Hero Of Broken History

Avian's POV - Dean's Office, Late Afternoon

Dean Aldrich's office occupied the Academy's highest tower, accessible only by a staircase that seemed designed to humble visitors through exhaustion. By the time Avian reached the top, his legs burned pleasantly from the climb. The door stood open, revealing an office that couldn't decide if it wanted to be a library, an alchemical laboratory, or a museum of things that shouldn't exist.

The Dean sat behind a desk carved from what looked like a single piece of crystallized night, reading reports with the focused intensity of someone defusing a bomb made of politics and bad decisions.

"Lord Veritas." He didn't look up. "Four days late for our meeting."

"Recent events seemed more pressing."

"Indeed." The Dean set down his reports, finally meeting Avian's eyes. Those ancient orbs held amusement like a grandfather watching children play with matches. "Your advanced placement testing seems rather trivial now, given that the Academy might not exist in a month."

"The Church won't shut down the Academy."

"No, but they might burn it down. There's a distinction, though the end result is similar." He gestured to a chair that looked older than the Empire. "Sit. We need to discuss your rather transparent attempt to graduate in record time."

Avian sat. The chair was surprisingly comfortable, conforming to his body like it had been waiting centuries for him specifically.

"You're not here for education," the Dean said without preamble. "First day, you demonstrate Grandmaster rank aura. You want to test out of everything possible. You're here because Lord Aedric demands it, like he does for all Veritas heirs."

"Family tradition."

"Ah yes, tradition. That convenient excuse for wasting talented individuals' time." The Dean pulled out a form—the advanced placement paperwork Avian had submitted. "You could walk out today, but then you'd have to explain to your father why you abandoned the mandatory education he endured, his father endured, and so on back to the Academy's founding."

"Exactly."

"The testing can proceed next week, assuming we still have an Academy." The Dean stood, moving to his window that overlooked the grounds. "Your father would be... disappointed if you didn't at least complete the minimum requirements. Though I suspect you'll find other ways to occupy yourself before then."

"Sir?"

"The Underground, Lord Veritas." He turned back with a knowing smile. "Oh, don't look surprised. Every year a few brave or stupid students think they'll explore it. Most are smart enough to stay away - the rumors of what happens down there keep the sensible ones out."

"And the ones who aren't sensible?"

"Usually robbed, sometimes stabbed, occasionally recruited by whoever's running this year's smuggling operation." He pulled out a standard map of the Academy city. "The Underground is just the old city that was here before the Academy. Criminals took it over when we built on top. Nothing mystical, just dangerous for the average student."

He studied Avian. "Though I suspect you're far from average. Still, the Church will be sending patrols down soon. They think the heretical distributors are hiding there." His expression grew serious. "Try not to kill anyone important if you run into them. Your father expects you to survive at least one full year before causing a political incident."

The Underground - 11:47 PM

The entrance Avian had chosen was a maintenance hatch behind the East Library, one of seventeen secondary access points Kai had mapped over the previous nights. Most students knew about these entrances but were smart enough to avoid them - the stories of students getting robbed or worse kept all but the desperate or stupid away. They'd agreed to split up—cover more ground, less chance of both getting caught. Kai took the merchant quarter entrance. Avian descended into what was essentially the Academy City's criminal district.

The mask felt strange against his face—soft leather enchanted to blur features, common enough among people who didn't want their Underground business recognized. Fargrim hung at his side, the demon blade quiet but ready.

The first level was almost legitimate—maintenance tunnels that the Academy actually used, though criminals had claimed sections for storage. Old crates marked with merchant symbols, probably stolen goods waiting to be fenced. The lighting was inconsistent - some areas had working mage lights, others relied on torches that filled passages with smoke. Graffiti covered the walls in layers, decades of marks overlapping. "For a good fence, find Marcus at the Copper Coin." "The Magisters know what's below." "Turn back before level four—trust me."

He descended deeper. The second level was where the real Underground began - the old city that had been here before the Academy. Stone buildings that had been repurposed into gambling dens, drug labs, and worse. The architecture was pre-Empire but nothing special, just old construction that had been built over rather than demolished. Some doorways led to brothels advertising discretion, others to fighting pits where desperate people bet on desperate violence.

The air was thick with smoke from various sources - cooking fires, drug fumes, and the general pollution of too many people in too small a space without proper ventilation. Avian passed a group of thugs shaking down what looked like a desperate student. They took one look at how he moved, the sword at his hip, and decided their victim had paid enough.

Smart. Even criminals had survival instincts.

Between the second and third levels, the character of the place changed. The casual criminals gave way to professionals. Guards stood at checkpoints, not hiding their weapons. They watched Avian pass with calculating eyes but didn't challenge him. He moved like someone who belonged, someone dangerous enough to be down here for business rather than curiosity.

The third level was where the serious operations happened. No casual criminals here - this was organized crime territory. The old buildings had been converted into workshops, warehouses, and meeting places for the kind of business that needed to stay hidden. The old merchant district from centuries ago had been transformed into something between a black market and a fortress.

The third level announced itself with voices.

"—another shipment tomorrow. Benedict wants everything moved by dawn."

"Getting risky. Church knights are sniffing around."

Avian pressed himself against the wall, peering around the corner. Three figures stood in what had been an old storehouse, now converted into a printing operation. The smell of fresh ink mixed with mildew and smoke from cheap torches. Stacks of paper lined the walls, and a small press occupied the corner—nothing fancy, but functional.

Article distributors. Not who he was looking for, but interesting nonetheless.

He moved past them, deeper into the old city. The tunnels here were actually streets from centuries ago, now roofed over by the Academy above. Some passages were wide boulevards where merchants had once displayed their wares, others narrow alleys that had probably been used for less legitimate business even then. Standard city planning from before the Empire standardized everything.

Twenty minutes of careful exploration revealed the scope of the operation. The distribution network had claimed an entire district of the old city, using abandoned shops and homes for their rebellion. Printing supplies, stacks of broadsheets, and people who moved with the nervous energy of those committing treason for a cause they believed in. About thirty people total, a decent operation.

Still not what he was hunting for. Kai could map this. He needed to go deeper, find whoever was coordinating—

Footsteps. Multiple sets. Moving with military precision.

Avian stepped into an old doorway, just another shadow in a place full of them. Four figures passed his position, and he recognized them immediately.

Church knights. But not the ceremonial guards from above. These wore practical armor under their white cloaks, swords that had seen actual use. A hunting party.

Fuck. Should have expected this.

He let them pass, then followed at a distance. If they found the distributors, there'd be blood. The Church didn't take prisoners when heresy was involved.

Then one of them spoke, and the voice was young. Female. Maybe fifteen.

"Sister Amara, this section looks familiar. Like that smuggling den we raided last year."

"Similar layout," the older woman replied with warmth. "These old merchant districts all followed the same pattern."

"Some things never change," another voice added - male, older, with easy humor. "Just now they're avoiding the Church instead of taxes."

"Sometimes both," the young male voice said.

So they knew each other. Weren't just a unit—they were something like family.

Great. That always makes things messier.

Seraphina's POV - 30 Minutes Earlier

The entrance to the Underground yawned before them like a mouth that had forgotten how to close. Seraphina pulled her cloak tighter, not against cold but against the memories that places like this always brought back.

"Nervous?" Dimitri asked, falling into step beside her. At sixteen, he was only a year older but insisted on acting like her protective older brother. His sandy hair caught the moonlight, making him look younger than his attempts at a serious expression suggested.

"No," she lied.

"Liar." But he said it gently. "First real patrol is always nerve-wracking."

"This isn't my first patrol."

"First one hunting actual heretics, not just checking permits and blessing nervous merchants." Brother Roland, twenty-six and built like someone had carved a knight from a particularly devoted mountain, checked his sword for the third time. "There's a difference between practice and purpose."

Sister Amara, their senior at twenty-five, turned back with the patient expression of someone who'd been mentoring too long to be truly annoyed. "Both of you, focus. The Underground isn't forgiving of distraction."

Amara had been the one who'd found Seraphina three years ago. Not in the Underground, but at a destroyed farm. A ghoul nest had taken her family, killed everyone except the girl who'd hidden in a grain barrel for two days, surviving on raw wheat and terror. When the Church knights had finally cleared the nest, they'd found a twelve-year-old who'd clawed her way out of hell through sheer refusal to die.

The Church had taken her in. Amara had practically adopted her. Roland treated her like the little sister he'd never had. And Dimitri... Dimitri was her first friend who understood that nightmares were just memories that hadn't learned to stay in the past.

"Remember the layout," Amara said as they descended. "Third level is our target. Intelligence says the heretics are using the old merchant district."

The first level was almost disappointing in its mundanity. Maintenance tunnels that still saw legitimate use, though sections had been claimed by petty criminals for storage. Seraphina had expected more immediate danger.

"This section's clear," Roland noted, making marks on their map. "Like always. Real criminals don't waste time up here."

They descended to the second level. Here, the old city began. Buildings from before the Academy, now repurposed into illegal businesses. The smell of smoke, unwashed bodies, and various drugs mixed into something uniquely unpleasant. They passed what had clearly been a temple once—the carved figures on the walls were too damaged to identify, but the altar had been converted into a bar.

"This place reminds me of the slums in Westmarch," Dimitri said, stepping around a puddle of something best not identified. "Remember, Roland? The raid where you—"

"We don't talk about Westmarch," Roland interrupted, but he was smiling.

"You kissed a statue thinking it was a person in the dark," Dimitri continued anyway.

"It was very realistic!"

"It had six arms."

"I noticed that eventually."

Seraphina found herself smiling despite the tension. This was why she loved her unit. They could find humor in darkness, light in the depths. They'd made her believe she could be more than just a survivor.

The third level was where the serious criminals operated. The old merchant district from centuries ago, now home to organized crime. The air was thick with smoke and the buildings showed their age - crumbling stone, makeshift repairs, narrow streets that had never been meant to exist without sunlight.

"Weapons check," Amara ordered quietly. "From here on, assume hostility."

Seraphina touched her sword—shorter than regulation because she was still growing, but perfectly balanced for her frame. The blessed steel hummed with divine purpose. Three years of training had turned her from a frightened farm girl into someone who could face darkness and make it blink first.

They moved through the old streets carefully. This had been a thriving merchant district once, before the Academy was built above it. Now the shops sold different wares - drugs, weapons, stolen goods, and information.

"Wait." Roland held up a fist. "Movement. Forty yards, left passage."

They pressed against the walls, and Seraphina's heart hammered with the particular cocktail of fear and excitement that came with genuine danger.

A figure passed through a distant intersection. Dark clothes, moving with purpose.

"Heretic?" Dimitri whispered.

"Or criminal. Or both," Amara replied. "We follow, confirm, then act."

They tracked the figure through the winding streets. These passages were confusing if you didn't know them - the old city had grown organically, without planning, creating a maze of alleys and dead ends.

"Sister Amara, this section looks familiar. Like that smuggling den we raided last year."

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"Similar layout," Amara agreed. "These old merchant districts all followed the same pattern. Main thoroughfare, side alleys for storage, hidden routes for avoiding tax collectors."

"Some things never change," Roland added with dark humor. "Just now they're avoiding the Church instead of taxes."

"Sometimes both," Dimitri said.

The memory of past raids warmed her. That sense of purpose, of family working together for something greater.

They rounded another corner and stopped.

The figure they'd been following stood thirty feet away, examining what looked like old merchant ledgers carved into a wall - probably territorial markings from whatever gang claimed this section. Tall, lean, wearing a mask that was common enough in the Underground. A sword at his hip that seemed to absorb the torchlight rather than reflect it.

"Heretic or criminal?" Dimitri whispered.

The figure turned slightly, and Seraphina saw him tense. He'd heard them.

"Sir," Amara called out, voice carrying authority without hostility. "Church business. We need you to come with us for questioning."

The masked figure straightened slowly. When he spoke, his voice was cultured but tired.

"I'd rather not."

"Not a request," Roland said, hand moving to his sword. "Just some questions about the recent distribution of heretical materials."

"I don't know anything about that."

"Then you won't mind coming with us to confirm it," Amara said reasonably. "Unless you have something to hide?"

The figure sighed. "I really don't have time for this."

And something in that tired tone made Seraphina's instincts scream danger.

Avian's POV

Four Church knights. Two older, two younger. Close unit, probably trained together. The kind that would take his refusal personally rather than professionally.

Fucking perfect.

"Look," he said, trying one more time, "I'm just a student exploring. Wrong place, wrong time. I'll leave."

"After you answer some questions," the older woman—Amara—insisted. Her hand rested on her sword, casual but ready.

"I'd rather not be questioned by the Church."

"That makes you sound guilty," the young girl pointed out.

Smart kid. Also annoying. Though... there's something about her. Massive latent mana, barely tapped. Her mana heart's underdeveloped, keeping all that power locked in her aether core. She could be dangerous in a few years.

"It makes me sound like someone who values privacy."

"Heretics often do," the older man—Roland—said, and now his sword was half-drawn.

Avian's fingers found Fargrim's hilt. The demon blade purred at the touch, eager for what was coming.

"Don't," he said quietly. "You don't want this fight."

"Four versus one?" the boy—Dimitri—scoffed. "I like our odds."

"Your odds are shit, kid."

And then Roland's sword cleared its sheath fully, and everything went to hell.

The older knight was fast. Trained fast, experienced fast. His blessed blade carved the air where Avian had been standing, would have split a normal student in half.

But Avian had been fighting since before this knight's great-grandfather was born.

He flowed around the strike like water, Fargrim singing free of its sheath. The demon blade met blessed steel with a shriek that made everyone's teeth ache. Where they touched, sparks that couldn't decide what color they wanted to be danced in the air.

"Demon blade!" Amara shouted, her own sword joining the dance. "He's got a demon blade!"

Well, there goes any chance of talking this out.

The two older knights coordinated beautifully. Roland high, Amara low, patterns that spoke of years fighting together. Against most opponents, it would have been overwhelming.

These aren't pushovers. They're strong—probably Fourth or Fifth Tier, among the higher-level knights in the Church. Most students would be dead already.

Avian parried both strikes simultaneously, Fargrim's weight perfectly balanced despite its size. His foot lashed out, catching Roland in the knee. Not hard enough to break—not yet—but enough to stumble him.

The two younger ones tried to flank him. The girl was quick, darting in with strikes meant to distract. The boy favored power, trying to overwhelm with brute force.

Kids. Brave kids, but kids nonetheless.

Avian's gravity magic pulsed, subtle enough they wouldn't notice. Their swords got heavier mid-swing, throwing off timing. The boy overextended, expecting his blade to move faster than it did.

Fargrim's pommel caught him in the solar plexus. He dropped, gasping.

"Dimitri!" The girl's concentration broke, and that was all Avian needed.

He spun inside her guard, grabbed her sword wrist, and squeezed just hard enough to make her drop the blade. His knee found her ribs—controlled force, enough to take her out of the fight without permanent damage.

Which left the two adults, now fighting with desperate fury.

"You hurt them!" Amara's strikes came faster, blessed steel blazing with divine light.

"They're alive," Avian replied, deflecting her assault while dodging Roland's attempts to flank. "Which is more mercy than the Church usually shows."

I've seen this scene a hundred times before. The desperate defense of fallen comrades. The fury turned to desperation. The faces just change.

"We protect the innocent!"

"You protect your doctrine."

Roland roared, putting everything into an overhead strike that would have split stone. Avian caught it on Fargrim's edge, and for a moment they stood locked, strength against strength.

"You're no student," Roland gasped.

"Huh, guess I did say that." Avian's tone was almost amused.

Avian's gravity magic surged. Not subtle anymore. Roland's weight tripled instantly. The knight crashed to his knees, armor suddenly impossibly heavy.

If they were weaker, I could subdue them. But they're too skilled, too determined. They'll keep fighting until they're dead or I am.

Amara tried to save him. Her blade came in low and fast, aiming for Avian's extended arm. He had to respect the loyalty.

But loyalty didn't win fights.

He pivoted, letting her blade whisper past, then brought Fargrim around in an arc that she couldn't dodge. The demon blade took her just below the ribs, punching through armor like it was paper.

"No!" Roland struggled against gravity that wouldn't let him stand. "Amara!"

She looked down at the blade in her stomach with genuine surprise. "Oh. That's... that's not good."

Avian pulled Fargrim free, and she collapsed. Blood spread across ancient stone, and her eyes were already going distant.

"AMARA!" The girl—Seraphina—had recovered enough to scream. She crawled toward her mentor, ribs obviously broken but not caring.

Roland was moving too, fighting against impossible weight. His face had gone from red to purple with effort, veins standing out like they might burst.

If he keeps fighting that hard, he'll stroke out.

Avian reduced the gravity slightly, just enough to keep him from killing himself.

Bad decision.

Roland lunged with desperate strength, blessed blade aimed at Avian's heart. Close enough that dodging would be awkward.

So Avian didn't dodge.

Fargrim took Roland's head off in a clean sweep. The body stood for a moment, confused by its sudden lack of management, then toppled backward.

The boy—Dimitri—made a sound that wasn't quite human. He was trying to stand, trying to reach a sword, trying to do something other than watch his mentors die.

Brave fucking kid.

Avian's boot caught him in the head. Carefully calculated force—enough to concuss, not enough to kill. The boy dropped, unconscious.

Which left the girl.

Seraphina knelt beside Amara's body, tears streaming down her face. She looked up at Avian with eyes that promised eternity's worth of hatred.

"I'll kill you," she whispered. "I don't care how long it takes. I'll find you. I'll find everyone you love. I'll make you watch them die like you made me watch."

Christ, she's maybe fifteen. And already swearing vengeance like a professional. With that much latent mana, she might actually become a problem.

"Get in line, kid."

He turned to leave, then paused. The smart play was to kill her too. No witnesses. No future problems.

But he was tired of killing children, even children with swords.

"Your friend's alive," he said, nodding at Dimitri. "Get him to a healer. He's got a concussion, maybe some bleeding in the brain. Move fast and he'll survive."

"Why?" Her voice cracked on the word.

"Because you guys just couldn't leave me alone. If you want to blame someone, blame yourself."

He disappeared into the tunnels, leaving her with two corpses and one dying friend.

Behind him, her scream of rage echoed through passages that had heard worse but probably not louder.

Great. Another vengeful orphan for the collection. These never come back to bite me in the ass.

He made it three tunnels away before white light blazed in front of him.

"Halt, heretic."

A Lightbringer Captain materialized from divine radiance, armor gleaming even in the Underground's darkness. Young, maybe thirty, with the kind of zealous eyes that remembered every slight and forgot no grudge. The type who'd hunt someone across continents for wounded pride.

This one's actually dangerous. Fourth Circle mage at least, maybe pushing Fifth. And that armor's blessed by someone who knew what they were doing.

"You reek of death. Demon blade at your hip. You're coming with—"

"Not tonight," Avian muttered.

The Captain raised his hand, divine light gathering. Avian didn't wait for him to finish. His gravity magic exploded outward. Not subtle, not controlled. Pure brute force that made the tunnel shake. The Lightbringer's armor cracked under pressure that would crush normal stone.

The Captain's eyes widened—not with fear, but with recognition. This wasn't some student with a demon blade. This was something else entirely.

"You're—"

Avian pulsed his aura—Grandmaster rank unleashed without restraint. The tunnel cracked. Stones fell from the ceiling. The Lightbringer staggered, his concentration breaking for just a second.

That was all Avian needed. He reversed gravity beneath loose stones, sending them crashing down. Not enough to kill—the Captain's armor would protect him—but enough to bury him temporarily.

As Avian vanished into the maze of passages, he heard the Captain's voice, muffled but furious: "I'll remember you, heretic! This isn't over!"

That'll bring every Church knight in the district. Time to leave.

Kai's POV - Abandoned House, Same Time

The building had been empty for seven years according to city records, but the basement told a different story. Fresh footprints in dust, scratches on the walls from recent crate moving, and the lingering smell of ink that hadn't quite been aired out.

Kai crouched in the shadows of the opposite building's third floor, watching through a broken window. In the past hour, six people had entered the supposedly abandoned house. Five carrying supplies. One wearing formal clothes that suggested actual authority rather than desperate rebellion.

The well-dressed one interested him. Middle-aged, walking with the confidence of someone who thought they were untouchable. Merchant class by the cut of his coat, but wealthy merchant. The kind who could fund a printing operation across seven cities without feeling the pinch.

Got you, you smug bastard. Now to figure out who you really—

A ripple of gravity magic hit him first—controlled but forceful. Someone using serious power down below.

Then the explosion of aura hit like a slap. Even from half a district away, he could feel it—Avian's power signature, suddenly unrestrained. Grandmaster rank, unleashed without any attempt at subtlety.

"God dammit, Avian," he muttered to the empty room. "Can't you avoid fighting for two minutes?"

The tunnel system itself seemed to groan from the magical pressure.

Lightbringer. Has to be. Only they'd make him use that much power to escape.

But he couldn't leave. Not until he confirmed who the well-dressed man was. The night's work couldn't be completely wasted just because his friend had the self-control of a rabid badger.

The well-dressed man emerged from the house, clearly agitated. He'd felt the battle too—everyone with any magical sensitivity in a three-block radius would have. He barked orders at two guards Kai hadn't even noticed, and they scattered.

Pulling out. Smart. When Lightbringers get involved, everyone runs.

The man himself headed north, toward the merchant quarter. Kai followed, moving through shadows with three years of training making him nearly invisible.

They ended up at a mansion that screamed new money. Guards, but not many. Walls, but decorative rather than defensive.

Got you. Now to figure out which merchant family was stupid enough to fund revolution.

He memorized the address, then headed toward where Avian's aura had finally gone quiet.

This was going to be a long night. And probably a longer morning when the Church realized they were missing knights.

Fucking Avian. Some things never change.

Avian's POV - Academy Storage Room, Later

The blood was mostly cleaned off by the time he reached the safe house—an Academy storage room Kai had claimed weeks ago. Kai was already there, looking annoyed.

"Church knights?" Kai asked without preamble.

"Four knights first. Two down, two alive but damaged. Then a Lightbringer Captain showed up."

"Witnesses?"

"Two kids from the knights. One unconscious, one very much not. The Lightbringer's buried but alive."

"Fuck." Kai rubbed his face. "They'll have your description."

"I was masked."

"Your fighting style then. Your sword. Something." Kai studied him. "You could have killed them all."

"The knights had kids with them. Apprentices."

"Kids with swords."

"Still kids." Avian sat down heavily. "Saw the distribution network though. Third level, old merchant district. About thirty people, decent operation. Didn't get close enough to identify anyone important."

"I found the money man. Merchant, new wealth, big house in the quarter." Kai pulled out a sketch of the mansion. "Want to bet he's got Church connections?"

"No bet. It's always the ones who play both sides."

They sat in silence for a moment, processing the night's information.

"The girl," Kai said eventually. "The one who saw you. She'll be a problem."

"Not for a few years. She's maybe fifteen, traumatized, and has a concussed friend to worry about."

"Traumatized people with vengeance missions tend to become very motivated very quickly."

"Then I'll deal with it when it happens." Avian was tired. The kind of tired that came from killing people who didn't deserve it but wouldn't stop pushing. "For now, we focus on finding the actual Truth's Witness. The distribution network's just the symptom."

"Right." Kai stood. "I'll map out the merchant's connections. You should probably avoid the Underground for a few days."

"Probably."

They both knew he wouldn't.

Somewhere outside the Academy City, in the Church's fortified camp, a young girl named Seraphina sat beside her unconscious friend's bed. She'd carried Dimitri half a mile through the tunnels, then another mile to the camp gates, ribs screaming with every step, driven by the need to save the only family she had left.

The healers said he'd live. Brain damage was minimal. He'd wake up eventually.

When he did, she'd have to tell him that Roland and Amara were dead. That she'd watched them die. That she'd been too weak to stop it.

She'd already reported to Knight Commander Cassius. Told him about the masked man with the demon blade. About the bodies still in the Underground. He'd sent a retrieval team immediately.

The masked man's tired voice echoed in her memory. "Get in line, kid."

Like he'd done this before. Like creating orphans was routine.

"I swear," she whispered to her unconscious friend, to the God that had let this happen, to the universe that seemed built on broken promises. "I'll get strong enough. However long it takes. Whatever it costs."

The Academy bells tolled midnight, marking the end of one day and the beginning of another.

In a storage room across the Academy, Avian tried to sleep without dreaming of the faces he'd killed. Men and women who'd just been doing their duty, following orders, protecting what they believed in.

Just like he'd done, five hundred years ago.

The cycle never fucking ends. Just the faces change.

But that was the nature of war, even small wars fought in forgotten tunnels. Someone had to die so someone else could live.

Tonight, he'd chosen himself.

Tomorrow, Seraphina would begin choosing vengeance.

And somewhere in the capital, hundreds of miles away, Seren Lyselle was preparing to release another truth into the world, unaware that her war of words had just claimed two more casualties who'd never read a single article.

The game continued, and everyone kept paying prices they couldn't afford.

[Excerpt from "The Rise of Saints: A History of Divine Champions" by Scholar Whitmore, written 347 years after the Academy Incident]

It was in the depths of the Academy City's Underground that the Sword Saint Seraphina first tasted defeat. Fifteen years old, watching her mentors die to a masked swordsman whose identity remains disputed to this day. Some claim he was a heretic assassin. Others suggest he was merely a student defending himself. The Church's official records are notably vague.

What is certain is that from this tragedy rose one of the Church's most formidable weapons. Seraphina would go on to master the blade with such devotion that within a single year—a feat unprecedented in Church history—she was called the Sword Saint, youngest ever to bear that title. Her techniques, born from grief and refined by vengeance, would become the standard for Church knights for centuries to come.

Whether the Sword Saint ever found the masked man who killed her mentors remains unknown. The Church claims she found peace through divine service. Others whisper of a final confrontation that changed everything. But those are merely rumors, lost to time.

What we know is this: in the Underground of the Academy City, the Sword Saint was forged in blood and loss, and the Church gained a weapon that would shape history.