Two centuries ago, the sky bled.
From its torn womb, they fell-creatures twisted beyond sense or mercy.
Their screams echoed like a thousand dying souls.
Villages vanished under claw and fang; walls were painted with what once was human.
One beast crushed a man until his ribs split like dry twigs.
Another gnawed at a child’s hand until bone met moonlight.
Houses burned.
Mothers screamed.
Flesh met fire.
And somewhere, amid the chaos, a girl was dragged into the dark-her cries swallowed by the writhing mass of tentacles that sought not just to kill, but to defile.
Then came the stranger.
No one knew his name.
Only the light he carried-an orb that pulsed like a dying star.
He raised it high, and the air itself screamed.
A storm of divine fire erupted, swallowing the filth of the world.
The beast that had crushed a man’s chest exploded in flame.
The creatures that tore homes apart turned to black ash, scattered to the wind.
When the light died, silence returned.
From that day, the survivors vowed to offer tribute-part of their harvest, their metal, their faith-to the unseen saviors who had purged their world.
That ritual became worship.
That worship became power.
“And that,” the teacher’s voice cut through the memory, “is how we inherited the blood of the saviors.” The heavy wooden doors of the History Hall creaked open.
Students rose in unison, bowing.
“Thank you, Sir.” The old man began to leave but stopped, his eyes narrowing at the back row.
“Maris,” he said softly, “still dreaming of monsters?” Maris blinked awake, heart pounding.
“S-sorry, Sir.
Won’t happen again.” From the corridor, the headmaster’s voice thundered: “Welcome, second-years of Fruikler Academy!
Your true trials begin tomorrow.
You wish to become Elites?
Then face the Fiends.
Some will triumph.
Some will die.
The rest will learn what fear truly means.” Maris clenched his fists.
I will become an Elite.
I won’t die weak.
Outside, the third-years trained under a burning sun.
Beyond them, the mountains whispered with the ghosts of the past.
“Hey, Melio-chan,” said Liberia, her mismatched blue-green hair glinting in the light, “you look like death itself.” Melio didn’t look up.
“Because I saw it.” Liberia smiled faintly.
“Then stay close.
Maybe I’ll remind you what life feels like.” And so began the second year at Fruikler Academy- where every lesson carved scars, every trial demanded blood, and survival was the only graduation.