The Crimson Lion base wasn’t carved from stone—it was forged.

  Every hallway was heat-tempered brick. Crimson banners fred like fmes against arched ceilings. Statues of past captains loomed in alcoves, their eyes judging even in marble.

  It felt like a furnace with discipline.

  Not loud. Not angry. Just always burning.

  We were escorted inside by a squad lieutenant—silent, golden-armored, clearly the type who measured recruits with a gnce and forgot you if you failed to impress.

  “This way,” he said. “The Captain is occupied. His brother will be briefing you.”

  His brother?

  Leopold Vermillion was exactly what I expected and also... completely not.

  He stood with hands on hips, a wild grin pstered beneath a mop of bright red hair. His eyes were firecrackers wrapped in adrenaline.

  “Welcome, newbies! I’m Leopold, younger brother to Fuegoleon, future Wizard King, and current motivational firestorm!”

  Asta would've loved him.

  He cpped his hands. “Today, we show you around, test your instincts, maybe light a few things on fire—don’t worry, it’s tradition.”

  Iris barely flinched. She was used to loud nobles. I wasn’t. But I followed silently with the others—two boys and one girl, all fresh recruits, though none from noble lines.

  We were shown the barracks (clean, spartan), the training halls (scorched and gouged with past battles), the artifact vaults (heavily sealed), and the rookery (yes, they had magical hawks for message delivery—it was awesome).

  Finally, we reached a long hall lined with private doors.

  “Your quarters,” Leopold said, throwing his arms wide. “Your tiny slice of the kingdom. Don’t set it on fire. That has happened.”

  Mine was near the end. A small room—wood floors, one desk, one window, and a trunk already bearing my name. Inside, folded neatly, was a second robe, maintenance kit, and a red-gss insignia of the Crimson Lions.

  I ran my hand across the windowsill. It felt... real.

  Iris passed my door as I was unpacking.

  She didn’t stop, just said, “Don’t think this means I acknowledge you. Or your magic.”

  I gnced at her over my shoulder. “Didn’t think you did. You still got scorched, though.”

  Her pace slowed for half a second.

  Then she kept walking.

  ‘Progress,’ I thought.

  The next morning, we were summoned to the southern training field.

  Stone ptforms ringed the area like a dueling coliseum. Bleachers for observers, high towers for overwatch. The wind rolled hot with rising morning heat, as if even the air here was trained to burn early.

  We were now divided into training trios—each assigned a senior squad member as mentor.

  Iris and I, of course, were paired together.

  Our third teammate was a quiet boy named Eren, with crystal magic and a tendency to apologize before speaking.

  Our mentor? A fifth-year senior named Callen Fairstone, wind affinity, sharp-tongued, and clearly unimpressed with our existence.

  He wore his crimson cloak zily draped over one shoulder, and his hair was cropped like he’d cut it with a bde spell.

  “You’re the new heat-seekers?” he said, squinting at us. “Fine. Show me what you can actually do before I waste my time. Spells. Now.”

  I stepped forward first.

  No dramatic pose. No decration. Just a page flip and mana pulse.

  “Blight Barrage,” I said simply.

  From my open palm, thin wooden thorns erupted, unching forward like a burst-fire spell—rapid, precise, striking into the training dummy in a tight cluster. Small holes spread along the dummy’s frame.

  I snapped my hand once. “Low cost. High pressure. Drains lightly on contact.”

  Callen raised one brow. “Practical.”

  Next, I stepped back and waved my fingers outward.

  “Whisperfield Bloom.”

  Delicate white flowers bloomed in a twenty-foot arc—pale, shimmering. Their scent drifted over the field.

  Eren blinked, looking momentarily dazed. Callen narrowed his eyes and waved it away with a wind pulse.

  “Distraction field. Alters sensory focus. Makes enemies underestimate the threat. Doesn’t work on pros. Yet.”

  I let it fade, then flipped to another page.

  “Hollow Branch Network: Whisperroot.”

  Thin roots slithered from my boots into the ground, then burst from the other side of the field, forming small wooden nodes—whorled tubes like small, twisted stumps.

  I tapped my throat and whispered, “Test.”

  The sound echoed from the other side with faint distortion.

  “Battlefield communication. Grows across terrain.”

  Callen gave a slow nod.

  “Final one. Support utility. Cartographer’s Grove.”

  I sank to one knee. Roots flowed out and spread like a nervous system, then glowed softly as a ghostly map of the surrounding terrain appeared above my palm in wooden ttice.

  Walls. Debris. Enemy markers—faint, based on mana traces.

  “Limited radius. Expands with anchor time. Useful for infiltration and recon.”

  I stood, letting it all fade.

  “And then my entrance spells, which you already saw.”

  Callen turned to Iris.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  Her grimoire snapped open in a crisp arc of golden script and fire.

  “Scorch Petal Dance.”

  Dozens of burning flower-petals formed in the air, swirling like a firestorm in a wind tunnel—controlled, circur, beautiful.

  She snapped her fingers, and they burst outward in an arcing inferno, scorching multiple targets with minimal mana usage.

  “High-speed area control,” she said coolly.

  Then, “Sor Ray.”

  A focused beam of white fire shot from her fingertip, so intense it sizzled the air and left a bck streak through the stone dummy’s chest.

  “Precision piercing. Can melt through steel in three seconds.”

  Finally, she stepped forward, swept her hand across the ground.

  “Phoenix Bloom.”

  A massive fireflower erupted from the ground—twenty feet wide—spreading heat and fme in a pulse wave that bent the grass.

  It pulsed once.

  Then vanished.

  Callen gave an approving nod.

  “You have training. And pride. Both useful.”

  Iris tilted her chin slightly. “I am a Rhoswen.”

  Callen’s smirk was razor-thin. “And he’s a bastard. Yet here you are—same team.”

  Her expression froze.

  But she said nothing.

  Callen crossed his arms. “Now you fight me.”

  “What?” Eren blinked.

  “Together. Three on one. You want to be Crimson Lions? Then roar.”

  We didn’t hesitate.

  I cast Rootce, anchoring the field. Eren raised Crystal Vines to reinforce my growth, while Iris unched Petal Storms to pressure Callen.

  He didn’t move at first.

  Then the wind snapped.

  A single gust shattered Eren’s vines.

  Another flipped Iris’s petals back toward us—only her fme ward saved us from burning.

  I triggered Sporeburst Pods, cing the field with traps. One exploded when Callen stepped near it—wind shield up—but the mana-absorbing mist from the spores still clung to his aura.

  Enough.

  I activated Greedgrove Lash—a thorn-vine that whipped toward his wand.

  He redirected it.

  But it distracted him long enough for Iris to unch Sor Ray at his side.

  Boom.

  A cloud of steam hissed where fire met wind.

  Eren encased his legs in crystal cuffs. I closed the roots again.

  For a split second, we had him.

  Then—WHAM.

  A pressure burst of air knocked us back like tossed sacks.

  I hit the dirt hard.

  When I sat up, Callen stood over us, slightly singed, but smirking.

  “You’ll live,” he said. “Which means you might just earn those robes.”

  Back in the locker area, I wiped dust from my shoulders.

  Iris passed by again, still glowing faintly from the fire aura.

  I leaned against the wall. “You didn’t acknowledge me. Yet we worked well.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” she said, not looking at me.

  “It means we’re not done.”

  She paused—then, quietly, “No. We’re not.”

  And that was the beginning.

  Of survival. Of growth.

  Of fire and root learning to fight beside each other.