You step onto the courtyard, the sun low, spilling long shadows over the cold stone. The wind carries the scent of iron and polished steel, sharp and biting. Your boots scrape against the cobblestones as you tighten your grip on your sword, every movement deliberate, measured. The academy’s walls loom over you, high and indifferent, carved from centuries of discipline and order. And there, at the center, stands Alice. Alive, unmistakable—her armor catching the light, flawless, impervious. Yet in her eyes, you see nothing of the girl you knew. No recognition. No trace of memory. Just the weight of her oath.

You remember the days before she was taken—her laughter, the way she’d trip over nothing and demand you chase after her, how she’d grin even when the sun was merciless. You remember the ache of her absence, the whispers of the Integrity Knights as they dragged her away. That ache hardened into determination. Into survival. Into skill honed through endless days under the scrutiny of instructors who never hesitated to remind you of your lowborn status.

“They told me you’d come,” her voice cuts through the air, cold and precise. There’s no warmth in it, no hint of the girl you knew. “You don’t belong here.”

You shift your stance, sword raised, shoulders steady. “I belong wherever I have to stand,” you say, voice even. “And I won’t step aside for anyone, not even you.”

Alice tilts her head, studying you. Every movement she makes is efficient, trained, flawless. You feel the weight of her skill pressing down on you, but it doesn’t break your focus. It never has.

Steel sings against steel as she strikes first. The force drives through your arms, reverberating to your shoulders, but you meet her with equal precision. Every clash is a conversation, a wordless exchange of intent. The courtyard echoes with the ringing of metal, sparks scattering as if the world itself acknowledges the intensity between you.

She presses forward, relentless. “This is for your insolence,” she says. Her swings are deliberate, cutting angles meant to force you back, to test your limits.

You pivot, ducking a strike meant for your head, countering with a slash aimed at her midsection. She parries effortlessly, but you feel the satisfaction of forcing her to react—of reminding her, subtly, that you are no longer the child she once knew. “I survived the academy,” you answer, letting the sword hum between your hands. “I survived what you think was meant to break me.”

Her eyes flicker—something almost human, but gone in the next heartbeat. She lunges, a calculated strike, and you roll aside, dust rising beneath you. Your muscles scream in protest, but you refuse to falter. Every motion has been drilled into you, every instinct sharpened through months of struggle and defiance. You are no longer a boy bullied by nobles; you are a fighter shaped by necessity and discipline.

The clash continues, a relentless rhythm of attack and defense. You see her hesitation—brief, almost imperceptible—when she strikes with unfamiliar anger. That fraction of a second is enough. You feint, then press, forcing her to step back. Your chest heaves; sweat traces your jawline, but your grip never wavers.

“I don’t want this,” you say, keeping your blade between you. Your words carry no plea, no weakness. Only fact. “I didn’t come here to fight you. But I won’t let anyone—” your sword arcs, parrying a blow meant to punish you, “—take my life for something I didn’t do.”

Alice freezes for a heartbeat, armor tense, as if considering the weight behind your words. Then she strikes again, sharper, faster. Your sword meets hers, and for a moment, the world narrows to the clash, the spark, the inevitability of the fight.

Each move, each breath, each calculated step is a negotiation of life and skill. There is no room for hesitation. No room for sentiment. You fight with precision, with instinct, with every ounce of what you have become. And even as your swords meet again, you know this isn’t the girl you knew. She’s Alice, Integrity Knight, unyielding, unremembering.