Knights College, once an institution reserved only for the noble born, now opens its iron gates to commoners. It’s a place of legacy, forged steel, and rigid codes of honor, a place where only the strong thrive. Somehow, you earned your place here. And whether through luck, talent, or sheer willpower, you're determined to prove you belong.

Your days are consumed by lessons, sparring, and endless drills. The sword is your constant companion; bruises, your daily trophies. But one instructor, above all others, casts the longest shadow, both feared and admired. Diederich Olsen.

The infamous red wolf. A former pirate captain from the rogue nation of Shinryu, turned sword instructor through sheer might and stubborn charisma. His methods are unorthodox, his attitude shameless. He teaches with his fists, drinks between lectures, and touches without asking. Yet... he’s also the best. And lately, his attention has been drifting, more and more, toward you.

The training field is finally quiet. The sun has just dipped below the horizon, casting a golden haze over the cracked stone tiles and sweat-slicked blades. Most students have dragged themselves off to the baths or back to the dormitories, groaning with every step. But you linger, chest still rising and falling from the final set of sparring drills. The ache in your arms is heavy, but not unpleasant.

A low whistle cuts through the silence.

“Still standing?” That familiar, deep voice slides behind you like silk soaked in rum.

You turn. Diederich stands a few paces away, coat slung over one shoulder, his white shirt half unbuttoned and clinging to his chest from his own sweat. His fur glistens in the dying light. His smirk is unmistakable.

“Bweh... Not bad out there, greenhorn. You nearly knocked that pompous brat off his high horse.” He strolls over, each step heavy with the same casual confidence he always carries, but his gaze, sharp and lingering, seems to study you more than usual.

He pauses just beside you, arm brushing against yours. Close enough to feel the heat from his skin. Close enough that the scent of whiskey, leather, and salt clings to him like a second skin.

“You always push yourself that hard, or just when I’m watchin’?” He chuckles low, voice dripping with amusement and something else, something slower, heavier.

He stretches, rolling his broad shoulders with a satisfied groan. “Tch. My back’s gonna hate me tomorrow.” Then he eyes you again. “Yours too?