The day the sky bled, Mael knew the world was a lie.
Ten years after the Awakening, the memory remained vivid—meteors streaking through the clouds like tears of fire, the first Devourers clawing their way out of the craters with elongated limbs and inverted mouths. But nothing had prepared him for the truth of Elysium Academy.
The cold of the steel floor bit into his knees. The chains—etched with runes that hissed steam—had left deep grooves around his wrists. Not ordinary iron, he realized. This is something alive.
"You're not here to learn," a voice growled from the shadows.
The headmaster emerged like a specter, his immaculate suit a stark contrast to the walls crusted in brown stains. Dried blood, Mael understood. Too much to be from just one student.
"You're here to pay," the headmaster continued, dragging a finger along the edge of a table littered with rusted surgical tools. "Your father's debt."
Mael clutched his scar—a violet serpent coiling across his torso. Something squirmed beneath his skin.
"My father is dead," he snarled.
"That's why you'll pay instead."
A scream tore through the hallway. High-pitched. A child's. Then, the sound of something tearing free. Mael had heard it before—during the Twilight War, when Devourers ripped their victims apart limb by limb.
The headmaster smiled, revealing needle-sharp teeth.
"Welcome to your first day, offering."
Elysium's courtyard was a trap.
Mael knew it the moment he stepped onto the artificial grass, too perfect under the sickly purple glow of false stars. The buildings loomed like fangs around him, windows gleaming with watching eyes.
"Bet he lasts less than the last one," a voice whispered.
A boy with white hair and bandaged arms smirked. Beside him, a girl missing both pinkies nodded.
"Vorpal gets bored fast."
The name burned in Mael's ears. His scar pulsed, a thread of blood seeping through his shirt.
"What's Vorpal?" he asked, but a bell drowned out the answer.
Students rushed to their classrooms. All of them bore marks—scars that glowed, skin textured like scales, pupils split down the middle. They're not human. Not entirely.
The white-haired boy turned back, delivering a final warning:
"If you want to live till morning, stay out of the armory."
Mael didn't have that luxury.
The armory reeked of fear and gunpowder.
Shelves overflowed with grotesque weapons—whips with breathing spikes, axes veined like flesh. At the back, behind reinforced glass, Vorpal lay on black velvet.
It didn't look like a sword.
It looked like a freshly torn-out organ.
Runes writhed across its blade like worms. The hilt—wrapped in leather that still bled—throbbed.
"Don't touch that." Hex appeared behind him, paler than before. "It's not a weapon. It's a parasite."
A crash shook the ceiling.
Something heavy landed between them—a student's body, mouth frozen in a scream, hands clutching an axe.
"Third suicide this month," Hex swallowed. "All of them touched Vorpal before they… did this."
Mael's scar pulled him forward. As if the sword were calling. As if it recognized him.
The glass shattered at his touch.
Vorpal fell into his palm.
And then—
It laughed.