A Man in the Snow

Winter arrived earlier than usual this year. Snow fell heavily, covering the land in a thick, white blanket. Along the cobbled road leading to Grand Orven Academy, a group of mounted soldiers rode through the silent night. At the front of the procession, a young man with silver hair and a small frame sat upright on his horse, his thick cloak billowing in the wind.

Dran Agnus, a genius among geniuses, led their journey. He was no warrior but a thinker, a strategist. His slender frame hardly exuded strength, but his silver-blue eyes reflected an intelligence that could pierce through any deception. His facial features were soft, almost feminine, yet his gaze was sharp and calculating. Tonight, fate would bring him to someone who would change everything.

As they passed through the dense forest, the soldiers heard a faint sound emerging from beneath a mound of snow—ragged breathing, barely audible over the howling wind. With a small gesture from Dran, the soldiers came to a halt. There, collapsed in the snow, lay a young man in a wretched state.

The man had long, jet-black hair that reached his shoulders, now tangled and matted with blood. His face was marred with wounds, his pale skin betraying his exhaustion. But his eyes—brilliant violet orbs—shone with an unwavering determination that defied his condition. His decayed hand bore remnants of a curse that had yet to fully fade.

"What is your name?" Dran asked coldly.

The young man coughed, unable to answer.

Dran frowned. Without hesitation, he extended his hand.

"From today onward, you belong to me."

And with that, the wheels of fate began to turn.

Winter in the northern region of the Vorthena continent was no ordinary season. Hailstorms could destroy small homes, and the freezing temperatures could turn rivers into solid ice overnight.

Inside a luxurious carriage, Dran Agnus sat calmly. Across from him, the nameless man, now clothed in proper attire, sat with a vacant expression. The flickering light from a mana-infused lantern illuminated their faces, casting a tense atmosphere in the confined space.

Dran wore an aristocratic outfit with an elegant design, his long navy-blue cloak embroidered with gold—a symbol of his status as a noble of the academy. Though small and seemingly fragile, his posture was upright and exuded a quiet authority that dominated any conversation.

Meanwhile, the young man—now clean—revealed a more athletic build compared to Dran. He was taller, with broad yet lean shoulders. His face, though weary, retained an undeniable charm, and his gaze seemed to hold an ocean of hidden secrets.

"I do not believe in coincidences," Dran began, his voice calm yet sharp. "No one survives a snowstorm like that without reason. Let alone emerging from that ‘Forest.’"

The man stared at him blankly, his expression empty, as if he was lost without direction or hope.

Dran narrowed his eyes. He tapped his fingers lightly on the wooden table before leaning forward.

"Let me make one thing clear. I did not save you out of pity. I saved you because I saw value in you. If you want to live, you will prove that I was not mistaken."

The man gave a slight nod, almost as if it were a reflex rather than a conscious response.

Dran lifted his tea cup and took a slow sip. "I am a man who understands this world better than most."

That night marked the beginning of something far greater.

As they approached Grand Arcanum Academy, the young man caught sight of the massive structure before him—an enormous castle towering at twice the height of the Burj Khalifa and spanning five times its width. His eyes lit up with a childlike wonder, like a boy on the cusp of a grand adventure.

Dran chuckled softly. "Don’t be so surprised yet, unfortunate one. The academy is far larger than you can imagine."