NOVEL ONLINE FREE Chapter 7: Unforgettable Moments
Gramr Imperial Academy
[Age 8]
In your first year, you became the academy's prodigious swordsman. The Imperial Knights offered unprecedented honors—guardian to Her Majesty Titanis herself.
[Age 9]
You discovered unnatural regenerative abilities. Blisters healed overnight. Cracks in calloused hands sealed by dawn. Your body thrummed with boundless vitality.
[Age 10]
Swordmasters conceded they'd taught you all they could. Theory memorized. Peers outclassed. Even instructors struggled to breach your defenses.
[Age 11]
The Parliament branded you "the Empire's dawn." Yet accolades meant nothing. You trained to survive.
Molten Knights dominated battlefields, yet the silver-haired girl remained a ghost.
"The instructor wants you."
Annie leaned against the dojo entrance, crimson hair framing a pout.
An Ming's blade cleaved a training dummy. He sheathed his sword, noticing the noble girl's glare.
Annie van Caecus—daughter of Parliamentor Caesar. She'd confessed four times via love letters, thrice in person.
An Ming rejected all seven attempts with clinical precision: "Romance dulls blades. We're children. Futility."
They'd settled into frosty camaraderie.
"What is it?" An Ming wiped sweat, his chiseled features drawing stares even now.
"Your precious Molten Knights." Annie rolled jade eyes. "Stars, is your brain just armor-plated?"
"Yes."
Her cheeks flushed. This chance—begged from her father, leveraged by Parliament's interest—deserved better than his apathy.
Molten Knights remained classified. Forbidden knowledge.
An Ming's calm facade hid storms. Years of dead ends. Today—a breakthrough.
He sprinted from the dojo, coat flapping. Annie sighed. This idiot'll die alone.
"You're late."
The swordsmaster adjusted rimless glasses, gesturing to a leonine elder on the sofa. "Parliamentor Caesar."
Caesar's iron-gray eyes dissected An Ming. No greeting.
"An Ming. Imperial Swordsmanship Cohort 121." His bow stayed deliberately imperfect. Knights kneeled to none.
Caesar's interest sparked. Eleven, yet tempered like veterans from the Swarmfronts. A diamond for his daughter's crown?
"You seek the Molten Knights." The Parliamentor's aura softened to grandfatherly warmth. "Would you become one?"
Driver. Her. "I'll strive to qualify."
"Good." Caesar stood. "Prepare for the Mountains."
The swordsmaster paled at the word.
An Ming leaned on the colonnade, exhaling. Closer.
Summer breezes carried butterfly wings—and a silhouette.
Silver hair. Cyan ribbons. Eyes like fractured glaciers.
Her.
Time froze.
He'd read the studies:
15 days for infatuation to fade.
120 days for memories to blur.
7 years to shed every cell that remembered.
Yet here, after 2,555 days, his pulse roared.
The crowd surged—jeers, gasps, elbows—as he fought upstream.
Her ribbon fluttered—a butterfly escaping fate's net.
Then stillness.
Amidst the chaos, her gaze found his.
Sunset eyes met wildfire amber.
The world dissolved.
No Swarm. No Parliament. Just this—an instant etched into eternity.