Chapter 15: Chapter 15: A Blade of Hair

Noel sat on the edge of his bed, flipping the obsidian coin between his fingers while scanning the tiny scrap of parchment that came with it.

The writing looked like it had been scrawled by someone in a rush—or drunk.

He squinted at the line near the bottom and muttered, “Alright, let’s see what kind of crap you’re hiding…”

And there it was.

“To activate the Veilweaver’s effect, a biological trace of the intended form is required. Hair, blood, nail. No exceptions.”

Noel stared at it for a second.

Then again.

“Fucking hell…”

He dropped the parchment on the bed like it personally offended him and flopped back, arms spread out.

‘Of course it needs DNA. Because why the fuck wouldn’t it.’

‘Just once, I’d like to get something useful that doesn’t come with a damn list of conditions.’

He lay there for a moment, letting the ceiling judge him in silence.

Then sat up again with a grunt and grabbed the charm, slipping it into his coat.

He checked the clock.

9:46 p.m.

Still time.

Still dark.

And if those three morons kept their usual schedule…

‘Tonight’s the night.’

He threw on his coat, made sure the blade at his waist was secure, and walked out of the room without a sound.

‘Let’s go get a haircut.’

The academy grounds were dead quiet at this hour—just how Noel liked it.

No lights. No footsteps. Just the occasional gust of cold air that whispered through the stone corridors like something forgotten.

He moved fast but quiet, slipping into a shadowed alcove near the enchantment labs.

From there, he had a perfect view of the old stairwell—the one that led to the maintenance tunnels beneath the lab sector. The same route the three little nightwalkers had been using every damn time.

He crouched low, back to the wall, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his blade.

Clock hit ten.

And sure enough—there they were.

Three silhouettes emerged from a side hallway. Hoods up, coats drawn tight, eyes forward.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t hesitate.

They moved with the confidence of routine.

‘Bold little shits.’

Noel watched.

Waited.

Just before they reached the hatch, one of them turned—briefly checking behind them.

The wind caught the edge of his hood.

And that was all Noel needed.

Red hair. Pale skin. Sharp jawline. Small scar near the cheekbone.

‘Got you, fucker.’

He didn’t follow this time.

Didn’t need to.

He stayed crouched in the dark, locking that face into memory like a target painted on a wall.

‘One of Rauk’s students. Group C. Physical class.’

‘That’s my shot. And I’m not gonna miss it.’

The hatch creaked open.

They slipped into the tunnel beneath the enchantment labs, just like always.

Gone in seconds.

Noel stood, rolled his shoulders, and melted back into the hallway.

‘Now I just need to get close enough to take a little piece.’

‘Tomorrow, you bleed hair, my guy.’

The sun wasn’t even all the way up yet when Noel hit the training field.

Same as always.

Light jog.

Push-ups.

Footwork drills.

Breathe in. Out. Mana flow. Anchor. Compress. Control.

‘Chaos at night. Routine by morning. That’s how you stay sane.’

The cold bit at his skin, but he didn’t care. He liked it. The sting kept him focused.

Out of the corner of his eye, movement.

He didn’t need to look to know.

Selene.

Same time. Same space. Every day.

Blue braid pulled tight. Mana book hovering at her shoulder. Precision in every step. Ice forming in her palm before she even reached the center of the field.

Noel didn’t say anything right away.

Neither did she.

Then, like always:

“Morning,” she said without looking up.

“Morning,” he replied, keeping his breathing steady.

That was it.

Every day for weeks now, just that small exchange.

No awkward silence. No fake conversation.

Just mutual understanding wrapped in cold air and discipline.

‘She’s sharp. Keeps to herself. And she never skips a session.’

‘Makes sense we get along—by not getting in each other’s way.’

The sparring dummy in front of him shattered under the next strike.

He moved on to the next without blinking.

‘Let’s keep it that way.’

The training hall was already buzzing by the time Noel stepped in.

Wooden floors, reinforced walls, racks of sparring gear lining both sides. A couple of students were already stretching, a few tossing mock punches or flexing like anyone gave a shit.

And at the center of it all—Instructor Rauk.

Broad-shouldered, arms crossed, the kind of guy who looked like he’d bench press a wyvern if someone asked nicely. His hair was graying, tied back in a low, no-nonsense tail. His voice hit like a war drum when he barked out:

“Line up. Today’s sparring drills. Light contact. No enhancements. If I see anyone glowing, they’re running laps till they puke.”

A collective groan rolled through the group.

Rauk grinned.

“Good. Now shut up and pick a partner.”

Roberto elbowed Noel with a grin. “You and me again?”

Noel shook his head.

“Not today.”

Roberto blinked. “Oh?”

“I wanna try someone different.”

He was already scanning the group.

And there he was.

Red hair. Pale skin. Quiet.

The guy was tightening his gloves near the edge of the mat, minding his own business.

‘That’s the one. Let’s dance, motherfucker.’

Noel walked over, casual.

“You up for a round?”

The guy looked up, barely blinked, and nodded.

Wordless.

Perfect.

They stepped into the ring.

Rauk raised a hand.

“Keep it clean. Begin.”

Noel didn’t move first.

He just stood there, relaxed, blade in hand, breathing steady.

The red-haired guy wasn’t flashy. He didn’t posture. Didn’t talk shit.

He just came at Noel—fast.

Clean stance. Controlled footwork. His strikes weren’t wild, but they weren’t academy-standard either.

Noel blocked the first few hits, but not well.

On purpose.

He stumbled a little. Let a thrust push him off balance. Let the guy think he was winning.

‘Yeah… you’ve done this before. But not here.’

‘That form isn’t textbook.’

He stayed defensive, letting his opponent press the advantage.

Rauk shouted from the side, “Move your feet, Thorne! This ain’t ballet!”

Noel didn’t answer.

He was too busy watching the way the guy shifted his weight—too fast for a first-year.

‘You’re trained. But not here. Someone taught you off the grid.’

‘And if I’m right, that sword’s not your only weapon.’

Noel let the guy “land” a light hit to the side of his ribs and stumbled back, breathing heavy.

He wasn’t tired.

He was calculating.

‘Just a little longer. One window. One swing.’

And he’d get what he came for.

Noel kept the pace slow. Defensive. Predictable.

Every time the redhead swung, Noel made it look like he barely blocked. Let his footing slip just enough. Let the guy feel in control.

‘Gotta sell the act. If he thinks I’m soft, he won’t guard tight.’

And it worked.

The guy got bolder—pressing in, faster, sharper, with more weight behind each hit. Students around the mat were starting to take notice.

A few grins. A few whispers.

“Guess Thorne’s not all that, huh?”

Noel heard them. Ignored them.

He stepped back—then shifted just enough.

Rauk called out from the side again, “Last round! Make it clean!”

‘Perfect.’

Noel ducked low, let the guy swing high.

And in that exact moment, Noel’s hand flashed.

A whisper of mana surged to the tip of his wooden sword—not enough to glow, not enough for anyone to notice, but just enough to sharpen the edge unnaturally.

He pivoted hard and slashed upward—not at flesh, not at skin.

But at hair.

The blade passed so close it hummed.

And a clean lock of red hair fluttered through the air like a dying ember.

It hit the mat just as Noel let his opponent drive a strike straight into his shoulder, dropping him with a solid thud.

He hit the ground, exhaled hard, and gave a quiet, strained, “Nice one.”

The redhead said nothing. Just nodded and walked off.

Noel didn’t move right away.

He just stared at the ceiling.

Smirked.

‘Got you, bastard.’

Noel sat up slowly, rubbing his shoulder where the blow landed. It’d bruise later, but he didn’t care. The ache grounded him. Reminded him it was real.

Around the mat, no one paid much attention anymore. Another loss. Another spar. Just another quiet failure from the “Thorne kid.”

He glanced down.

The small tuft of red hair lay near the edge of the mat, barely noticeable.

Except to him.

He palmed it quickly and slipped it into his sleeve, then stood up and brushed the dust off his coat.

‘One lock of hair. One problem solved.’

‘And maybe, just maybe…’

His eyes scanned the room. A few students were still whispering, but not about him.

‘…with this little “defeat,” people will finally stop looking so damn hard.’

He gave Rauk a tired nod as he passed.

The instructor raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Noel slipped out of the training hall without another word, his footsteps light and his mission complete.

The halls were quiet by the time Noel made it back to his dorm.

Just the soft creak of old floorboards and the distant hum of mana lights humming along the ceiling.

He locked the door behind him, tossed his coat over the chair, and sat down at the edge of his bed.

Then he reached into his sleeve and pulled out the small bundle of red hair.

He unwrapped a tiny cloth pouch from under his bed—a rune-sealed case he’d prepped days ago—and slid the hair inside, letting it settle into the center of the glyph array.

A faint pulse of light flickered through the lines.

‘One step closer.’

He leaned back against the wall, exhaling.

The tension bled out of his shoulders all at once.

The room was still. No movement. No noise.

Just him.

And a stolen lock of hair that might be the key to everything.

‘Two months left.’

‘Now I’ve got the face… all that’s left is becoming the ghost.’

He closed his eyes for just a second, letting his mind clear.

Tomorrow would be normal.

But tonight?

Tonight, he’d won.

No one even knew it.

And that’s exactly how he liked it.

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