming in his mind.

"Luke? Are you alright?" Towa's voice broke through his unsettling reverie, concern etched on her face as she and George had stopped a few paces ahead.

"I'm fine, really," Luke assured them, shaking his head slightly, though the strange sensation from the Old Schoolhouse lingered. "Just… admiring the architecture. It's quite old, isn't it? Very different from the main campus." It was a flimsy excuse, but they seemed to accept it.

He followed them, the unsettling feeling from the building pressing in on him with every step. Try as he might, Luke couldn't dismiss it. There was something about this place that simply wasn't right, a pervasive hum of raw, unfathomable energy beneath its stoic facade. He made a mental note, a firm decision to bring this up with Ben, preferably face to face. The subject of the Force, and anything connected to it, was to remain a secret between them.

Towa and George stopped before the heavy doors of the Old Schoolhouse. "Your homeroom teacher is waiting for you inside, Luke," Towa said, with a warm, encouraging smile. "Good luck."

"We'll see you around, Luke," George added, giving him a friendly nod. "Hope it all goes well."

"Thanks for everything," Luke replied genuinely, a sense of nervous anticipation mixing with his unease. He watched as Towa and George turned and began to walk back towards the main campus, their figures gradually receding. He was alone now, at the threshold of the Old Schoolhouse, and whatever lay beyond its ancient doors.

Luke pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the Old Schoolhouse, stepping across the threshold. The lobby within was indeed just as dilapidated as the exterior suggested, a stark contrast to the polished grandeur of the main academy. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light filtering through grimy windows, illuminating peeling wallpaper and worn floorboards. The air was cool and still, carrying a faint scent of aged wood and disuse.

His gaze immediately landed on a figure standing on a higher platform at the far end of the lobby. She was a woman, and given the context, Luke assumed this was his homeroom teacher. Curiously, there was an obvious opening in the floor directly in front of the platform where she stood, a trapdoor of some kind, its edges worn.

The woman beamed, a wide, almost theatrical smile spreading across her face. "Ah, Luke Skywalker! You've finally arrived!" Her voice was lively, brimming with an infectious energy. "I've started the icebreaker without you, you see, and it just can't be an icebreaker unless everyone is accounted for!" She gestured expansively. "I'm Sara Valestein. And I'm the instructor in charge of Class VII. So, you get the distinct pleasure of seeing me all year!"

Sara was a striking woman. Her amber eyes sparkled with mischief, and her long cerise hair was tied up behind her, a vibrant splash of color against her unique attire. She wore a distinctive yellow and black minidress and brown thigh-high boots, seemingly her regular wear. Over this, a steel blue overcoat was worn open and loose, adorned with several white belts, giving her a casual yet formidable appearance. Her laid-back demeanor was immediately evident, yet there was an underlying strength that hinted at much more than just a reluctance for hard work. She seemed approachable, even caring, an intriguing combination for a military academy instructor.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am," Luke said, offering a polite nod as he stepped fully into the dilapidated lobby. His brow furrowed slightly as her words registered. "Class VII? I was under the impression there were only five classes at the academy."

Sara Valestein put a hand on her hip, her amber eyes twinkling. "First of all, Luke, please do not call me 'ma'am.' It makes me feel incredibly old, and I assure you, I am not that old." She gave a playful huff. Second of all, you would be correct. Historically, students in each year here at Thors have always been divided into five classes: two for the nobility and three for commoners. And it's been that way for ages, right up through last year."

She paused, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "But this year, we decided to shake things up a little." A few low murmurs rippled through the other students assembled in the room, some looking intrigued, others disgruntled. "We now have a sixth class. Fittingly titled 'Class VII.'" Her gaze swept over the students, a hint of challenge in her eyes. "In this class, we recognize no distinction between nobles and commoners."

Luke's eyes widened slightly in surprise. Nobles and commoners, together? That was certainly a shake-up. But then, a detail snagged his attention. "Class VII?" he blurted out. "Not Class VI?"

Sara chuckled, a dry, knowing sound. "You're observant, Luke. Class VII is not called Class VI precisely because it's intended to be a distinct and improved version of the previous class. The number '7' was chosen to signify a new beginning and a different approach, highlighting this unique experiment of combining nobles and commoners. The previous class, often referred to as Class VI, was more of a pilot program, a much smaller, less ambitious trial. Class VII is the real initiative, designed to be long-lasting."

She waved a dismissive hand. "But that's not important right now. Your classmates are already down below doing the Orienteering Exercise, and you, my dear Luke, are already far behind." Sara placed a hand on her hip, a mock frown on her face. "Honestly, I was quite shocked to learn I was missing a student right when I began the icebreaker. I'm going to have to have a word with whoever made that error in your assignment paperwork."

"I'm shocked about the error, too," Luke admitted, a genuine frown on his face. "Did you mean orientation?"

Sara chuckled, a dry, knowing sound. "Oh no, Luke. I meant Orienteering. And it would be far from me to keep you from participating in our little icebreaker, now wouldn't it?" She gestured pointedly towards the gaping opening in the floor.

Luke looked down at the open trapdoor, a dark void below. "Am I... supposed to drop down there?" he asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

Sara's grin widened. "You are! Wouldn't want to spoil the fun, would we? Just hop down, Luke. This thing was designed to be as non-lethal as possible. Now go on, get moving... unless you want me to use force?" Her eyes glinted playfully.

"No, no, I'll go down myself," Luke assured her quickly, taking a step closer to the edge.

"Good man!" Sara said, then paused. "Oh, wait! One more thing." She suddenly tossed an object towards him. Luke's hand shot out, his fingers closing around a smooth, faceted object. It was a Quartz.

"That's a Quartz," Sara explained, "and that orbment you have? It's a special kind. New model battle orbments were made through a partnership between the Epstein Foundation and the Reinford Group. Newly made fifth-generation battle orbments, to be precise. They're called ARCUS units. One of their primary functions is to keep in contact with fellow users anytime and anywhere. Each of your classmates has one."

From what Luke knew about Orbments, the fact that he now held a Quartz meant a significant leap in his capabilities. "So... I can use arts now?" he asked, a thrill of possibility running through him.

"Bingo!" Sara confirmed, her smile bright. "Just set a Quartz into one of its slots, and you can use arts all the live long day. I practically scrambled to find another one for you after I learned I had an extra student. Lucky I had an extra one in my pocket, eh?" She winked. "The one you’re holding right now is a Master Quartz. If you set that into the large slot in the center of your ARCUS, you’ll be able to use arts. Now, go on! Set that Master Quartz into your ARCUS!"

Luke gazed at the Master Quartz in his hand. It was a deep, opaque black, clearly a Time Master Quartz, its polished facets glinting even in the dim light of the Old Schoolhouse lobby. Engraved on it is a symbol of a shooting star. He knew from his orphanage lessons that these were crystal circuits, crafted from purified sepith, capable of manifesting various phenomena when set into an orbment. Though orbments were unique, the quartz were interchangeable, each granting different orbal arts and benefits, from increased stats to unique effects. He also recalled the restrictions: element-locked slots and no two copies of the same quartz. As he held the black crystal, he felt a subtle thrum, a deep resonance that vibrated through his fingers and up his arm, echoing the Force within him. It felt right, a natural extension of his connection to the world's energy.

After a moment, Luke opened his ARCUS unit. The device unfolded with a quiet, satisfying click, revealing its intricate inner workings. The top panel, which bore the academy emblem, flipped open, exposing a complex array of mechanisms beneath. The central section was a hexagonal core, surrounded by eight smaller, circular slots, all crafted from the same elegant metallic and dark materials as the exterior. Two larger, compass-like dials, identical to the one on the closed unit, were now prominently displayed at the top and bottom of the opened device, their needles perfectly still. The exposed interior was a marvel of precise engineering, small gears and almost invisible conduits hinting at the advanced technology within.

Luke carefully inserted the black Master Quartz into the central hexagonal slot. It clicked into place with satisfying precision, fastening itself without any trouble. The moment it settled, a soft, ethereal blue-white light began to emanate, not only from the ARCUS unit itself, but also, surprisingly, from his chest, directly over his heart. The light pulsed gently, a quiet, internal glow.

"Whoa," Luke murmured, staring at the phenomenon. "What's this light?"

Sara, who had been observing him with a keen eye, beamed. "That, my dear Luke, means you've successfully synchronized with your ARCUS! Congratulations! Now you can use arts as much as you want."

"As much as I want?" Luke repeated, a wry smile touching his lips. He knew that was a fallacy; using Orbal Arts always cost energy, requiring careful management of one's reserves.

Sara seemed to pick up on his unspoken thought, though she didn't address it directly. "These ARCUS units have plenty more nifty features, but I wouldn't want to bombard you with too much info all at once, so we'll cover those another time." She clapped her hands together. "Anyway, since you've got your ARCUS all set up and ready to go, you should start heading down right about now. If you wait any longer, your classmates will leave you in the dust. Of course, I can still force you. That’s always an option."

Luke nodded, putting away his ARCUS unit. Then, without a moment's hesitation, he walked to the edge of the open trapdoor and simply jumped. The descent was quick, a brief rush of air, before he landed lightly on a solid, unseen surface below.

Sara peered down the opening after him, a thoughtful expression on her face. "So this is what the student with the highest ARCUS aptitude is like, huh?" she mused aloud to herself, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Well, looks like I've got quite the handful of kids, haven't I?"

[~][~]

Chapter Text

Trails of a New Hope (Star Wars/Sen no Kiseki)

Chapter 2: Class VII

[~][~]

Erebonian Empire

Old Schoolhouse, Thors Military Academy, Trista

March 31, S.1204, (Septian Calendar)

Luke landed on the cold, hard stone floor with a soft thud, the air around him still swirling from his unexpected descent through the trapdoor. He took a moment to get his bearings, his eyes scanning the octagonal room. It was made entirely of rough-hewn stone, from the floor beneath his boots to the arched ceiling high above. Flickering light from lamp fixtures set into the walls cast long, dancing shadows, giving the ancient space a somewhat mysterious, almost ethereal glow.

A broad grin spread across Luke’s face. This was not the typical orientation he’d imagined for Thors Military Academy. No stuffy lectures or polite introductions. Instead, he was in some kind of underground labyrinth, following his new classmates who had, without hesitation, plunged into the unknown. A thrill, reminiscent of a daring swoop shot through him. Instructor Sara had called it an "Orienteering Exercise," but to Luke, it felt more like an adventure just waiting to unfold. He was ready.

Luke's gaze swept across the octagonal chamber, taking in the rough-hewn stone walls and the flickering lamplight. A single, dark corridor led out of the room, no doubt the path his classmates had taken. His eyes then fell upon the nine altars, arranged in a semicircle. They were bare, but a prickle of intuition, a familiar whisper in the Force, told him they hadn't always been. Something had been there, something significant.

Curiosity, ever a driving force for Luke, pulled him towards one of the altars. He extended a gloved hand, then hesitated, pulling off the glove. He remembered the first time he'd unknowingly used Psychometry, back at the orphanage. When he was trying to find out who ate all the cookies in the cookie jar, and unknowingly found out via psychometry. Ben had explained it to him during one of their lessons when Luke brought it up with him. Luke was surprised to learn that Ben didn’t have this ability as well. It wasn't a power you could simply learn; you had to be born with it. But even then, it needed practice. Without it, touching an object that held a strong "Force Echo" could lead to crippling headaches or even seizures. Gloves were his way of keeping the power in check, a filter against the deluge of sensory input.

Ben had also given him stern warnings. Never use it on the dead, for their final moments often brushed too close to the dark side of the Force. And be wary of weapons, for the emotions of those who wielded them could be overwhelming, potentially leading to a similar corruption. The dark side, Ben had explained, was a seductive path, promising power but ultimately leading to ruin. It was a tempting void that could consume anyone who wasn't careful, anyone who allowed intense negative emotions to take hold.

Luke took a deep breath, focusing his intent, and placed his bare hand on the cold stone of the altar. Instantly, a blinding white light engulfed his vision. Sounds and sensations, muffled and distorted, flooded his mind. He saw a curved sword, its polished blade glinting in the light, resting on the altar. Beside it, a small, intricate box lay open, revealing a shimmering Quartz within. Then, a figure entered his vision: a black-haired boy, his face serious, reaching out to claim the sword and the Quartz. Luke’s brow furrowed. He knew that face. He'd seen him before, but where? The image flickered and then faded, leaving Luke blinking in the dim light of the chamber, the lingering chill of the altar seeping into his fingertips.

The realization hit Luke with the sudden force of a blaster bolt. The black-haired boy… the dream! He remembered it now, a vivid kaleidoscope of faces and crimson uniforms from when he’d first woken this morning. It wasn't just the black-haired boy; all nine of them, the entire enigmatic group from his dream, were here. They were his classmates.

To confirm his growing suspicion, Luke moved from altar to altar, his bare hand connecting with the cold stone, triggering the familiar blinding flash of Psychometry. Each echo solidified his conviction.

The first altar yielded a bow, string drawn by a young woman with a cascade of long blonde hair and striking scarlet eyes. She moved with a graceful, almost hesitant energy, yet her focus on the weapon was absolute.

Next, a staff appeared, picked up by a bright-eyed young man with a mop of orange hair and turquoise eyes. His expression in the vision was one of earnest curiosity, a fitting match for the academic look of the staff.

Then, a formidable greatsword materialized, clutched by a tall young woman with long indigo hair pulled into a high ponytail and amber eyes. She carried herself with an air of noble dignity, even in the brief Force Echo.

A knight sword was wielded by a young man with blonde hair and icy blue eyes, who wore his crimson uniform with an almost defiant casualness, a stark contrast to the formal weapon.

A shotgun echoed from the next altar, gripped firmly by a focused young man with messy dark blue-green hair, lime green eyes, and glasses. He meticulously adjusted his buttoned uniform even as he took possession of the powerful firearm.

Twin Gunswords shimmered into existence, wielded by a small, agile figure with stark white hair and lime green eyes. She moved with a quick, almost predatory grace, her short skirt and sneakers in the vision making her look ready for anything.

Another staff member appeared, this one taken by a serene young woman with a long plum-colored braid, mint blue eyes, and large, round glasses. A quiet wisdom radiated from her, even in the fleeting echo.

Finally, a spear belonging to a powerfully built young man with wavy brown hair tied into a short ponytail, tan skin, and light blue eyes stood firm. His uniform sleeves were rolled up in the vision, an earthy groundedness emanating from him.

As the last echo faded, Luke withdrew his hand, a sense of profound certainty settling over him. These were the faces from his dream, the very people he had seen in that premonition. And now, armed with their chosen weapons and the Quartz from the altars, they were somewhere in this very structure, embarking on the same "Orienteering Exercise." His classmates. This was going to be an interesting semester.

The quiet hum of the Old Schoolhouse was suddenly pierced by a sharp, electronic trill. Luke, deep in thought about his newfound classmates, jumped slightly. The sound was coming from his pocket. He pulled out his ARCUS, its sleek casing warm in his hand, and flipped it open.

A familiar, yet somewhat weary, voice crackled through the comms. "Well, looks like your ARCUS is working just fine, Skywalker. Just checking in to make sure the built-in comms are functional for everyone." It was Instructor Sara Valestein, her tone as relaxed as ever. "Wouldn't want anyone getting lost out there, now would we? Though knowing this bunch, they'll probably sort themselves out."

Luke couldn't help but crack a small smile. Even over a comms channel, Sara's laid-back demeanor was palpable.

"Everything's good on my end, Instructor," Luke replied, his voice clear. He glanced down the dark corridor, a fresh wave of excitement bubbling up. He was ready for whatever this "Orienteering Exercise" threw at him.

"Alright, Skywalker, listen up," Sara's voice continued, a hint of amusement in her tone. "If you turn your attention to that open door, you'll find yourself in what we affectionately call an underground testing area. Basically… It's a dungeon."

Luke's eyebrows shot up. A dungeon? This was even better than he'd imagined.

"It's pretty large, full of twists and turns," she warned. "I'd almost guarantee you'll get lost at least once. But," she added, a note of encouragement entering her voice, "when you and your classmates find the exit, you'll be able to return to the first floor of this old schoolhouse."

Simple enough, Luke thought, ready to acknowledge the instructions. Then Sara dropped her final bombshell.

"Oh, one more thing," she said, her voice turning slightly more serious. "Monsters are wandering around, so don't let your guard down, not even for a moment. And I gotta say, it's pretty ballsy of you to go down there without a weapon."

Luke blinked. Monsters? And no weapon? That changed things considerably. He'd been so focused on the Force echoes, he hadn't even considered that.

"With all that said, good luck on this special orienteering exercise, Skywalker," Sara concluded, a hint of a playful smirk audible in her voice. "Your objective is simple: make your way through this area and back to the surface. Make it back in one piece, and I'll be happy to field any complaints you might have. If you make it back safely, I might even kiss you, free of charge! … On the cheek, of course."

A faint click signaled the end of the call. Luke stared at his ARCUS for a moment, then let out a soft chuckle. His instructor was certainly quite the character. Monsters. No weapon. A kiss on the cheek. This was not going to be a typical first day.

Putting his ARCUS away, Luke took a deep breath, the implications of Sara’s warning sinking in. Monsters. And he was unarmed. A thrill, a familiar mix of apprehension and exhilaration, shot through him. It was a challenge, and Luke Skywalker had never been one to back down from a challenge.

He glanced down the corridor, the darkness beckoning. He didn't have a weapon, but he had something else: the Force. And he had his classmates somewhere in this labyrinth. He knew what he had to do.

With a determined glint in his eye, Luke set off, his steps echoing softly on the stone floor. He needed to find the exit, and he needed to find his classmates. And if there were monsters in the way, well, he’d just have to figure something out.

[~]

It didn't take Luke long to find the first three. He moved cautiously through the echoing stone passages, the dim lamplight barely pushing back the oppressive darkness. Then, a faint clang of steel and a guttural snarl reached his ears. Rounding a corner, he saw them.

Three young men, his classmates, were locked in combat. The young man with dark, unkempt hair with a blue tint and piercing fuchsia eyes moved with a fluid grace, his curved sword a flashing arc of steel as he parried and struck. Nearby, the bright-eyed young man with a mop of orange hair and turquoise eyes skillfully wielded his staff, parrying and thrusting with surprising agility. And holding the line, a powerfully built young man with wavy brown hair tied into a short ponytail, tan skin, and light blue eyes stood firm, his spear a formidable extension of his raw strength, his uniform sleeves already rolled up for action.

Their opponents were unlike anything Luke had ever seen, yet strangely familiar from Sister Melia's lessons back at the orphanage. Flying Felines. These winged feline monsters, sleek and agile, swooped down from the shadows, their talons extended, relentlessly pursuing their prey and attacking with vicious kicks from above. The air was filled with the whoosh of their wings and the sharp crack of their attacks meeting steel and wood.

Luke watched, a keen observer, as the three young men deftly handled the Flying Felines. The orange-haired boy, with his mop of bright hair, moved his staff with impressive fluidity. Luke could sense the orbment built into it, a faint hum of energy that explained how the boy was able to cast Arts so quickly. Indeed, the staff pulsed, releasing three glowing blue orbs that sped to strike a high-flying feline. The powerfully built brown-haired young man was a bulwark, his spear a steady, unyielding force, pushing back the attacks. And the black-haired boy? He moved with a practiced, lethal grace, his curved sword a blur, finishing off a Flying Feline with a single, decisive slash.

As the last of the initial group of monsters fell, the orange-haired boy let out a sigh of relief. "Man, I hope that's the last of these things lurking around here."

But even as the words left his mouth, a new set of wings sliced through the air from an unseen alcove, swooping down on the unsuspecting students. They hadn't seen it, but Luke did. He felt its presence through the Force, a sudden ripple in the otherwise calm energy around them.

Acting on instinct, Luke channeled the Force. With a surge of Force Speed, he blurred across the stone floor, covering the distance to the Flying Feline in an instant. The world seemed to slow down, the flapping wings and the surprised faces of his classmates stretching into elongated moments. He was right there, in front of the creature, before it could even register his presence.

Then, with a powerful surge of the Force augmenting his strike, Luke delivered a Force Punch. His fist connected with the Flying Feline's body with a sickening thud, sending it hurtling backwards. It crashed against the far wall with a crunch, utterly incapacitated.

Luke turned to the startled orange-haired boy and his companions, who stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. "That's the last one," he stated calmly, the adrenaline already beginning to subside. The brief exertion of Force Speed and Force Punch, though potent, was something he'd trained with Ben to overcome; the familiar drain quickly faded.

The orange-haired boy, still wide-eyed from Luke's sudden intervention, was the first to speak. "Whoa! How'd you do that? And who are you?"

Luke smiled, extending a hand to the closest of the three, the black-haired boy with the curved sword. "I'm Luke Skywalker. Just your classmate. The one who got assigned to the wrong class due to an error, and, well, was a bit late for the Orienteering exercise."

The black-haired boy's eyes widened in recognition. "Ah," he said, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. "You're the guy Ms. Valestein told us about with that call a few seconds ago."

The black-haired boy, recovering from his surprise, extended a hand to Luke. "I'm Rean Schwarzer. Nice to meet you, Luke."

Luke clasped Rean's hand warmly. "Pleasure to finally meet some of my classmates. Well, some of them, at least."

The powerfully built, brown-haired young man stepped forward, his expression earnest. "I am Gaius Worzel. I just arrived in the Empire."

"From abroad, then?" Luke surmised, a genuine smile touching his lips. "It's a pleasure to meet you, too, Gaius."

The orange-haired boy, still staring at the crumpled form of the Flying Feline, finally spoke. "I'm Elliot Craig. That was... amazing! You took that thing down without even a weapon!" He gestured towards the wall, his amazement clear.

Luke rubbed the back of his neck, a slight flush rising on his cheeks. "Yeah, about that... I don't have a weapon," he admitted.

Rean, Gaius, and Elliot exchanged surprised glances. "No weapon?" Elliot echoed, disbelief coloring his voice.

"It's... a personal philosophy," Luke explained, choosing his words carefully. "Where I come from, we're taught that taking a life, even in defense, isn't something to be done lightly. It's a last resort. So, if I'm going to carry something that could end a life, I need to be certain there are no other options. I need to be truly ready to use it, to understand the weight of that decision. Otherwise, it just feels wrong to carry it." He paused, looking at the stunned faces of his new classmates. "I'm still learning, still figuring out when that line is truly crossed. It's a lot to think about, so for now, I figure it's better to rely on... other methods."

Luke glanced down at his gloved hands, a familiar warmth spreading through him as he reflected on his lessons with Ben. Ben had always emphasized that a true defender wasn't just about the weapon they held, but the strength of their will and their connection to the world around them. That's why he'd focused so heavily on hand-to-hand combat, even when Luke had shown an early aptitude for other things. Ben had often said that if you truly understood how your own body could be a tool for defense, you'd appreciate the weight and responsibility of any other weapon even more. It was about controlling yourself before you controlled anything else.

His philosophy, the one he'd just shared with his new classmates, had largely stemmed from that first day he'd asked Ben to teach him how to defend himself and others, and how to harness his innate "gift"—his connection to something Ben simply called 'the Force'. Ben had been clear: this gift was powerful, but it demanded immense discipline. It wasn't about seeking conflict, but about protecting the innocent, about preserving peace whenever possible. Taking a life, even of an aggressor, was a solemn decision, one that should never be made lightly. It was always better to disarm, to incapacitate, to find another way. That's what his training in unarmed combat had primarily been about: learning to neutralize a threat without necessarily ending it.

"I understand," Rean said, his voice thoughtful, pulling Luke back to the present. "That's a very... admirable philosophy, Luke."

"You think so?" Luke asked Rean, a hint of surprise in his voice.

Rean nodded, his expression softening slightly. "Yeah, I do. Everyone has their reasons for how they approach things, you know? What they choose to carry, or not carry. It’s... complicated." There was a subtle weight behind his words, a quiet understanding that suggested a depth of personal experience.

As Rean spoke, Luke noticed a flicker in his eyes, a momentary shadow that crossed his features. Through the Force, Luke sensed a complex tapestry of emotions within Rean – a quiet resilience, an undercurrent of self-doubt, and a subtle, almost imperceptible sadness. It was a feeling of carrying burdens, of wrestling with an inner struggle. It wasn't despair, but rather the quiet fortitude of someone who had faced their challenges and found a way to move forward, even if the path wasn't always clear.

Luke sensed the unspoken weight in Rean's words, the subtle wall he'd erected. He decided not to push, understanding that some things were personal. Delving deeper into someone's inner struggles, even with the Force, felt like a violation of privacy. He shifted the subject, aiming for something lighter.

"Well," Luke began, a grin spreading across his face, "my hand-to-hand combat training certainly paid off just now. Being able to punch a monster into a wall isn't something you learn every day." He then looked at Rean's weapon. "Your sword, though... I'm pretty sure I haven't seen a blade quite like that before. It's unique."

Rean glanced at his sword, then back at Luke. "Oh, this? It's an Eastern style of saber called a taichi. Any way you slice it, though," he added with a slight shrug, "it's a longsword."

Luke couldn't help but admire the weapon. "It's beautiful, Rean. The craftsmanship is exceptional."

"Taichis are renowned for the layering of their steel and the sharpness of their edge," Rean explained, a hint of pride in his voice. Then his expression turned a bit more serious. "Honestly, I'm still a little hesitant about swinging something this dangerous around. Which is why I agree with your philosophy, Luke."

Luke sensed a familiar flicker of the earlier feelings returning in Rean, a brief return to that unspoken weight. Before he could dwell on it, Gaius stepped forward, holding out his spear.

"This is my weapon," Gaius stated, his voice calm and strong.

Luke's gaze immediately went to the spear's head. "That's... unusual," he commented, noting the distinct cross-shaped head. "I haven't seen a spear like that before."

Gaius nodded. "Think of it as combining the best parts of a spear and a poleaxe. It's pretty handy back home." He then looked at Luke, his expression one of genuine admiration. "I am impressed with you fighting with only your hands against that Flying Feline. That was... courageous."

"Thanks, Gaius," Luke replied, a genuine smile on his face.

Elliot, seeing his chance, eagerly stepped forward, presenting his staff. "And this is mine! It's an Orbal Staff," he clarified, a hint of excitement in his voice. "The tech's pretty recent—this one's still a prototype, more or less. Back during enrollment, they told me I had some aptitude for it, so when it came time to choose, I just sorta... ran with it."

Luke examined the intricate design of the staff, his eyes tracing the subtle glowing lines within it. "I haven't seen anything like it before," he admitted, genuinely impressed.

Elliot nodded. "Yeah, they're still in development. There aren't too many around just yet."

"Does it allow you to cast Arts faster?" Luke asked, his eyes still on the Orbal Staff.

Elliot beamed. "Exactly! That's the idea, anyway. It helps."

"So, where are the rest of our classmates?" Luke asked, glancing around the empty stone corridor.

"We split up," Rean explained. "Figured it would cover more ground. If you want, you can stick with us."

"Sounds like a good plan to me," Luke agreed, liking the idea of strength in numbers, especially given the monsters.

Gaius nodded, a subtle smile on his face. "We are glad to have you, Luke."

"Just remember," Rean added, "we should take it slow and steady. We need to adapt to each other's fighting styles to gel as a team."

"I agree," Luke confirmed, nodding at Rean's suggestion.

As Elliot and Gaius started to move forward, Luke gently placed a hand on Rean's shoulder, stopping him for a moment. "Hey, Rean," he began, his voice a low, thoughtful tone. "My mentor once told me something that stuck with me. He said, 'Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.'"¹

Rean looked at Luke, his brow furrowed in perplexity. "Fear leads to anger... anger leads to hate... hate leads to suffering?" he repeated, the words sounding strange to him.

Luke gave a small, knowing smile. "Yeah, I had the same expression you do right now. Just... ponder on it. Sometimes the simplest words hold the most meaning." He then gestured towards the flickering light of Elliot and Gaius moving ahead. "In the meantime, we should probably catch up with our classmates."

Rean and Luke quickly caught up with Elliot and Gaius, falling into step as they navigated the dimly lit, twisting corridors of the Old Schoolhouse's dungeon. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—a faint, organic tang.

Suddenly, Gaius held up a hand, his expression intent. "Be on your guard," he warned the party, his voice low. "I can sense more monsters up ahead."

Luke blinked, genuinely surprised. "You can sense them?" he asked, a subtle ripple of intrigue going through him.

Gaius nodded. "I can 'read' the wind, in a sense. It allows me to discern higher elements and feel the auras of our enemies."

Could he be like me? Luke wondered internally, a spark of hope igniting. The idea that someone else might possess a similar connection to the world, a "gift" like his, was both exciting and daunting. But he quickly suppressed the thought. He couldn't voice it, couldn't risk revealing his own Force sensitivity, a secret Ben had impressed upon him to guard closely.

Instead, Luke rephrased his question. "Can you tell what kind of monsters are up ahead?" Of course, even as he asked, he didn't wait for Gaius's answer. He was already reaching out with his senses, a subtle pressure behind his eyes as he extended his awareness through the Force.

He felt them. A cluster of sluggish, pulsating presences, radiating a cool, humid energy. As they rounded a slight bend in the corridor, the lamplight revealed them.

"You don't need to ask," Gaius replied, his gaze already fixed on the creatures. "I can already see them."

Luke pointed towards the grotesque forms slowly moving in the damp gloom. "By the looks of things, these are Grass Dromes." He recognized them from Sister Melia's lessons. They were strange, bluish, slug-like mollusks with a single, large, swirling yellow-green eye set high on their bodies. Their bases were surrounded by a cluster of vibrant, almost crystalline blue and green fleshy growths that pulsed faintly. "They're a kind of spongy mollusk that likes areas with high humidity. They produce orbal energy in their bodies and use wind arts."

Gaius narrowed his eyes at the lumbering Grass Dromes. "I don't think physical attacks are going to be very effective against these monsters," he stated, his voice laced with caution.

"Agreed," Rean chimed in, his hand already moving towards the hilt of his taichi, then pausing. "We'll need to rely on Arts this time."

Elliot, ever practical, tapped his Orbal Staff. "Well, that's where my Orbal Staff comes in handy. Attacking with it has the same effect as an Art, just without any casting time. So, if worse comes to worst, I should just be able to run up and smack it."

Rean nodded. "I can see your Orbal Staff coming in handy, Elliot." He then turned to Luke, a slight frown of concern on his face. "But Luke, are you going to be alright? Given that you're fighting with your fists..."

Luke met Rean's gaze, a glint of determination in his eyes. "I haven't used an Orbal Art before," he admitted, looking from Elliot's staff to the approaching Grass Dromes. "But I feel there's no time like the present to learn."

Luke gestured towards the four distinct Grass Dromes, slowly closing the distance. "Hey, look," he said, a strategic glint in his eye. "There's one for each of us. Perfect for practicing our Arts, don't you think?"

Rean considered this for a moment, then nodded. "You're right, Luke. It would be a good exercise."

Elliot bounced on the balls of his feet, his Orbal Staff humming faintly. "Yeah! A chance to test this out."

Gaius, ever stoic, simply gave a firm nod of agreement. "Let's do it."

With a shared glance of determination, Luke, Rean, Gaius, and Elliot each moved to engage a separate Grass Drome. The spongy mollusks, sensing their approach, reacted by launching their attacks. Tendrils of compressed air, sharp and swift, whipped out from their bodies – their signature Wind Arts.

Rean, facing his assigned Drome, wasted no time. He channeled his energy, and from his hand, a blazing orb of fire erupted, arcing through the air to strike the sluggish monster. The Drome recoiled, the fire searing its spongy hide, proving immediately to be a far more effective attack than any physical blow would have been.

Elliot, his Orbal Staff humming with power, thrust it forward. A heavy mass of water surged from the tip, slamming into his Grass Drome with a squelching impact, soaking and dazing it.

Gaius, ever practical, met his Drome's Wind Art with one of his own. He manipulated the air around him, forming a mass of compressed air that he launched, directly countering and then engulfing his opponent.

Luke, facing his own Grass Drome, found himself in unfamiliar territory. He dodged a whipping gust of wind from the Drome, the Art narrowly missing him. This was it. He focused, not on what he knew about Orbal Arts, but on instinct, letting the subtle guidance of the Force lead him. He felt a connection, a resonance with the Master Quartz nestled within his ARCUS, a silent push and pull of energy. He extended his hand, and from his palm, a ripple of power erupted. It wasn't elemental like fire or water, but something far more abstract. A peculiar, almost shimmering time-space shaking pulse emanated from him, washing over the Grass Drome. The creature shuddered violently, its form momentarily distorting as if reality itself had wobbled around it, clearly disoriented and damaged by the unexpected Art.

Luke grinned as his time-space shaking pulse continued to hammer his Grass Drome, the peculiar energy rippling through the creature. He was getting the hang of this. Around him, Rean's fire continued to sizzle, Elliot's water Arts splashed, and Gaius's wind blasts buffeted their respective targets. It was clear everyone was settling into a rhythm with their Orbal Arts.

On a slight whim, perhaps still buzzing from his earlier success against the Flying Feline, Luke decided to try something else. He evaded another incoming Wind Art from his Grass Drome, then closed the distance, channeling his unique augmentation. He delivered a swift, powerful Force Punch.

Much to his astonishment, it worked. The Grass Drome, which was supposedly resilient to physical attacks, recoiled with surprising force from his blow, its spongy body compressing and then collapsing. It was finished.

But how? Luke wondered internally. He'd diligently studied the Monster Guide Sister Melia had provided. It explicitly stated that physical attacks were less effective against Grass Dromes, emphasizing that Orbal Arts were the key to defeating them. Yet, his punch, an amplified physical strike, had dropped it.

His party, who had just finished off their own Grass Dromes with Arts, stared at him, their expressions a mix of surprise and confusion.

"Woah, Luke! You just... punched it?" Elliot exclaimed, his eyes wide.

"I thought physical attacks weren't supposed to work on those things," Rean added, lowering his taichi.

Luke, quick on his feet, shrugged, offering a casual smile. "Honestly, I think it was just a lucky hit. Maybe it was already weakened from all the Arts we were throwing at it, and I just... caught it at the right moment with a solid strike. You know, sometimes you just get that perfect angle." He paused, then added with a confident grin, "Guess I'm just pretty good at punching things."

Thankfully, his classmates, still reeling from the unexpected outcome and perhaps eager to believe in a straightforward explanation, bought it. Rean nodded slowly, "A lucky blow, perhaps. Still, quite impressive, Luke." Gaius simply gave a thoughtful hum, while Elliot looked thoroughly impressed.

"Right then, let's keep moving," Luke said, quickly steering the conversation away from his suspiciously effective punch. He was glad his impromptu excuse had worked; revealing his true abilities was not part of the plan, not yet.

As they began to walk, Luke's keen eyes, trained to notice details, caught sight of something. "Wait," he said, stopping suddenly. He pointed. "One of you is injured."

Rean glanced down at a small cut on his forearm that he hadn't even noticed in the heat of battle. "Oh, just a scratch," he dismissed.

Before he could say more, Elliot stepped forward, his Orbal Staff glowing softly. He extended a hand, and a gentle mass of water began to swirl around Rean's cut. The wound, to Luke's astonishment, began to close, the skin knitting itself back together until it was as if no injury had ever been there.

"There you go, Rean!" Elliot chirped, withdrawing his hand. "Good as new."

Luke stared, utterly amazed. "There are Arts that can heal?" he exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine wonder. He'd seen combat Arts, but never anything like this. "That's... incredibly convenient!"

Elliot puffed up his chest, a clear display of pride. "Yep! That's my strong suit," he declared, a wide grin on his face. "While I might not be the best at swinging a sword or a spear, Arts are more my forte. And that's just a simple healing Art, too. There are so many kinds, you wouldn't believe it!"

Luke continued to ponder the healing Art, a new dimension to this world's capabilities opening before him. The convenience was undeniable, a game-changer in a combat situation. But his mind, ever drawing parallels to his own experiences, couldn't shake a familiar concern.

He recalled his lessons with Ben. The rigorous training, the emphasis on control and discipline when wielding the Force. Ben had always warned him about the mental toll. Using the Force, particularly for prolonged periods or demanding tasks, required significant mental focus and concentration. Overextension could lead to debilitating mental fatigue, making it difficult to even think, and in severe cases, could even risk mental breakdowns. While the Force itself wasn't physically taxing in the way lifting weights was, the physical exertion involved in using it, especially for combat or strenuous applications, definitely contributed to physical fatigue. Ben had even described a condition called Force fatigue, a combined physical and mental exhaustion from overuse. It varied, of course, depending on the individual's strength and experience, but the risk was always there. Luke had trained hard to overcome this, to use the Force for extended periods with minimal fatigue, but the principle remained.

Now, looking at Elliot and his seemingly effortless use of Arts, Luke couldn't help but wonder if Orbal Arts operated under a similar principle. Was there a hidden cost, a drain on mental or physical reserves that wasn't immediately apparent?

It was with this concern, a protective instinct honed by Ben's warnings, that Luke turned to Elliot. "Elliot," he advised, his voice serious, "that healing Art, and your other Arts... they're incredibly useful. But you should probably try to use them in moderation. Just in case."

Elliot blinked, a little taken aback by Luke's sudden seriousness. "Why? They're pretty easy to use, and I've got plenty of energy, so I can cast them a bunch."

"True," Luke conceded, "but even easy things can have a cost if you overdo them." He chose his words carefully, drawing from his own experiences without revealing too much. "Think about it this way: if you're using Arts constantly, for every little scratch or bump, what happens when you face a really serious threat? A major injury? Or when you need to use a powerful Art in a tight spot? You might find yourself drained, unable to use it when it truly matters most."

He continued, "It's like... imagine if you ran a full sprint everywhere you went, even just walking to the next room. You'd be exhausted when you needed to run fast, right? Or if you trained your voice by constantly shouting at the top of your lungs for every minor conversation. When it came time to perform a full concert, your voice would be shot."

"My mentor always told me that every ability, no matter how easy it seems, has its limits," Luke explained. "And pushing past those limits without proper rest or recovery can lead to more than just physical tiredness. It can make it hard to focus, to think clearly, to react quickly. And in a place like this, with monsters lurking around, you need to be sharp at all times. So, saving your Arts for when they're truly needed, for the bigger problems, will ensure you're always ready when it counts."

Rean, Gaius, and Elliot listened to Luke's explanation, their expressions shifting from slight confusion to thoughtful consideration. The dungeon's dim light seemed to emphasize the sudden quiet as they pondered his advice.

Finally, Rean nodded slowly, his gaze meeting Luke's. "You know, Luke, you make a lot of sense," he said, his voice firm. "It's a good point about conservation. We shouldn't become over-reliant or deplete our reserves for trivial things. Especially if there's a larger threat waiting for us."

Gaius nodded, his stance firm. "I agree as well. To overuse a tool lessens its edge when it is most needed."

Elliot, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, chimed in, "Yeah, I never really thought about it that way. You're right, Luke. It makes sense to save the big guns for the big problems. Thanks, that's wise!"

Luke gave a modest shrug. "Wise? Nah, not really. Just passing on some knowledge my mentor shared with me. Figured it was worth sharing with my classmates, especially since we're all going to be relying on each other in here."

Rean looked around the damp, stone corridor, then back at his companions. "Alright then," he declared, a renewed sense of purpose in his voice. "We should get going. We're still not out of this yet."

[~]

The winding passages continued, a seemingly endless labyrinth of stone and shadow. Their progress was marked by the occasional clang of steel and the sizzle of Arts as they encountered more of the dungeon's inhabitants. It wasn't long before they faced a new challenge: Coin Beetles. These creatures, their carapaces gleaming like polished gold, were as tough as their namesake. It took everything they had – a combination of Rean's precise sword work, Gaius's powerful spear thrusts, Elliot's well-placed Arts, and even Luke's surprisingly effective augmented punches – to finally crack their hardened exteriors and bring them down.

After the strenuous battle, just as Luke had subtly predicted, Elliot was noticeably worn out. He leaned against a rough stone wall, breathing heavily, looking as though the strength had simply left his legs. Only Luke, Rean, and Gaius remained standing without any outward signs of fatigue, a testament to their different forms of training and reserves.

Elliot managed to push himself upright, shakily adjusting his uniform. Just as he did, a gleam of gold flashed from above – a Coin Beetle they had somehow missed, now plummeting straight for the exhausted boy.

Before anyone could fully react, a sharp, concussive gunshot ripped through the air. A bullet, a tiny blur, struck the beetle mid-flight, knocking it violently off its trajectory. Rean, always quick to seize an opening, didn't waste a moment, his taichi flashing out to dispatch the stunned creature.

Luke's gaze snapped towards the source of the shot. Standing at the top of a short flight of stone steps, a figure surveyed them, lowering his weapon. "...Looks like I made it just in time," the voice said, a hint of relief evident. "Thank Aidios for that."

It was another familiar face from Luke's dream: a focused young man with messy dark blue-green hair, lime green eyes, and glasses. He adjusted his meticulously buttoned uniform, the shotgun held firmly in his hands.

"Machias!" Elliot exclaimed, a fresh wave of relief washing over his tired features.

Gaius nodded in confirmation as the young man descended the steps. "Machias."

Machias reached the floor, his expression serious. He met their gazes, a hint of shame in his eyes. "I... I came to realize that I shouldn't have just stormed off like I did. I let that arrogant noble goad me into losing my composure and acting on impulse." He took a deep breath. "So, I just wanted to say... I'm sorry. I acted foolishly, and I hope that you can forgive me for it."

"It's no sweat, Machias," Rean said, offering a reassuring smile. "Water under the bridge. We've all had our moments."

Elliot, rubbing his tired arm, nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, exactly! We all say or do things we regret sometimes. That's just human nature for you." He then straightened up, his eyes meeting Machias's. "Oh, and thanks for saving me, by the way! That beetle was coming for me."

Luke, having been completely out of the loop regarding any internal Class VII drama, looked at Rean, a question in his eyes. "What happened?"

Rean sighed lightly, running a hand through his hair. "At the very beginning of the Orienteering Exercise, Machias got into a bit of an argument with another one of our classmates. He's a noble, from one of the Four Great Houses. Machias... well, he has a bit of an issue with nobles in general. Called them 'stuck-up egotists' and other things." Rean gestured vaguely. "They both stormed off right after that."

Machias, having taken in Luke's presence, finally focused on him. "And who are you?" he asked, adjusting his glasses.

"Luke Skywalker," Luke replied, extending a hand. "I'm a late addition to Class VII. There was a bit of an error with my assignment."

Machias's eyes widened in recognition. "Ah," he said, taking Luke's hand. "You're the student Instructor Valestein called about. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

“Likewise, Machias.”

After shaking hands, Machias offered a relieved sigh. "I'm just glad I happened to be passing by. After I cooled my head a bit, I decided to retrace my steps, and well, here you are." He glanced around the corridor. "Is it just the four of you here?"

"Yeah," Rean confirmed, with a slight shrug. "We stood around talking for a while, so the others are probably ahead of us at this point."

"Correction," Luke interjected smoothly, a faint smirk touching his lips. "They are ahead of us at this point." He recalled his psychometry visions, seeing each of them taking a weapon from the altars.

Gaius nodded, his calm demeanor unwavering. "I agree with Luke. I don't think there's any reason to go back any farther. I doubt you'll find anyone there, Machias."

Machias looked from Rean to Luke, then to Gaius, a flicker of nervous hope in his eyes. "So, I don't suppose you mind if I came with you, would you?" he asked, a touch of uncertainty in his voice. "I'm reasonably skilled with a gun, so you might find me useful having me along..."

After making a shot like that? Luke thought to himself, watching Machias. The accuracy and speed with which he'd downed the Coin Beetle were undeniable. His skills were a valuable asset, especially in this unpredictable dungeon.

"Not at all, Machias!" Rean said warmly, extending his hand again. "Welcome aboard. I'm Rean Schwarzer."

Elliot, rubbing his hands together, grinned. "And I'm Elliot Craig! Nice to have you with us!"

Gaius offered a respectful nod. "Gaius Worzel. It is good to have another join our ranks."

Machias accepted Rean's hand, a relieved smile spreading across his face. "The pleasure's all mine," he said, sounding genuinely grateful. "My full name is Machias Regnitz."

"May I ask," Machias began, his gaze sweeping over each of them, a slight hesitation in his voice, "which social class each of you belongs to?"

Before Rean, Elliot, or Gaius could answer, Luke stepped forward, his expression serious. He had sensed the sudden spike of his familiar animosity towards nobles through the Force, a simmering resentment that hadn't entirely dissipated.

"Machias," Luke said, his voice calm but direct. "Are you asking because you genuinely want to know us, or are you looking for more nobles to despise?"

Machias's jaw tightened. "Are you a noble?" he retorted, a defensive edge to his tone.

"Me?" Luke chuckled softly. "Nah. I'm just an orphan from the countryside who got into Thors on scholarship. Nothing grand or fancy about me." He paused, his gaze softening. He could feel the bitterness emanating from Machias, a raw, deep-seated anger. Luke knew he didn't have all the pieces, but he knew enough about the dark side of the Force to recognize the danger of unchecked hatred.

"Look, Machias," Luke continued, his voice earnest. "I don't know why you detest nobles so much. I probably don't know the full story, and I won't pretend to. But carrying around that kind of hatred... It's a heavy burden, isn't it? It affects everything, doesn't it? Who you see, how you act, and what you say. It can warp things, make you see enemies where there might not be any, or blind you to allies right in front of you."

He met Machias's challenging gaze directly. "Whatever happened, whatever they did... holding onto that anger, letting it fester, it only hurts you in the end. It builds walls, not bridges. And out here, in this dungeon, we need bridges, not walls. We need to trust each other, no matter where we come from."

Luke's voice remained calm, but it hardened with a clear edge of warning. "Remember the mistake you just admitted to, Machias? The one you made at the beginning of this Orienteering Exercise because of your hatred?" He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "If you're going to make another mistake like that, if you're going to let that anger cloud your judgment again, in a dungeon filled with monsters no less..." Luke stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. "Then anything that befalls everyone around you, anything that happens to us because you can't control your prejudice, will be on your hands. Every bit of it."

The air in the stone corridor grew thick with tension, stretched taut between Luke's unwavering gaze and Machias's defensive posture. Machias's face was a study in conflicting emotions – anger, defiance, but also a flicker of shame and, perhaps, a nascent understanding. He wanted to retort, to lash out, but Luke's words, backed by the undeniable truth of his recent mistake, hung heavy in the air. The stark reality of their situation in the monster-filled dungeon underscored the gravity of Luke's warning.

Slowly, agonizingly, Machias's shoulders slumped. His gaze dropped, no longer able to meet Luke's piercing stare. He ran a hand through his dark blue-green hair, a silent acknowledgment of defeat. The staredown, without a single blow struck, was over. Luke had won.

"I... I apologize for my behavior," Machias said, his voice quiet, his gaze still fixed on the stone floor. He took a deep breath, and when he looked up, there was a clear determination in his eyes, though the underlying tension hadn't completely vanished. "I promise to cooperate with everyone as best I can."

He then hesitated, a nervous fidget with his glasses. "Although," he ventured cautiously, "I still would like to know the social class of those I'm associating with."

Luke's eyes narrowed slightly, a sharp glare directed squarely at Machias.

Machias visibly winced under the stare, quickly adding, "But please, don't take it personally! I'm simply... curious. It's just a matter of knowing who's who, for... for practical reasons, nothing more!" His voice trailed off, hoping the placating tone would appease Luke.

Rean, sensing the renewed tension, quickly placed a hand on Luke's arm, a placating gesture. "It's alright, Luke," he murmured.

Elliot, looking distinctly uncomfortable, fidgeted with his staff. "Well, uh... my parents are both commoners," he revealed nervously, glancing at Machias.

Gaius, ever straightforward, simply stated, "Likewise. Though my homeland has no class system to begin with."

Machias raised an eyebrow. "From abroad, then," he noted to Gaius, then turned his gaze back to Rean. "And you, Rean? What about you?"

Rean hesitated for a moment, his gaze shifting slightly away. "Let's just say... I haven't got a drop of noble blood in my veins. So I guess we’re all on equal standing here."

Through the Force, Luke could discern a subtle ripple in Rean's emotional landscape. Rean had indeed spoken a truth, but Luke could feel the deliberate omission, the unsaid parts of his story. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the full truth either. However, out of respect for Rean's privacy, Luke remained silent.

A visible wave of relief washed over Machias's face. "Good," he said, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Well, then, we should probably get moving. I'm somewhat concerned about the girls, as you might imagine. I'd feel much better if they were around to help if they wound up in danger."

"Agreed," Rean said, nodding. "There's strength in numbers, after all."

"Let's go," Gaius stated, already starting to move forward.

As the newly expanded party continued their journey through the labyrinthine dungeon, Luke couldn't help but reflect on his encounter with Machias. He had pushed, and Machias had yielded, promising cooperation. Yet, Luke could still feel the lingering currents of prejudice beneath the surface of Machias's composure. The issues hadn't vanished; they were merely suppressed.

The first step to correcting a mistake is patience, a proverb Ben had often repeated, which chose in Luke's mind. It was a lesson Luke knew well from his struggles and growth. He knew that true change wouldn't come from a single confrontation, but from consistent effort, understanding, and time.

Still, the emotional residue of the confrontation, combined with the earlier use of his abilities, left a faint thrumming beneath Luke's skin. He made a mental note: when this was all over, when they were safely out of the Old Schoolhouse, he would need to find a quiet place to meditate. It was the only way to truly center himself, to process the day's events, and to ensure his emotional well-being remained balanced.

[~]

The party pressed onward, the labyrinthine corridors of the Old Schoolhouse dungeon continuing to unfurl before them. The encounters grew more frequent, their path punctuated by the familiar screeches of Flying Felines, the sluggish undulations of Grass Dromes, and the metallic skittering of Coin Beetles. Each encounter served to further solidify their cohesion, their fighting styles slowly, instinctively, gelling into a more coordinated effort.

Machias proved to be a valuable addition. His shotgun roared, sending wide blasts that scattered Flying Felines and hammered the tough carapaces of Coin Beetles. He moved with a focused precision, his glasses glinting as he targeted enemies. Beyond his firearms, he demonstrated his command of Arts, which, as Luke observed, appeared to be Earth-based. On one occasion, a Coin Beetle attempted to flank them, only for Machias to launch a sharply pointed boulder from his hand, the dense rock striking the beetle with a resounding thud and knocking it off its feet. He was as adept with his Arts as Elliot was with his, providing a solid, grounded counterpoint to Elliot's more fluid and airy attacks.

As another skirmish erupted, a swarm of Flying Felines descending from the darkened ceiling, Machias, reloading his shotgun with practiced ease, called out over the din, "You're holding your own, Luke, especially without a weapon!"

"You should have seen him before!" Elliot interjected, deftly striking a Grass Drome with a blast of water. "He punched one of those Flying Felines clear across a room!"

Rean, parrying a Coin Beetle's lunge with his taichi, added, "His hand-to-hand combat is something else. My mentor always said the body could be a weapon, but Luke takes it to another level."

Gaius, driving his spear through a Drome, gave a simple, powerful nod. "He is quite formidable."

As if on cue, a particularly stubborn Coin Beetle, its golden shell shimmering, charged at Luke. Instead of dodging, Luke stood his ground. With a sudden surge of power, he delivered a devastating Force Punch. The impact resonated through the corridor, a sickening crack echoing as the beetle's supposedly impenetrable carapace visibly fractured. The creature was sent spinning through the air, crashing against a distant wall before falling motionless.

Machias, who had just finished dispatching a Flying Feline, gulped audibly, his eyes wide behind his glasses as he stared at the crumpled beetle. "Well," he muttered, adjusting his uniform nervously, "I'm certainly glad I didn't tick him off again."

Luke, despite the adrenaline of the fight, picked up on Machias's sudden surge of genuine relief through the Force. It was a clear, almost comical fear, far different from the seething resentment he'd felt earlier. A small, knowing smirk touched Luke's lips, unseen by the others in the chaos of battle.

With the last of the Coin Beetles dispatched and the immediate area clear, the sounds of battle faded, leaving only the dripping echoes of the dungeon. Luke surveyed the exhausted but triumphant faces of his classmates.

"Alright," he said, his voice calm amidst the quiet. "I think we should rest for a bit before moving on." He gestured to a relatively dry section of the wall. "Catch our breath, check our supplies. We've certainly earned it."

The party readily agreed to Luke's suggestion. Elliot sank to the floor with a relieved sigh, already pulling out a water bottle. Rean leaned against the wall, taking a moment to wipe a bead of sweat from his brow, while Gaius calmly inspected his spear, his breathing steady. Machias, after a glance around for any lingering threats, also settled down, pulling out a small kit to check his shotgun.

Luke, despite the respite, felt a familiar hum of unease. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his senses expand, feeling the cool, damp air of the dungeon. Their progress, while successful in terms of combat, was still marked by unknowns. They hadn't located the exit. More pressing, however, was the absence of their other classmates. The labyrinthine nature of the Old Schoolhouse meant they could be anywhere, and the thought nagged at him. He still needed to find them.

As the brief respite continued, Luke, still meditating on their situation, felt a subtle shift in the Force around them. Three distinct presences, light and swift, began to approach, weaving through the complex energies of the dungeon. But there was something odd about one of them, a faint, almost shimmering quality that Luke couldn't quite place. He didn't have time to ponder it further, however, as a clear, melodic girl's voice cut through the quiet, echoing slightly in the stone corridor.

"We meet again," the voice announced.

Around the corner, stepping into the dim light of their resting place, appeared three of the girls from Luke's dream.

The first was a young woman with a cascade of long blonde hair and striking scarlet eyes. She moved with a graceful, almost hesitant energy, yet her gaze was direct. Her hair was adorned with delicate violet floral decorations.

Beside her walked a tall young woman with long indigo hair pulled into a high ponytail and amber eyes. She carried herself with an air of undeniable noble dignity, her uniform perfectly pressed.

Bringing up the rear was a serene young woman with a long plum-colored braid, mint blue eyes, and large, round glasses. A quiet wisdom seemed to radiate from her, even in the subdued light.

Luke immediately noticed the blonde-haired girl's gaze. Her striking scarlet eyes were fixed on Rean, a flicker of recognition, almost like a jolt, passing between them. Rean, in turn, seemed to share a similar, though perhaps more subdued, reaction. But then, abruptly, the blonde-haired girl turned her head away with a distinct huff, her long blonde hair swaying. Rean's shoulders visibly sagged in a seemingly familiar gesture of despondency. Something had transpired between these two.

"Hey, guys!" Elliot chirped, ever the cheerful one, breaking the quiet tension. "Good to see you hangin' in there!"

The bespectacled girl smiled kindly. "We're glad to see the four of you are unharmed as well." Her eyes then widened slightly as she spotted Luke, and she quickly corrected herself. "Oh! Well, five of you, now."

The other two girls' attention immediately shifted to Luke, their expressions a mix of curiosity and surprise. He was an unfamiliar face from the start of the exercise.

Feeling a sense of déjà vu, Luke gave a polite nod. "Yes, hello. I'm Luke Skywalker. And yes, I'm the classmate who came late due to an error with my assignment. Ms. Valestein probably gave you the class a call about it."

The indigo-haired girl nodded, her amber eyes assessing Luke. "Our Instructor did call to mention you," she admitted. Then her gaze shifted to Machias, a faint hint of disapproval in her tone. "It seems you've cooled your head at least, Machias."

Machias adjusted his glasses. "Yes, indeed. I've calmed down considerably."

"We're just taking a rest," Luke offered, gesturing to their impromptu campsite. "You're welcome to join us."

The blonde-haired girl, despite her earlier huff, nodded curtly. The bespectacled girl smiled. "Thank you. We'd appreciate that."

The girls settled down amongst the boys, taking a moment to catch their breath. The indigo-haired girl, now resting beside Rean, smoothed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "At any rate," she began, her voice composed, "I don't believe I introduced myself yet, have I? I am Laura S. Arseid, from the town of Legram. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Legram?" Rean mused, a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

Elliot, ever curious, piped up, "Isn't that down on the southeastern outskirts of the Empire?"

Laura nodded. "That is correct. It's an old castle town on the shores of Lake Ebel. We're connected to the rest of the country by train, but other than that, it's a fairly remote region."

Machias's eyes widened behind his glasses. "Arseid..." he murmured, the name sparking a realization. His gaze shot to Laura, a flicker of apprehension in his expression. "Wait... Your father wouldn't happen to be..."

Laura's amber eyes met his, unwavering. "My father is Viscount Arseid, lord of Legram," she confirmed, a cool challenge in her tone. "Do you take issue with that, Machias?"

Machias felt a familiar heat rise, the old resentment stirring. But then, a distinct pressure settled on the back of his head, a burning sensation that wasn't physical but entirely palpable. He didn't need to turn to know Luke was watching him, that unyielding glare from earlier a clear reminder.

"No," Machias stammered, his voice notably less confident than usual. "No, not at all."

"Good," Luke said, his voice calm, the single word radiating approval. The pressure on Machias's head immediately lifted.

Laura's gaze remained steady on Machias. "I could only speak for myself," she stated, her voice even and clear, "but I don't feel I've ever done anything to disgrace myself in Aidios' eyes. And I fully believe the same to be true of my father."

Machias winced, quickly raising a hand. "No, no, I meant no offense. I apologize if I implied such—" He cut himself off, realizing he was digging a deeper hole. He quickly turned to the bespectacled girl. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

The bespectacled girl smiled kindly. "Hello. I am Emma Millstein. And like Laura, I came from a distant region of the Empire. I was only able to attend Thors thanks to a scholarship. It's very nice to meet you."

"Another scholarship student?" Luke exclaimed, genuinely surprised. "Me too!"

Emma's eyes widened slightly in reciprocal surprise. "Oh? What a coincidence!"

Machias, however, was already doing mental calculations. "Our instructor did say that Emma's was the top score on the entrance exam," he grumbled, almost to himself. "To think I was outdone... by a girl, no less..." He then turned his attention to Luke. "What score did you get?"

Luke shrugged. "Honestly, I don't care about the score. I'm just glad I got into Thors." As he said this, Luke couldn't help but note that Emma was still staring at him, her mint blue eyes unusually intent, as if trying to discern something about him. He'd noticed it ever since the girls had arrived.

Gaius, ever polite, complimented Emma. "You must be quite the prodigy, then."

Emma let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "Oh, maybe it seems like it now, but really, I'm not."

"I don't have any training in the martial arts either, so..." Emma admitted, a slight blush on her cheeks. "...this is the weapon they recommended for me."

She held up an Orbal Staff, identical in its fundamental design to Elliot's.

"Hey!" Elliot exclaimed, pointing at it. "You've got one too! Though... yours looks different."

Emma turned the staff over in her hands, inspecting it. "It does, doesn't it?" she mused, a thoughtful frown on her face. "I wonder if it's just cosmetic..."

As if on cue, everyone's attention, including Luke's, turned to the blond-haired girl. Her striking scarlet eyes were still fixed on Rean, practically glaring daggers. From Rean, Luke could feel a strong desire to clear something up, a tangle of emotions that suggested he knew exactly what the tension was about, but he was unsure how to approach it.

Laura, ever the composed one, spoke up. "Is something the matter? We're all acquainted now. It's only proper that you introduce yourself."

The blonde-haired girl remained silent for a beat, her gaze flickering from Rean to Laura, before she finally conceded with a huff. "Fine. I'm Alisa... R. From Roer. It's a pleasure to meet almost all of you."

A collective nervous sweat broke out among Elliot, Gaius, and Machias, clearly understanding that the jab was directed squarely at Rean. Luke, however, remained silent, his attention focused on Alisa. He noticed immediately that she only gave the first letter of her last name. Through the Force, he sensed a complex mix of feelings from her: a deep-seated loneliness, a touch of defensiveness, and a surprising undercurrent of vulnerability. It was as if she carried a heavy weight, perhaps from expectations or past experiences, that made her wary of others and quick to put up a front. There was a faint echo of isolation, a feeling of being set apart, that resonated with something Luke couldn't quite pinpoint.

Emma, perhaps trying to diffuse the palpable tension, nervously offered, "A-Alisa…"

Elliot, sensing the lingering tension, quickly jumped in to change the subject. "Roer, huh? What's it like there? I bet there's a technological breakthrough every week, isn't there?"

Machias, perhaps unable to resist, added, "The Reinford Company is based in Roer, aren't they? They're the largest heavy industry corporation on the continent, right?"

Alisa's scarlet eyes flickered, and she replied, "I suppose they are." Her tone was flat, almost dismissive, but through the Force, Luke picked up on a subtle shift in her emotional state. A complex mix of pride and resentment, a deep-seated burden that seemed inextricably linked to the mention of the Reinford Company. The first letter of her last name... "R"... and the Reinford Company... A sudden, striking realization hit Luke. Could it be? The connection felt undeniable, a heavy weight that explained so much of the guardedness and underlying sadness he'd sensed from her.

Rean, who had been quiet since Alisa's "almost all of you" comment, finally spoke up. Luke could feel a strong internal struggle within him through the Force – a clear desire to clear up whatever had happened between him and Alisa, a weight of unspoken words. Rean opened his mouth, then hesitated, his gaze flickering between Alisa's stiff posture and Luke's silent observation. He changed his mind about addressing their personal history directly.

"I guess that bow must've been in that case you had with you when we first met, right?" Rean asked, steering the conversation to a safer topic. "I've never seen one like it. Is there an orbal mechanism built in?"

Alisa's scarlet eyes snapped to him, her tone sharp. "There is. But I don't see how it's any of YOUR business."

"Ouch," Rean simply muttered, looking slightly wounded by her continued frostiness.

"So," Elliot ventured, breaking the awkward silence, "anyone have any ideas on what we're going to do now? I mean, we've all run into each other."

"I believe that would be for the best," Machias immediately stated, his gaze on the girls. "It's not safe for a group of girls to travel alone. You might require prote—"

"You don't need to be concerned about that," Laura cut him off smoothly, her tone polite but firm. As she spoke, she reached behind her and with a practiced motion, drew forth a weapon that made Luke's eyes widen. It was the biggest greatsword he had ever seen, its broad blade gleaming ominously in the dungeon's dim light.

Machias visibly gulped. "I beg your pardon?"

"I don't mean to boast," Laura continued, adjusting her grip on the enormous sword with effortless ease, "but I'm confident that my swordsmanship will be more than sufficient to protect us." She then looked around at the assembled group. "For now, I think it's best to remain in separate groups. There are still two of us unaccounted for."

"Correction," Luke interjected, his voice quiet but firm. "There's one of us unaccounted for."

A ripple of confusion spread through the group, their eyes turning to Luke.

"What are you talking about, Luke?" Rean asked, voicing the collective confusion of the group.

Luke ignored their questions. Instead, he turned his head sharply towards a shadowy hallway opposite the one the girls had emerged from. His voice, calm and steady, cut through the quiet. "Alright, you. You can come out now."

From the depths of the shadows, a small, agile figure stepped into the dim light. It was the last girl from Luke's dream: a figure with stark white hair and sharp, lime green eyes that seemed to miss nothing. She moved with a quick, almost predatory grace, her short skirt and sneakers hinting at a readiness for anything.

Her gaze met Luke's, a hint of a smirk on her lips. "Heh. Pretty sharp, aren't you?"

Luke said nothing aloud, but he already knew. He'd felt her presence through the Force, a faint, almost invisible flicker, incredibly well-concealed from the others. He also couldn't help but notice that she looked remarkably young, easily the youngest among their class.

"The silver-haired girl!" Elliot exclaimed, recognition dawning.

Rean let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Glad to see you're alright. Though it looks like there was nothing to worry about in the first place."

The silver-haired girl's expression remained perfectly deadpan. "Nope." She added a small pop with her lips. "I'm small and quick. These monsters can't lay a finger on me. Oh yeah. Fie Claussell. That's my name."

Fie gave a casual, almost dismissive wave. "You guys are just halfway through. Keep it up. Later." With that, she turned on her heel and began to walk away, as if their gathering was merely a brief interruption to her agenda.

"Fie, wait!" Machias called out, a note of concern in his voice.

Elliot, equally worried, echoed, "Are you sure you'll be okay on your own?"

Fie didn't even break her stride. "I'll be fine," she replied, her voice flat, deadpan. "I'm used to this." She then glanced back over her shoulder, a hint of a smirk playing on her lips. "See you at the end." Without another word, she executed a series of impossibly fluid movements, springing onto a crumbling ledge, scaling a nearby wall with shocking agility, and then disappearing, presumably to another level or deeper into the dungeon.

The class stared at the spot where she'd vanished, completely dumbfounded.

"What... what just happened?" Machias finally managed to stammer, adjusting his glasses in disbelief.

"Wow," Elliot breathed, his mouth agape.

Gaius, ever observant, simply stated, "She wasn't fibbing about being quick on her feet."

"I’m more convinced than ever that she knows what she's doing," Rean murmured, watching the space where Fie had vanished. The others, still processing her abrupt departure and incredible agility, began to ponder her last words.

"Halfway through... See you at the end..." Elliot repeated slowly, his brow furrowed. "Do you think she's already been to the exit?"

Machias's eyes widened. "And then come back?!" he exclaimed, the thought almost unbelievable.

"It appears that way," Laura mused, her gaze fixed on the shadowed passage where Fie had disappeared. A thoughtful frown creased her brow. "But why wouldn't she tell us?"

Luke, who had remained silent, now spoke up, offering his explanation. "Perhaps she just didn't see the point. If she's been through here before, and she's as capable as she showed us, maybe she figured there was no need to cause a fuss. Some people just prefer to operate on their own, without a lot of fanfare or worrying about others. It's a faster way to get things done, for some."

"Very well," Laura said, giving a nod. "We'll be splitting off here then, to look for our last classmate. Emma, Alisa, let's go."

Luke felt a subtle shift in the Force, a faint ripple of derision emanating from Machias as Laura spoke. Luke's earlier suspicion solidified: this "last classmate" was almost certainly the arrogant noble Machias had clashed.

As the girls prepared to depart, Luke noticed Emma's gaze on him once more, a quiet intensity in her mint blue eyes.

"Is something wrong, Emma?" Luke asked, his voice gentle.

She blinked, her gaze quickly darting away. "Oh! No, not at all. Just... thinking." She offered a small, polite smile. "We wish you boys well. Do take care." With a final nod, she turned and joined Laura and Alisa, disappearing around the bend.

Luke watched her go, a curious impulse guiding him. He reached out with the Force, subtly extending his senses towards Emma as she moved away. He felt it immediately—a deep, resonant connection to the living Force, vibrant and ancient. It wasn't raw power like his own, but a profound sensitivity, a subtle awareness of the world's spiritual fabric. He felt a constant, almost imperceptible sixth sense emanating from her, a natural attunement to phenomena beyond the ordinary, a quiet alertness to unseen energies. He sensed a remarkable precision in her use of this connection, a refined control that suggested innate talent and perhaps disciplined practice. The odd quality he'd sensed when the girls first approached... it was this. It was a subtle, almost ethereal energy that spoke of a deep harmony with life itself.

A profound realization settled over Luke. Emma wasn't just sensitive; she was undoubtedly another Force wielder, just like him. Different in manifestation, perhaps, but connected to the same vast, fundamental power that flowed through everything.

Luke felt a faint ripple, a subtle tremor in Emma's connection to the Force – a flicker of her "sixth sense" brushing against his presence. She had felt him. Instantly, Luke withdrew, pulling his awareness back, not wanting to intrude further or risk revealing his nature.

"Well," Gaius rumbled, ever the pragmatist, "two teams means double the chance to find our missing classmate."

Machias snorted, unable to help himself. "If we have to find him, I suppose. I don't exactly relish the thought of associating with that pompous ass. He can rot down here for all I care."

Luke turned his head slightly, his gaze resting calmly but subtly on Machias. He said nothing, but the silent, pointed reminder of their earlier conversation hung in the air between them, a quiet testament to his earlier warning.

Machias instantly caught the hint. He averted his gaze, a slight flush rising to his cheeks as he remembered Luke's stern warning. "Right," he muttered, adjusting his glasses. "Cooperation. Understood."

"Glad to hear that," Luke said, his voice even, as Machias took the hint.

Then, everybody heard Rean let out a long, weary sigh.

"She doesn't seem like she's going to let that go, does she?" Elliot observed, a note of sympathy in his voice.

It didn't take a connection to the Force for Luke to know that Elliot was talking about Alisa.

"It was an accident; everyone could see that," Machias asserted, shaking his head. "But I don't suppose that makes any difference to her."

"Not everyone," Luke interjected, looking at them. "I don't know what happened."

The party instantly realized this. "Right," Elliot said, snapping his fingers. "You weren't here when we all arrived, were you? You didn't get dropped through the..." He trailed off, looking at the stone floor.

"Yeah," Rean said, a sheepish grin spreading across his face, rubbing the back of his neck. "When we all fell through that trapdoor at the start of the orienteering exercise... I kind of tried to stop Alisa from hitting the ground hard." He winced. "My intentions were good, I swear. But, uh... my attempt to save her involved me unintentionally getting a face full of Alisa's..." He gestured vaguely, his face flushing.

Machias groaned. "And that's why she's been giving you the cold shoulder all day."

Gaius simply shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Luke nodded slowly, getting the gist of what had happened. Through the Force, he could feel that Rean hadn't harbored any perverse intentions when he tried to help Alisa; it was simply an unfortunate, albeit awkward, accident. Rean's desire to apologize was strong, almost palpable, but he was obviously at a loss for how to approach Alisa given her frosty demeanor. Luckily, Luke had indeed picked up on Alisa's complicated feelings through the Force – the underlying regret and a desire for reconciliation, buried beneath layers of pride and defensiveness.

"It's okay, Rean," Luke assured him, a knowing look in his eye. "Honestly, if anything, Alisa was probably only acting that way because she was trying to find a way to apologize for overreacting herself during that awkward incident between you two. She's just... too stubborn for her good to do it sooner."

Rean blinked, utterly surprised. "How could you possibly know that?" he asked, a mixture of skepticism and hope in his voice.

Luke offered a slight shrug, keeping his expression neutral. "Just a feeling," he said simply, maintaining the secrecy of his connection to the Force. "Sometimes you just get a sense of things. But trust me on this." He then quoted the proverb Ben had shared with him, hoping it would resonate with Rean as it had with him. "You just need to have patience. Remember: The first step to correcting a mistake is patience."

Rean fell silent, pondering Luke's words, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Meanwhile, Machias, still eyeing the direction the girls had gone, voiced his lingering concern. "Is no one else worried about leaving a group of girls to fend for themselves in a place like this?" He looked around at the remaining boys. "There are five of us here; perhaps one of us should follow them."

Gaius, ever calm, shook his head. "I don't think we have anything to worry about as long as Laura's with them. She wears her skill on her sleeve. I doubt she drags around that sword for show."

"Agreed," Machias conceded, his gaze drifting to where the formidable greatsword had last been seen. "That's an enormous blade. I'd call it comically huge if it didn't look so dangerous." He then muttered, almost to himself, "But at the end of the day, a lady is a lady."

Luke's gaze sharpened, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Machias," he said, his voice deceptively mild, "do you want to say that in front of Laura, the lady who is carrying the enormous blade that would be comically huge if it didn't look so dangerous?"

Machias swallowed hard, picturing Laura's steely gaze and the massive sword. "No," he answered, very wisely.

"She's taller and sturdier than I am," Elliot chimed in, a slightly awed look on his face. "Though, I still find it hard to believe anyone could swing a beast of a sword like that."

"I bet you anything she can whip it around without a sweat," Rean stated, a confident gleam in his eyes. He paused, seeing their surprised expressions. "The Arseid school of swordsmanship serves as a general basis for the techniques used by the knights throughout the Empire. And Laura's father, the Viscount, is arguably the strongest swordsman in the country. People call him the Radiant Blademaster." He shook his head slightly. "I doubt that any of the other students here could even stand their ground against her in combat, much less beat her."

Everyone stared at Rean in awe, absorbing his unexpected depth of knowledge.

"Wow," Machias could only utter, his earlier skepticism completely forgotten in the face of Rean's revelation.

Gaius's eyes gleamed with interest. "That is interesting. I didn't know that there were still roots of the old knightly styles alive in the Empire."

Elliot, ever observant, nudged Rean with his elbow. "You sure know a lot about this stuff, Rean! Is it like a hobby of yours?"

Rean offered a wry smile. "I'm a swordsman myself," he admitted, giving a slight shrug. "I guess the lore comes with the territory." He then clapped his hands together, shaking off the moment of historical discourse. "At any rate, how about we pick up the search? We still need to track down Duke Albarea's son, too."

[~]

After a while more of exploring the winding, monster-infested passages, the boys finally heard what they were looking for: the distinct sounds of combat. Clanging steel, the hiss of Arts, and furious roars echoed from ahead. They hurried forward, rounding a corner to find a remarkable spectacle.

A young man, with striking icy blue eyes and blonde hair, stood alone, his crimson uniform worn with an almost defiant casualness. In his hand, he wielded a knight sword, dancing with incredible agility as he faced down a horde of monsters by himself. His movements were precise, almost elegant, a blur of thrusts, parries, and quick retreats – a fighting style that was unmistakably fencing. And, despite the overwhelming odds, he was winning, each precise strike finding its mark.

Even Machias, who had a strong dislike for this individual, found himself mesmerized. "That's... incredible," he breathed, a grudging admiration in his tone.

"That's somethin'," Elliot murmured, wide-eyed.

Gaius observed the display with a critical eye. "Judging by that display, I don't think he needs any help from us." He turned to Rean. "I assume that's another school of Imperial swordsmanship?"

Rean nodded, his expression serious. "It is. That's court fencing, an agile style favored by the nobility. And judging by his poise, he's no amateur."

Their blond-haired classmate swiftly concluded the fight, his knight sword dispatching the final Grass Drome with a precise lunge. After a few moments, he sighed dramatically and turned to face the group, his icy blue eyes sweeping over them. "Do you need something?" he asked, his tone laced with a hint of impatience.

Machias merely let out a low growl, clearly struggling to contain his disdain.

"Apologies," Rean quickly interjected, stepping forward slightly. "I was just admiring your swordsmanship."

The group cautiously approached their classmate, who remained poised, his knight sword still loosely in hand.

"We just wanted to introduce ourselves," Rean began, offering a polite bow. "I'm Rean Schwarzer."

Elliot stepped forward with a friendly wave. "And I'm Elliot Craig! That was some serious swordplay, by the way!"

Gaius offered a respectful nod. "Gaius Worzel," he stated simply.

Machias merely stood slightly behind the others, a tense silence emanating from him.

When their new classmate's gaze finally landed on Luke, an unspoken question in his icy blue eyes about his unfamiliar face, Luke was already ahead of him. "And I'm Luke Skywalker," he introduced himself, "a late addition to Class VII. My assignment was delayed due to an error, so I wasn't here at the start of the exercise."

The blond-haired swordsman simply nodded, his gaze unwavering. "While I believe I've already introduced myself before," he stated, his tone cool and composed, "I'll do so again, for the benefit of the late addition. I am Jusis Albarea."

Jusis turned his icy blue eyes to Machias, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. "I have to say, Machias," he began, his tone surprisingly even, "I didn't think you had it in you. I'm impressed."

Machias blinked, clearly taken aback. "What are you talking about?" he asked, surprise evident in his voice.

"After all that bluster about finding your way to the exit alone," Jusis continued, a hint of dry amusement now coloring his words, "I wasn't expecting you to rely on others for help. I assume you came to your senses shortly after you stormed off and then wandered back to apologize like a good little boy. Truly, the virtue of the common man! Why, a preening noble such as myself would be far too proud to do such a thing."

Machias's face flushed crimson, his earlier surprise replaced by incandescent rage. "What the hell is your problem?!" he growled, clenching his fists. "You nobles are all the same! So full of yourselves, it's a wonder you don't pop! And you're not just a garden-variety noble either. House Albarea is one of the highest-ranking in the country.¹ I bet you just love looking down on us less-fortunate souls, don't you?!"

Luke could feel Machias's fury spiking through the Force, a torrent of anger and indignation. But before Luke could speak up, Jusis clicked his tongue, a dismissive sound. "Like you're one to talk, Machias," he retorted, his voice cool and cutting. "I don't need a lecture in rank from the son of the Imperial Governor."

Machias recoiled as if struck, his face paling at Jusis's words.

Rean's eyes widened, turning to stare at Machias in stunned silence. Elliot, meanwhile, murmured, "Regnitz... I knew that name sounded familiar."

Luke, sensing the escalating tension and the unspoken implications, interjected, "Can someone explain to those of us unfamiliar? I get that 'Imperial Governor' sounds important, but not why."

Jusis turned to Luke, a faint, almost pitying smile on his lips. "Carl Regnitz," he explained, his voice smooth and deliberate, "is the first commoner ever to hold the seat of Imperial Governor in Heimdallr. The first to rule the capital. And this... headstrong young lad," he gestured dismissively towards Machias, "just so happens to be a chip off that old block. Pretty rarified air for a simple commoner, don't you think?"

"W-What does that have to do with anything?!" Machias stammered, his voice trembling with a mixture of shock and renewed anger. "Yes, my father is the Imperial Governor, but he earned that position through years of hard, honest work! Don't you dare lump my father in with you and the nepotists who get their titles handed to them just for being born!"

"Perish the thought," Jusis countered, clicking his tongue again. "No, I mainly regarded your father as a reformist... and a close friend of the Chancellor, at that."

Machias's mouth opened and closed, no sound coming out.

Jusis pressed his advantage. "As you are vividly aware," he continued, his gaze piercing, "his faction conflicts with the Noble Faction, led by none other than the Four Great Houses. When you look at it that way, your vitriolic disdain for the nobility seems rather... cheap, wouldn't you say?"

Machias let out a guttural growl, his eyes blazing, and took a furious step towards Jusis. Luke, having already picked up on Machias' intentions, reacted swiftly. He leaned in close to Rean and Elliot, whispering, "You two handle Machias. I've got Jusis."

As Rean quickly stepped to interpose himself between the two, arms spread, and Elliot lunged to restrain the enraged Machias, Luke moved. He promptly grabbed Jusis by the collar of his pristine crimson uniform, pulling him sharply away from the others, a few feet down the corridor. After a brief, firm grip, he released Jusis, who stumbled slightly but quickly regained his haughty composure.

"Does taunting Machias make you feel better, Jusis?" Luke asked, his voice low and devoid of emotion.

Jusis adjusted his collar, his icy blue eyes meeting Luke's with a flicker of annoyance. "I merely stated the obvious. The man is a walking, talking caricature of commoner resentment. Someone needed to point out the hypocrisy."

"Or perhaps," Luke countered, his voice calm but piercing, "you just wanted to make yourself feel better. To project your anxieties onto him. You talk about commoners and their hatred for nobility as if you're entirely separate from it. But I get a strong sense of something different from you, Jusis."

Jusis stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about?"

"You play the proud noble, perfectly composed, spouting rhetoric about rank and tradition," Luke said, stepping slightly closer. "But beneath all that carefully tailored uniform and perfect posture, I sense something else. A constant need to prove yourself. A feeling of not quite belonging, even among your own family. You carry the weight of expectations, not just from your name, but from a deeper, unspoken pressure to be something you're not entirely. You talk about 'nepotists,' but I sense you're painfully aware of your origins, aren't you? That your status isn't entirely 'clean' in the eyes of some."

Jusis's composure finally cracked, a flicker of raw surprise and anger in his eyes. "You know nothing of my life!" he snapped.

"I know enough," Luke retorted, his voice unwavering. "You resent Machias's anger because it reflects something you fear in yourself. You mock his 'common' reactions because you're desperately trying to distance yourself from your commoner roots, aren't you? Trying to fit into a mold that doesn't quite suit you, hoping to gain approval from a father who, frankly, doesn't seem to care enough to even acknowledge your true worth."

He paused, letting the silence hang. "You claim to believe in Noblesse Oblige, the responsibility of nobility. But what kind of responsibility is it to deliberately provoke a classmate, to use sharp words to cut him down, simply to assert your fragile sense of superiority? That's not the mark of a true noble, Jusis. That's the mark of someone hiding their insecurities by tearing others down."

Luke's gaze held Jusis's, unyielding. "If you truly believe in the ideals of knighthood, in duty and honor, then start acting like it. It's not about lineage; it's about character. And right now, your character is showing a flaw bigger than anything Machias is throwing at you."

Jusis's face was a mask of conflicting emotions—anger, exposure, and a flicker of something akin to shame. The carefully constructed facade he wore had been stripped away, leaving him momentarily vulnerable. He finally looked away from Luke's unwavering gaze, his jaw tight.

"Perhaps," Jusis muttered, his voice barely audible, "perhaps I was a bit out of line."

"A little more than 'a bit out of line,' Jusis," Luke corrected, his tone firm. "While Machias lashing out certainly isn't helping matters, dragging his father into this, especially when it's clear how much that means to him, was low. You know it was."

Jusis's head snapped back up, a spark of defiance in his eyes. "You did it too! You brought up my father!"

"Don't change the subject," Luke shot back, his voice cutting through the excuse. "Frankly, I don't even know my father; I was left at an orphanage when I was barely a week old. But that's beside the point. This isn't about me or my father. This is about you, Jusis. Go and apologize to Machias."

"Why should I?" Jusis retorted, his chin lifting stubbornly, the defensiveness returning. "Given his attitude about nobles..."

Luke's eyes, usually warm, hardened to a glacial intensity. His voice dropped, losing all trace of gentle reasoning. "You will do it," he stated, not as a suggestion, but as an absolute command. There was an unspoken weight behind his words, an unyielding resolve that brooked no argument.

After a few moments of tense silence, Jusis's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. He held Luke's gaze for another beat, then slowly, reluctantly, turned and walked back to where Rean and Elliot were still attempting to calm a fuming Machias.

Rean had just managed to get Machias to take a few deep, albeit shaky, breaths. As Jusis approached, Machias's eyes narrowed again, but before he could launch another angry retort, Jusis spoke.

"Machias," Jusis began, his voice stiff but audible. "I... I was out of line. I apologize for my words and for provoking you."

Machias blinked, taken aback by the unexpected apology. The anger in his expression faltered, replaced by a mixture of surprise and awkwardness. He shuffled his feet for a moment, then, with a visible effort, reciprocated. "And... and I apologize too. I shouldn't have lashed out like that."

A palpable wave of relief washed over the group as Jusis and Machias, however begrudgingly, put aside their differences. Elliot, however, was visibly shocked. "I—I wasn't expecting the son of Duke Albarea to admit he was wrong," he stammered, catching himself mid-sentence. "Oh! S-Sorry!"

Jusis sighed, running a hand through his blonde hair. "There is no need to address me so formally, Elliot. We may come from different social spheres, but here at this academy, we're supposed to be on equal standing. Or so the idea goes, anyway."

"It's true," Elliot stammered, then quickly corrected himself. "I mean, I'm with you all the way there!"

For a moment, Luke reflected on his approach with Jusis. Bringing up his issues felt, in some ways, like a low blow. Yet, Ben had taught him that seeking an alternate conflict resolution, one that avoided physical force, was always the ideal path. And it had worked.

Satisfied that the immediate conflict was diffused, and they were now, at least outwardly, getting along, Luke suggested, "Alright, since we're all here and accounted for, how about we continue finding that exit?"

Machias, however, still looked deeply uncomfortable. "Look, I... I just need to be left alone for a while. You all go on with Jusis."

Luke put his foot down, his expression firm. "No. We've got most of the class with us now. The girls are either at the exit or close, and Fie doesn't have a problem getting there without any issue. We're sticking together." He then looked pointedly between Machias and Jusis. "If this is about Jusis, I'm pretty sure he's willing to cooperate. If you two are still unwilling, then I'm going to have to use my last resort."

"Last resort?" Machias asked, a flicker of apprehension in his eyes. Jusis raised an eyebrow, a picture of aristocratic disdain.

Luke's smile, however, was all too cheerful. "I'll knock both of you out and drag you to the exit."

Machias took an involuntary step back, a little unnerved by the sheer conviction in Luke's tone. Jusis, meanwhile, simply let out a short, incredulous laugh. "You wouldn't dare." Luke merely broadened his smile, a silent promise in his eyes that he fully intended to follow through.

[~]

The journey through the Old Schoolhouse continued, but with a new, rather unconventional addition to the group's formation. Luke walked steadily, a man of quiet determination, each hand firmly gripping the collar of a very unconscious classmate. Machias and Jusis, slumped and comically inert, were being unceremoniously dragged behind him, their legs bumping uselessly over the uneven stone floor.

"Luke," Rean began, a mixture of amusement and concern in his voice, "was that really necessary?"

"There's a reason I called it a last resort, Rean," Luke replied, his tone perfectly even. "Besides," he added, glancing down at the spectacle, "I did remove Machias' glasses before I knocked him out. Wouldn't want them to get broken."

As Luke continued his steady march through the dungeon, Machias and Jusis remained utterly unconscious, trailing behind him like limp marionettes. Each had a single, slightly discolored bruise blooming on their jawline, testament to Luke's efficient, non-Force-powered, but incredibly swift knockouts. The punches had been delivered with such blinding speed that neither Machias nor Jusis, despite their combat training, had even registered a threat before darkness claimed them.

Elliot, ever the medic, had already knelt to apply his healing arts to the worst of their injuries. The faint swelling had receded, and the initial shock of the blow had been somewhat mitigated, ensuring their unconsciousness was merely from the concussive force rather than any lasting damage. They were simply dead weight, their limbs flopping with each of Luke's confident strides, their faces slack and devoid of the usual tension, Machias's glasses safely tucked away in his uniform pocket, and Jusis's aristocratic sneer momentarily absent. They were truly at Luke's mercy, a testament to his unexpected, yet remarkably effective, "last resort."

Luke continued to drag the unconscious Machias and Jusis, their bodies bumping softly against the dungeon floor. He glanced back at Rean, Elliot, and Gaius, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips.

"Well," Luke stated, his voice a calm counterpoint to the quiet scuffing of his two unwilling companions, "at least we don't have to listen to them bicker on our way to the exit."

Rean let out a soft chuckle, a weary but amused smile on his face. "Can't argue with that, Luke. It's certainly... quieter."

Elliot sighed dramatically, running a hand through his hair. "I just hope they don't have too much of a headache when they wake up. Though I guess they deserved it a little. Those two can go at it."

Gaius, ever stoic, nodded in agreement. "A peaceful journey is preferable. Your method, while unconventional, has certainly achieved that." He paused, then added, "It is effective."

After what felt like an eternity of navigating the labyrinthine corridors, the party finally emerged into a wide hall. At the far end, two symmetrical flights of stone stairs ascended, converging at a single, imposing door. Crucially, from beneath that door, a brilliant, hopeful sliver of sunlight streamed into the dusty, dim hall.

A collective sigh of relief swept through the group as they beheld the sunlight spilling from the distant door. "We're finally at the exit!" Elliot exclaimed, a newfound energy in his voice. Rean allowed himself a small, tired smile, and Gaius nodded in quiet satisfaction.

All except for Luke.

Just as the light of the exit registered, a sharp, almost electrical tingling feeling erupted in his mind, a jarring sensation that cut through the weary contentment. It was the Force, crying out a warning of danger. He instinctively released his hold on the still-unconscious Machias and Jusis, letting them slump unceremoniously to the floor. The Force Sense was a powerful gift, allowing him to anticipate threats, but its immediate drawback was its typical inability to pinpoint the source.

However, Ben had trained him in Precognition, a gift Luke enjoyed for its ability to show him not just premonitions, but also the specific origin of immediate danger. And right now, the Force was screaming at him, focusing on an otherwise innocent-looking gargoyle statue perched on a pedestal near the base of the stairs.

It was a beast of imposing proportions, rendered in dark, rough-hewn stone. Its body was robust and heavily armored, with formidable, segmented plates covering its chest and back. Thick, powerful legs ended in sharp, gnarled claws that gripped the pedestal. The stone wings, broad and leathery in their sculpted form, were folded against its back, suggesting immense power. Its head was leonine, adorned with a pair of short, thick horns curving slightly backward, and its features were craggy, with a wide, fanged maw frozen in a silent snarl. The most striking features were the large, oval-shaped plates, thick and prominent, that covered its shoulders and hips, giving it a truly menacing, almost alien, appearance even in its inert, stony state. It looked like a silent, formidable guardian, but the Force was screaming that it was anything but harmless.

"Luke, what's wrong?" Rean asked, noticing the sudden tension in his stance and the intensity in his gaze. Elliot and Gaius also looked at him, their expressions shifting from relief to concern.

It was at that precise moment that a groan escaped Machias, followed by a grunt from Jusis. Both stirred, their eyes fluttering open. They were groggy, disoriented, until their gazes landed on Luke, and the memory of their unceremonious knockout clicked into place.

Before either could voice their indignation, Luke's voice cut through the air, sharp and urgent. "Glad you two are finally awake," he said, not bothering to hide the lack of shame in his tone. "Because we're about to fight with our hands. You can either stand there all day whining about my last resort, or you can help us fight against the gargoyle."

Everyone looked at Luke, then at the innocent-looking statue, with a collective frown of confusion on their faces. "Gargoyle?" Elliot began, "What are you—"

He was cut off by a low, grinding rumble. The stone gargoyle, which had been perfectly still moments before, began to shift. Dust rained down from its limbs as cracks, glowing faintly with an internal energy, spiderwebbed across its surface. Its fanged maw slowly opened wider, revealing no stone tongue but a deep, dark abyss. The massive, leathery wings of stone slowly, agonizingly, began to unfold, revealing their incredible span. The silent snarl transformed into a guttural, rattling roar that filled the hall, confirming Luke's warning in the most undeniable way possible.

Jusis stared, his icy blue eyes wide with disbelief as the massive stone creature flexed its limbs. "What sorcery is this?!" he exclaimed, a rare break in his composure.

With a final, earth-shaking rumble, the gargoyle, now fully animated, leaped off its pedestal, landing with a deafening thud that vibrated through the floor. It positioned itself directly between the party and the sunlight-drenched door, cutting off their only escape route. As it let out another deafening roar, a faint, almost subliminal hum reached Luke's mind through the Force. He picked out its name: Iglute Garmr.

Elliot recoiled, a gasp of pure fright escaping him. "Wh-what is that thing?!"

Gaius, ever practical even in the face of the impossible, gripped his spear tightly. "Are monsters like this common in the Empire?"

"Not outside of old wives' tales, they aren't!" Jusis retorted, his voice strained.

Machias, for what seemed to be the first time, found himself in complete agreement with Jusis. "He's right! I've never heard of anything like this!"

One by one, the classmates drew their weapons. Rean unsheathed his tachi, Machias cocked his shotgun, Elliot readied his orbal staff, and Jusis brought his knight sword to a guard. Luke, as always, simply put up his fists, his stance shifting into a ready position.

"That thing is cutting off our only route to the surface," Rean stated, his voice firm, overriding the fear in the air. "There's no other choice. We have to fight it."

A chorus of determined, if nervous, agreements met his declaration.

"Finally," Jusis remarked, a grim smile touching his lips, "an opponent worth my skill."

Elliot, however, was still a bundle of nerves. "Oh, Aidios, help us!" he prayed, clutching his staff tightly.

Iglute Garmr let out another earth-shattering roar, accepting the challenge. With a shared surge of adrenaline, the party rushed forward to meet the monstrous gargoyle.

[~][~]