Chapter 692: A girl whose life was not easy
"…you are strong."
The words weren't dramatic. They weren't part of a speech. They were a statement.
Honest.
Clear.
Heavy.
Lucavion raised an eyebrow slightly, his grin still in place. "You say that like you just figured it out."
Caeden didn't smile. But there was a faint shift in his posture—a slight tilt of his chin, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
"I didn't," he said. "I knew."
He glanced briefly at the golden thread of Lucavion's name still floating above his head. Then back into Lucavion's eyes.
"But knowing it and seeing it aren't the same."
Another pause. This time, shorter.
"And I don't believe in titles won without sweat."
Lucavion's smirk flickered—something sharper behind it now.
A glint of approval.
Respect.
"Mm," he mused, voice light but edged. "So? You going to test it?"
"Not now," Caeden said, voice steady.
Lucavion's grin widened, brow arching just slightly. "Not now?"
Caeden met his gaze without flinching. "I'll test it in the Academy."
The words fell like stone—firm, grounded. Certain.
And that was the moment Lucavion laughed.
Not mockingly.
Not cruelly.
But genuinely. A low, rich sound that spilled out of him like someone who'd finally found something amusing in the middle of a very quiet war.
"So," he said, amusement laced through every word, "you're sure you'll enter the Academy."
"That's right."
Lucavion gave a mock tilt of the head. "Then why not challenge me? Afraid of losing your seat?"
Caeden didn't respond immediately.
But his silence spoke.
It wasn't hesitation.
It was calculation.
And that alone confirmed it.
Lucavion's smile thinned into something more knowing, almost impressed. "Ah. I see."
He leaned back a step, hand resting idly against his hip once more.
"You've read the fine print," he said softly.
The crowd around them hadn't reacted yet. But a few of the sharper ones—Elayne, Mireilla, even one of the lower-ranked mages near the edge—were beginning to catch on.
The rules had been clear:
"Each candidate may only challenge once."
"Victory allows you to take your opponent's rank—and access to the Imperial Academy."
"Defeat ends your claim. Permanently."
What the announcer hadn't said—didn't need to say—was the implication buried in that last line.
If a challenger lost… they didn't just lose their shot at the Academy.
They lost everything.
All placement. All rewards. All recognition.
The Academy wasn't just testing strength.
It was testing judgment.
And Caeden Roark, for all his size and quiet fury, wasn't about to gamble a top-five position for the sake of glory. Not here.
Not now.
Lucavion clicked his tongue once, softly. "Smart."
Caeden gave a small nod, unreadable once again.
Caeden gave one last glance—short, final—then turned away.
No grudge.
No anger.
Just a man who knew when not to swing.
His footsteps thudded back toward the outer circle, where he folded his arms and resumed that same stillness, like a boulder content to wait for the next avalanche.
Lucavion let the moment settle, the quiet energy of a challenge unclaimed drifting like fading sparks.
Then—
He felt it.
Not sharp. Not overt.
But present.
A gaze.
Faint, like morning fog that only clung where no one was looking directly. But he felt it just the same.
He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing, scanning past the murmurs and whispers of the others—
And found her.
The girl in gray.
Elayne Cors.
Still perched quietly near the edge of the field, legs folded beneath her like she hadn't moved at all. Her cloak drawn like mist, her expression the same: unreadable.
But her gaze?
Locked on him.
She'd fought him once—briefly, silently. Fled before he could end it. At the time, he'd let her go.
And now?
It was clear.
That had been the right move.
Anything else… would've been a waste.
Lucavion let a lazy smile curl his lips and lifted one hand in a light wave.
Then winked.
Just once.
No theatrics.
Just—
Acknowledgment.
She blinked.
Slightly.
But her face didn't shift.
Didn't scowl. Didn't smile. Didn't move at all.
The same impassive, elusive quiet. Watching.
Lucavion tilted his head.
"So cold," he muttered to no one in particular.
Then, a little louder, just enough to carry:
"If that's how you're going to act, you'll never get a boyfriend, you know."
The basin twitched—just slightly. A half-suppressed breath from someone, a smothered laugh.
Elayne didn't reply.
Didn't need to.
Because her gaze stayed exactly where it was.
And Lucavion, as always, grinned right back.
******
The first thing Mireilla ever remembered was hunger.
Not the kind nobles liked to dramatize in sonnets or war memoirs—the metaphorical ache of ambition or longing. No. This was real. Physical. Sharp as splinters in the stomach, dull as dirt in the mouth.
She'd been maybe five. Maybe younger. Time blurred when your days revolved around whether the matron had managed to barter moldy bread from the market scraps. The orphanage stood at the edge of the outer ring, a building that moaned when the wind howled and wept through its cracked panes when the rain came in slanted. Paint peeled from the walls like old scabs. The floorboards creaked louder than the children ever dared to speak.
There were too many mouths.
Not enough hands.
And far, far too many fists.
'When grown-ups are hungry, they get mean,' she'd realized, curled into a corner after one of the older boys had thrown her from the fire's edge just to make space. 'And when kids are hungry, they get clever. Or they get quiet.'
Mireilla had chosen clever.
She learned to move soundlessly across rotting floorboards. Learned which cupboard door could be pried open with a finger and which ones screamed for attention. Learned how to hide what she found, how to offer just enough to appease, never enough to spark envy.
And most of all—she learned when to smile.
Smiles got you past suspicion. Past punishment. Even when the cut across your cheek stung or the bruise on your thigh made it hard to walk. You smiled. Tilted your head. Offered wide eyes and meek tones.
"I was just cleaning, Miss. I swear."
The lie passed easier when your ribs showed and your voice cracked in the cold.
That night, the one she never forgot, came during a froststorm. They hadn't eaten in two days. The fires were out. One of the younger girls had started sobbing—quietly at first, then louder, until the room echoed with it.
The matron stormed in, belt in hand, drunk off whatever had replaced the food rations this time.
No one moved.
Except Mireilla.
She stood.
Not because she was brave.
But because she knew one thing, one truth carved into her bones like frostbite:
When pain was inevitable, better it find you on your feet.
"Don't hurt her," she said, voice steady despite the shaking. "She's just cold."
The matron paused. Just long enough to shift the blow.
Mireilla took it. Didn't flinch. Didn't cry.
And afterward, when the silence returned and the girl wept into her lap, Mireilla sat there in the dark, jaw tight, blood crusting beneath her collarbone, and thought—
'This is the kind of strength no one claps for. But it's the kind that survives.'
She never forgot that.
And the lessons she had learned—how to navigate the bruised terrain of adult moods as a child, how to read hunger in the curve of a jaw or the tension in a wrist—those were the real reason she made it this far.
Not luck. Not grace. Not even raw magical talent.
It was judgment. Observation. Calculation forged in the cold corners of survival.
Mireilla knew people.
She knew how fear could curdle into violence. How envy sounded when it scraped behind polite compliments. How hunger didn't just live in stomachs—it lived in ambition. In eyes. In the corners of a voice when someone asked a little too casually where you'd learned that spell, or who taught you to fight that way.
So when her affinity awakened—plants, of all things, creeping through cracks in the stone floor like they'd been waiting for her—she didn't celebrate. She didn't cry with joy.
She planned.
Because unlike fire or lightning, her magic didn't dazzle. It didn't explode. It wasn't the kind of magic that nobles paraded on dueling stages or wrapped in family sigils.
But it was old.
Rooted.
And terrifyingly precise.
The first time she used it to trap a beast twice her size, the guild master had called her "resourceful." The second time, when she sealed a man's limbs to the forest floor with blooming ironwood tendrils mid-ambush, they started calling her "dangerous."
And she learned quickly—again—that names were weapons too.
She let them call her quiet. Let them call her strange. She dressed in gray, kept her hair tied back, kept her voice low. But behind that silence was calculation, coiled like bramble waiting for a misstep.
Navigating the adventurer's ranks wasn't just hard—it was cutthroat. Especially for a girl with no house name, no sponsor, no famous bloodline to lean against.
But Mireilla knew the weight of a glance. She knew how to make herself too useful to ignore. She offered support magic before it was asked for. Knew how to bind injuries with spell-grown salves while whispering nothing of where she'd learned the herbs that saved them. She learned the difference between respect and fear, and which one lasted longer when rations ran low.
When someone asked why she never smiled, she tilted her head just slightly and said, "Because I haven't earned it yet."
That shut them up.
That earned nods.
That—earned silence.
And when she stood in the basin now, wrapped in vines that answered her like old friends, healing slow and steady after dragging herself through blood and ruin—
She looked up at the golden dome, at the names shimmering in the air.
Lucavion. Caeden. Elayne. Mireilla.
Fourth.
She didn't smile.
Because she knew better.
Because the moment her name flared into golden light, etched clean and unblinking into the arcane sky—Mireilla Dane, Rank 4—the rules of the world shifted.
Not in her favor.
'It is always safer to target the weak.'
Chapter 693: A girl whose life was not easy (2)
'It is always safer to target the weak.'
She'd learned that before she could spell her own name. Safer to hit the girl with smaller hands, to blame the one who wouldn't talk back, to wound the quiet one before she had the strength to scream. That was human nature—nobles liked to dress it up in politics, strategy, diplomacy. But it all traced back to the same cracked root:
Find the one who seems breakable.
And break them first.
Her gaze didn't leave the shimmering script, but her ears were already working. Tracking breath patterns. The subtle shift of cloth. The cadence of silence behind her.
She would be challenged.
Of course she would.
Not because she was famous.
Not because she had enemies.
But because someone out there had seen her name in the top five and thought:
She doesn't look that strong.
The truth didn't matter. The blood she'd bled, the monsters she'd fought, the desperate crawl into the circle one heartbeat before the collapse—it didn't matter.
What mattered was this: she was fourth.
And fourth meant visible.
Fourth meant reachable.
The first-place name? Intimidating.
That was especially true—gods, especially—after she saw the number next to first place.
168,420.
It didn't make sense. Couldn't. Not when the second-ranked candidate had barely clawed past fifty thousand. Not when the rest of them—herself included—had scraped and bled for every damn point just to survive.
And yet there it was. A number that didn't just eclipse the others.
It shamed them.
Her gaze slid sideways.
She found him with sickening ease.
He wasn't hiding. Wasn't posturing. Wasn't even pretending to be interested in the atmosphere tightening around the basin like a coiled snare.
He was lying down.
Sprawled across a patch of sun-warmed stone like this was a picnic and not a battlefield. His arms folded behind his head, one leg bent, the other lazily twitching as if to some invisible rhythm. His black hair stuck out in too many directions to be deliberate, and the faint stubble on his jaw gave him the look of someone who didn't give a damn what mirror he passed.
A white cat—no collar, long-furred, aristocratically uncaring—lounged across his shoulder like it had always belonged there.
And he was smiling.
That lazy, half-lidded, I-don't-need-to-prove-a-damn-thing smile that people wore right before they broke your kneecaps in a duel and apologized afterward for getting their boots dirty.
From a distance, he didn't look like a threat.
He looked bored.
His black eyes, ringed in faint shadows like sleep hadn't visited him in days, barely flicked from face to face. But when they did settle—when they locked briefly onto someone—it was like being studied not as a person, but as a series of possible outcomes.
She knew that look.
She'd seen it on bounty hunters and high-tier mercenaries—the real ones. The ones who never raised their voice, never boasted. The ones who cleaned blood from their cuffs like it was soup-stain. The ones who didn't hunt for power…
…but attracted it. Like gravity. Like something darker.
Mireilla stared.
Because there were only two types of people who could look that relaxed in a room full of killers.
The delusional.
And the deadly.
And judging by the cat—who now lifted its head just enough to blink at her like it, too, had judged her soul and found it wanting—this man wasn't delusional.
He was something else.
'These are the ones you never challenge unless you're ready to bleed for hours just to earn a nod.'
She could hear her old guildmaster now, gruff and half-drunk, warning a younger Mireilla about monsters in human skin. The kind who smiled not because they were kind, but because they were certain.
The kind who didn't strike first, not because they were slow, but because they liked to see who was foolish enough to think they had a chance.
Lucavion.
That was his name.
Top of the list.
Top of the threat board.
And yet here he was—lounging like a cat in the sun, pretending not to notice the tension unraveling through the basin.
She lingered a moment longer on Lucavion, just enough for the cat to blink again—languid, amused, as if it knew that none of them here were meant to touch the man beneath it.
'But still…'
A part of her wanted to see. To test him. To know if that number was real or some elaborate game played by the overseers. But no—no. She pushed the thought down like a knife into mud.
She couldn't afford curiosity.
Not now.
Not after the years.
Not after everything she'd crawled through.
'I'm going to the Imperial Arcanis Academy.'
She didn't say it aloud. She didn't need to. The words had weight in her bones already—gritted between her teeth in winter, whispered like a curse over healing bruises.
She turned her head with care, not haste.
And found Rank Five.
Toven Vintrell.
His body language said nonchalant. One leg stretched long across the stone, arms behind his head, back resting against a conjured arc of static—a throne made of condensed lightning. Bolts curled up his sleeves like hungry vines, tracing his silhouette with purpose. He didn't suppress it.
He wanted to be seen.
To the untrained eye, he was just another prodigy showing off his raw output. But Mireilla's eye was sharper than that.
She noticed the rigidity in his jaw, the tension behind his lazy grin. The way his eyes kept drifting, just barely, toward Lucavion. Like he couldn't help it.
Like he couldn't not look.
'He's scared,' she thought, 'but doesn't want to seem like it.'
That, too, was familiar.
Because while Lucavion's stillness had felt bottomless, Toven's energy twitched. Arcs of mana sparked from his shoulders when he breathed wrong. Not uncontrolled, but… stretched thin. There was power there, yes—an abundance of it—but it lacked that terrible, centered gravity that clung to Rank One like second skin.
Still, he wasn't nothing.
And if there was one thing Mireilla had learned, it was this: you don't need to be a predator to kill something.
You just need to be desperate.
And Toven, for all his lightning, looked desperate not to drop a rank.
Still…
She wasn't worried about him.
Not right now.
Because her attention snapped to motion in front of her—a candidate stepping into her line of sight with the kind of confidence that came from freshly polished courage.
He stood tall. Not bulky, but sharp-angled. His robes bore the light scuffs of recent battles, but his posture was deliberate, centered. His eyes, an unnervingly cool shade of violet, locked onto her without hesitation.
Mireilla blinked once, then glanced at the shimmering thread of mana above his head.
Edran Sylven.
Rank Seven.
'So you're the one.'
He could have gone for Toven. Toven, who flaunted his lightning like a banner. Toven, who was only one step ahead of him. But no.
He'd picked her.
Her, who bled her way into fourth.
Her, who didn't flash power or wear her magic like warpaint.
Her, who looked like a maybe.
'You saw my name, my face, my limp… and you did the math.'
And it was simple math, wasn't it?
Lightning was flashy. Ice was brittle.
Vines?
Vines could be cut.
"You're Mireilla Dane," he said.
It wasn't a question.
She met his gaze calmly. "You're ranked seven."
He didn't respond immediately. His jaw twitched. There was something almost... courteous in his posture, but the hunger behind his eyes betrayed him.
He thought this would be clean.
Quick.
He thought she would be grateful for how mercifully efficient he planned to be.
But Mireilla just tilted her head slightly—only slightly—and her voice, when it came, was dry as winter bark.
"You sure you want to do this?"
His nostrils flared, like her question insulted him.
"I don't waste my one chance on a bluff," he said.
She nodded.
Then smiled.
But it wasn't warm.
It was a blade, sheathed in silence.
"Good," she said softly. "Because neither do I."
Behind her, the ground had already begun to shift—roots threading through the stone like a heartbeat beneath skin, quiet and steady.
Let him come.
Let them all watch.
She wasn't the easiest target.
She was just the one who'd stop smiling the moment the first spell missed.
Chapter 694: Show
The moment the rest time ended, a deep, resonant chime rang through the air—clear, final.
No more waiting.
Now came the declarations.
There was a hush—not the silence of nerves, but the razor-fine stillness that only came when blood was imminent. All eyes shifted to the center dais, where an ethereal glyph pulsed above a crystalline platform. The platform shimmered with recognition as a name lit it in violet:
Edran Sylven – Rank 7
He stepped forward with deliberate calm. No hesitation. No uncertainty.
"I challenge," he said, his voice projected by mana amplification across the basin, "Mireilla Dane."
The glyph flickered, adjusted.
Challenge Accepted. Combatants: Edran Sylven vs. Mireilla Dane.
A ripple of power shot through the platform as mages stationed around the basin raised their staves. Arcane runes spiraled outward, blooming across the ground like lightning trapped in glass. The stone beneath the fighters cracked, then rearranged—sinking, rising, forming an arena of interlocking obsidian hexes.
A dueling circle.
Elementally attuned.
Mireilla stepped in, slow and measured, her expression unreadable. The roots she'd already called were still buried—waiting. Listening.
They thought vines were only for grasping.
Let him find out.
Across from her, Edran drew his longsword. Sleek, matte-black steel, its edge faintly humming with pressure. He held it in one hand—confidently, but not carelessly.
He exhaled once. His mana surged. A violet sigil flared across his wrist.
Crescent Pulse—First Form: Mirror Shatter.
A burst of kinetic force exploded from his foot as he lunged.
—BOOM!
He was already in front of her. His blade arced, a diagonal slash aimed to cut through her from shoulder to hip with terrifying speed.
But the roots beneath her had already responded.
Verdant Ward – Heartroot Spiral.
The stone cracked. A twisting coil of bark and vine erupted between them, catching the blade mid-swing. The impact detonated in a shower of splinters and momentum—but it stopped the blow.
Mireilla didn't flinch.
Her eyes gleamed.
"You're fast," she said.
Edran growled. "You're stalling."
He twisted his wrist—Second Form: Phantom Echo. A follow-up slash from the same momentum, delayed by half a second and delivered at double speed.
He expected the root to fail.
It did.
The root failed—cleaved clean through by the second strike. But Mireilla was already gone.
—WHOOSH!
She sidestepped with almost eerie grace, her cloak fluttering behind her as she ducked low beneath the follow-up slash. A vine snapped up from the ground, catching her fall, and slung her sideways into a roll that brought her to her feet again just beyond the blade's arc.
Not a flinch.
Not a gasp.
Just movement. Pure, clean, measured.
Edran turned, blade sweeping wide.
—CLANG!
It scraped the edge of a summoned root—but Mireilla wasn't there anymore.
'He's too focused on the sword. Predictable.'
Her mana flared faintly at her ankles, just enough to send a signal down through the buried network.
Verdant Technique – Weaver's Net
Vines rippled outward below the obsidian tiles, unseen. They weren't meant to strike yet.
Just to listen.
Edran's mana surged again, more aggressive this time. His stance widened, anchoring his feet. The sigil on his forearm deepened into an array of interlocking rings.
"Let's end this."
Crescent Pulse – Third Form: Breaker Crescent
His sword swept in a wide horizontal arc—too wide for precision. But that wasn't the point.
—BOOOOM!
A semicircular wave of compressed force erupted from the swing, cleaving the field in a sweeping surge. The air howled as the blast tore toward Mireilla like a guillotine of violet energy.
She didn't move.
Not forward.
Not back.
She knelt.
And whispered:
Verdant Technique – Root Cage: Hollow Spiral
The ground shattered.
—KRSHHHH!
A whirling shell of reinforced vines curled upward around her in a corkscrew of bark and thorns, absorbing the force of the attack in spiraling deflection. The crescent wave struck the outer shell and fractured, its kinetic edge turned inward on itself.
The impact kicked up a cloud of dust and leaves.
Edran narrowed his eyes.
He could still feel her mana.
She hadn't run.
'She's bracing. Good. Makes this simple.'
He charged.
Footwork precise.
Power tight in his core.
They were both Mid Rank-4. Equal in tier. Equal in mana pool. Equal in raw power.
But Mireilla?
She wasn't built to clash.
She was built to unmake.
As Edran closed the distance again, he raised his sword overhead.
Crescent Pulse – Fifth Form: Mooncleaver Drop
The blade descended like judgment—hard, heavy, fast enough to split a boulder.
—THOOOOOM!
The strike landed on her shield of vines—
—and sank.
Not pierced.
Not deflected.
Sank.
Edran blinked.
The vines gave—not resisting, but folding around his blade like a trap waiting for pressure.
And now they pulled.
Verdant Technique – Thornbind: Widow's Maw
—SNAP!
Thorns jutted from the vine cage, curving around his wrists and elbow. He tore back, but the barbs had already dug in.
Blood bloomed.
—SHNK!
A shallow cut. Then another.
He swung wildly with his free arm, carving away the vines—only for a second layer to snap upward and grab his ankle.
He stumbled.
Mireilla's voice came, low and dry. "Shouldn't have stood still."
He gritted his teeth. "You're hiding."
"I'm waiting," she corrected. "There's a difference."
—CRACK!
Roots split the tiles beneath him.
The ground gave out just enough for him to lose balance.
And Mireilla moved.
Not fast—but precise. Her footwork made no sound.
From the side of her leg, a looped vine slithered upward, then hardened into a whip—coiled with embedded thorn barbs.
Verdant Technique – Snaplash: Serpent's Tongue
—CRACKK!
It lashed across his shoulder before he could turn. His coat split open with a spray of crimson. He roared and twisted his body, unleashing mana in a pulse.
Crescent Pulse – Fourth Form: Radiant Push
—BOOMM!
A full-body discharge threw her back, vines snapping under the sudden wave. She rolled—gritted her teeth as the air slammed from her lungs—but regained footing.
'Tch. He's adapting. Stop giving him space.'
She reached toward the center of the field.
There—under the third tile.
The trap was ready.
The moment he advanced again, she pivoted and pressed her palm to the ground.
Verdant Technique – Bloomtrap: Parasitic Latch
—THWACK!
A spine of thorned vine erupted from beneath Edran's rear heel—piercing his boot, not deep, but deep enough.
Enough to poison.
A viridian glow spread up his calf.
He froze, blinking in confusion.
"What…?"
She smiled—tight and sharp. "Mana constrictor venom. Drains output. Just a little."
She flicked her wrist.
Another vine snapped forward and ripped the sword from his hand.
Edran reached for it.
Too slow.
Mireilla was already on him.
Verdant Technique – Ironbark Gauntlet
Her hand, encased in bark and living thorns, slammed into his stomach.
—WHUMP!
He gasped.
Then another to his ribs.
—THWACK!
He dropped.
His knees hit the obsidian.
Vines coiled around his throat, his wrist, his chest—gentle but immovable.
He couldn't move.
Not because he was broken.
But because every decision he made, she'd seen coming.
Mireilla leaned close, her breath calm.
"You never lost because I was stronger," she murmured. "You lost because you thought I had to be."
—THUNK.
His sword landed far from reach.
The arena fell into silence.
Above them, the glyph flared again.
Victory: Mireilla Dane
The mages released the boundary.
Chapter 695: End of the exam
The vines retracted slowly.
Mireilla stepped back from the battered form of Edran Sylven, her breathing even—shallow, but steady. Not a drop of wasted motion clung to her frame. Her gauntlet dissolved back into coiling bark and reabsorbed into the moss beneath her boots.
She didn't gloat.
She didn't need to.
The glyph above flared once more—declaring the end of the match in that same steady violet.
Victory: Mireilla Dane.
Edran didn't argue. He couldn't.
Still breathing, still conscious—but defeated. Decisively.
The healers moved fast, pulling him from the arena with practiced hands and muting salves. Mireilla offered a nod to them as she passed, her name still flickering gently above her head, but said nothing more.
But before she could fully retreat to her side of the basin—
Another glyph lit up.
Name: Alvera Nyce – Rank 12
Challenge: Mireilla Dane
But the duel didn't begin.
Not immediately.
Mireilla had barely stepped off the field when the attending mages intervened—two of them sweeping toward her with silent efficiency, scrolls already unfurled, hands raised in twin gestures of restoration.
A third stepped forward with a crystal phial, filled with mana-dense liquid so blue it shimmered like starlight.
She took it wordlessly.
Sat cross-legged at the basin's edge.
Drank.
And began to breathe.
Slow. Controlled.
The world gave her a moment, and she used it—not just to recover, but to center.
Lucavion, arms folded loosely, watched from a slight rise near the back of the crowd. His eyes didn't track her like a predator—more like a scholar, attentive, measured.
"She doesn't waste movement," he murmured.
[Vitaliara stirred on his shoulder, tail flicking once.]
[This girl is quite talented.]
Lucavion quirked a brow. 'Oh? Praise from you? That's rare.'
[Not the strongest,] Vitaliara went on. [But clever. Adaptable. Her magic is basic—but she's smart around it. She never overextends her will. She listens to her spells.]
Lucavion's smile curled faintly. 'Oh… you noticed it too.'
[What do you take me for?]
'A peeping cat.'
[—I am not a peeping cat.]
'Sure, sure…'
[Lucavion.]
He laughed under his breath, gaze still locked on Mireilla as her aura began to re-stabilize—threads of green slowly weaving tighter around her frame, bark coiling into tighter braids beneath her hands.
Lucavion leaned back against a worn stone pillar, arms still folded, eyes fixed on Mireilla as she calmly let the mana tincture do its work. Her hands never trembled. Her breaths never rushed.
Efficient. Focused.
She didn't just cast spells. She spoke with them.
She fights like she's seen her fair share of life, he thought. Would do a fine adventurer.
[What makes you think she wasn't one already?] Vitaliara asked, voice teasing.
"I didn't say she wasn't," he murmured.
[But you implied it.]
Lucavion shrugged. "No. You got that meaning from my words."
[That's the same thing.]
"No, it isn't. That's your interpretation problem, not my communication failure."
[Booo…] Vitaliara groaned theatrically. [You always do this.]
"Do what?"
[Win the argument by pretending it was never an argument.]
He smiled. "That's because it wasn't."
[Vexing creature.]
"I try."
Down in the arena, Mireilla stood once again—composed, steady, quiet.
The glyph pulsed.
The second duel was about to begin.
And Lucavion?
He was very curious to see if she had more roots left to grow.
Victory: Mireilla Dane.
Lucavion crossed his arms. "Two for two. Good."
[Vitaliara purred.] [She's starting to show her fangs.]
But the arena didn't cool.
Because another name lit up.
Name: Sereya Vonn – Rank 14
Challenge: Toven Vintrell
A ripple of interest passed through the crowd. Rank 5. The edge of Imperial qualification. A bold move.
Toven stepped forward slowly, his coat repaired and sleeves rolled up. The moment he entered the arena, static began to rise around him. His usual playfulness was absent now—replaced by a tight, crackling intensity.
Sereya moved first—fast, with dagger throws and flickering displacement spells.
Toven didn't flinch.
He absorbed a bolt with his bare palm, redirected it mid-air, and then—
Thunderstep. Chainflash. Arc Shear.
A streak of lightning cracked through the arena, bending around her defenses with surgical precision.
She lasted two minutes.
Victory: Toven Vintrell.
No flourish.
Just fact.
Sereya was helped from the ring, half-stunned but not broken.
The crowd shifted again, murmuring louder now.
Yet still—another challenge rose.
Name: Renn Talvek – Rank 10
Challenge: Toven Vintrell
Another one trying to force their way upward. Another burst of ambition.
Toven didn't react much. Just sighed once, rolled his neck, and returned to the circle.
Renn brought brute mana—earth-element, reinforced limbs, strength-based enchantments. He tried to overwhelm.
And nearly succeeded.
But nearly wasn't enough.
Because Toven didn't block.
He dodged.
And when the opening came—
He unleashed Thundershard Pulse, a directional burst straight to the ribs.
Renn collapsed mid-strike.
Three minutes flat.
Victory: Toven Vintrell.
The safe-zone quieted again.
Lucavion leaned back slightly, eyes scanning the other would-be challengers now frozen in their place.
None stepped forward.
Because now?
Now they knew.
The top five weren't placeholders.
They were the wall.
And not everyone was ready to break through it.
The platform dimmed again.
Not just in light, but in atmosphere—like the arena itself needed a breath between pulses of violence.
Healers moved with silent efficiency, removing Renn Talvek's body from the field with floating sigils and mana stabilizers. The crystalline floor restructured, smoothing over cracks, clearing the last traces of battle.
The glyph remained inert.
For now.
A rest period was mandated between challenges—ten minutes of silence, stillness, reflection. Time to recover. Time to reconsider.
Most candidates used it to breathe.
Lucavion used it to watch.
Toven Vintrell stood with one hand in his pocket and the other casually tucked under his opposite arm. His coat fluttered faintly, disturbed by lingering static. Blue-white mana danced around his legs like tiny sparks of condensed arrogance. He didn't bask in attention—he let it wash over him like wind against stone.
Hmph, Lucavion thought, eyes narrowing.
He wasn't showy.
But he wasn't subtle either.
[Remind you of anyone?] Vitaliara asked, tone amused and suspiciously smug.
Lucavion gave a noncommittal hum. "A little too loose at the edges."
[No, no. He's exactly like you.]
"No one is like me."
[Yeah, yeah,] Vitaliara muttered with exaggerated exasperation, [you're the only one. "Special breed." Zzz…]
Lucavion gave a one-shouldered shrug, that same lopsided grin playing at the edge of his mouth.
"I am a special breed."
[Vain mutt, more like.]
"Still breeded special."
Vitaliara rolled her eyes—physically this time, her small form stretching languidly along his shoulders like a lounging serpent-cat hybrid who'd seen far too much and respected far too little.
Around them, the air settled into something quieter. Not quite peace. But acceptance.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
And still—no glyphs flared.
No names rose.
No challenges formed.
Some of the candidates kept their heads bowed, processing wounds they couldn't show. Others fidgeted, glanced around, did the math.
None stepped forward.
Because they'd all seen it.
Not just the victories—but the precision. The weight of what it would take to carve even a single rank upward.
And not many were ready to bleed for it.
Then—
The central platform shimmered again.
One of the lead mages, robed in gold-traced slate and holding a conduit-staff marked with the nine-spoked sigil of the Imperial Academy, took a measured step into the center.
Her voice rang out—calm, practiced, absolute:
"Candidates."
All eyes turned.
"Is there any among you who still wishes to issue a challenge?"
Silence.
The air held firm.
She waited three seconds.
"Once more: do any remaining candidates wish to challenge the current rankings?"
Lucavion's eyes flicked toward the others—watching. Measuring.
Nothing.
Not even a twitch.
The mage gave a final glance to the basin. Her voice rose one final time, clear and conclusive:
"Final call. Does anyone wish to contest?"
The silence was complete.
And then—
She turned her staff.
The crystal at its top glowed once.
"Then by declaration of this sanctified field—let it be recorded: the entrance examination concludes here."
Light flared—not violent, not sharp. Just clean. Final. The glyphs above the arena shimmered gold, then dissolved.
And just like that—
It was over.
Chapter 696: Headmaster
The light from the projection dimmed.
Golden glyphs dissolved like morning mist—clean, final, indifferent. No applause followed. No grand declaration. Just the quiet murmur of the crowd and the slow, inevitable return of normalcy.
The Candidate Trials had ended.
Valeria sat in the same booth, her posture composed, her tea now cold. She had watched it all—every moment. From the instant Lucavion raised his blade against Reynald to the quiet surrender of would-be challengers who knew they could not measure up. Mireilla's precise tenacity. Toven's decisive cruelty. The flicker of ambition, rising and falling like sparks across an ocean too deep for fire to reach.
But nothing—nothing—had matched the storm that Lucavion had brought.
The fight with Reynald had redefined the Trials.
And everything after it had been epilogue.
Even the air had known it.
The crowd's enthusiasm had not recovered. The remaining duels—impressive though they were—felt like echoes in a chamber already broken. Victory meant less when the battlefield had already been claimed by something that didn't follow the usual rules.
Lucavion hadn't just won.
He had distorted the space.
Bent expectation. Unmade rhythm.
There were no more surprises after that. Only confirmations.
Valeria exhaled softly, her gaze distant as the final shimmer of glyph-light vanished from the screen. The Imperial mage's words lingered in the minds of the audience, carried on the still breath of ceremonial closure.
"Let it be recorded: the entrance examination concludes here."
That was it.
No more challenges.
No final rally.
Just silence.
And names.
His name now among them.
Valeria's hand tightened slightly around the rim of her cup. Not from anger. Not from awe.
But from something else.
'So,' she thought, gaze unfaltering, 'you'll be in the Academy.'
It was a strange feeling.
Sitting there as the glow of the projection faded, the murmurs thinning, the inn returning to its slow churn of tavern-life normalcy. The festival ribbons still danced lazily from ceiling beams. The arcane quartet resumed its soft tune. Someone in the back resumed rolling dice.
But the world had shifted.
How could it not?
Lucavion had appeared—here, of all places. Not from the heights of a noble house or the whisper of elite recommendations, but through the front door of the Candidate Trials like a blade cutting cloth. Quiet. Sudden. Final.
He'd torn through illusion and image alike, then stood unbothered beneath the ruin he left behind.
And now… he was going to be a student.
At the Imperial Academy.
Same halls. Same training. Same mentors.
Her halls.
Valeria leaned back, the stiff leather of the booth creaking beneath her.
It was surreal.
The notion of Lucavion walking uniformed through the courtyard gardens. Sitting through lectures with ink-stained mages and alchemical theorists. Standing in rank for formation drills. Discussing class hierarchies over tea with smiling instructors.
It didn't fit.
It never could.
And yet—
She smiled.
Just a small one. Subtle. But it curved her lips with an edge of amusement that she hadn't shown in hours.
'You really never do anything quietly, do you?'
The chair across from her remained empty. Always had. But now it felt less like solitude—and more like a seat being reserved.
Footsteps approached, soft but firm.
An older waiter, hair grayed at the temples, placed a fresh cup of spiced root tea on the table. The steam danced between them in silent invitation.
"On the house," he said with a small smile. "For a customer who clearly enjoyed the show."
Valeria blinked once, then inclined her head politely. "Thank you."
She reached into her pouch and placed three gleaming silver marks on the tray.
A generous tip.
Signaling her good mood.
*****
The golden light faded from the basin like the final note of an orchestral piece, lingering just long enough to remind the candidates: this moment would not come again.
The air settled.
The spell-structures collapsed in orderly silence, returning the world to its natural hue. Gone were the glowing glyphs, the flickering name-ranks, the oppressive weight of competition. All that remained now were the survivors.
And the watched.
From high above, the Headmaster slowly descended.
He did not step.
He did not teleport.
He arrived.
A ring of energy shimmered into existence above the basin, and from it—like gravity made manifest—descended the figures cloaked in slate, silver, and gold: the highest-ranking Archmagi of the Imperial Academy.
They came in threes.
Then fives.
Then dozens.
The sky split to make room for the weight of authority, each mage suspended midair within a platform of sigils that glowed with the resonance of oversight itself. Not battle-ready. Not political.
Just… watching.
Until finally—
The Headmaster landed.
He touched down in silence at the center of the arena, robes still untouched by the blood and stone that defined the trial. The eleven conceptual spells that always circled him now hovered closer, tighter. Still rotating.
But slower.
Less like weapons.
More like thoughts.
The candidates turned, one by one, their movements sluggish with the fatigue of war and the disbelief that now, they were the ones being approached. Not by examiners. Not by staff.
By him.
Caeden Roark straightened immediately, hand clasped across his chest in the formal gesture of respect. Mireilla followed, steady and calm, but her eyes didn't lower—only her chin. Elayne offered a short nod, composed as ever. Toven gave a lazy half-bow, not out of arrogance, but from some bone-deep habit of not caring for pageantry.
And Lucavion…
Lucavion didn't bow.
Didn't nod.
He simply tilted his head, just enough to acknowledge that he was aware.
That he had been watching too.
The Headmaster said nothing for a moment, letting the silence speak first. His gaze swept across the twenty-one candidates still standing. Then his voice came—not loud, not booming.
But every word carved itself into the air.
"You were tested," he said. "You were shaped."
He turned slightly, arms folding within the long sleeves of his robes.
"And you were witnessed."
Behind him, the other senior faculty remained suspended in air, their expressions unreadable. Some curious. Some cautious. A few—very few—deeply intrigued.
The Headmaster's gaze swept slowly across the worn, blood-dappled ground of the arena—this battlefield that had become both crucible and proving ground. His hands folded once more behind his back, sleeves like cascading parchment, and his voice—when it came—did not shake with passion.
It carried with reverence.
"This place," he began, eyes distant, "is the center of the Arcanis Empire."
The candidates stilled.
His tone shifted—still calm, still precise—but now marked with the weight of something personal.
"It was founded not by kings," he said, "nor by merchants or warriors. Not by conquest. Not by greed."
He turned to face the west—the direction of the capital, of the vast halls and vaults carved into the bones of ancient ley-lines.
"But by her."
He looked upward now, and even the sky seemed to dim.
"Lysandra the First. Mage-Queen. Flamebearer."
A beat.
"Wife to no throne. Daughter to no dynasty. She built a kingdom where none had dared place stone. Not with armies. But with understanding."
His voice didn't rise.
But it deepened, like roots digging into forgotten soil.
"She tamed wild sorcery. Brought logic to madness. She wrote the First Flame Codices. Discovered the Fourfold Bind. Crafted the Ashen Chain that split the Void Storm."
Even Vitaliara blinked.
Lucavion's eyes narrowed faintly.
And still, the Headmaster continued.
"Lysandra dreamed not of power—but of order. Of making a world where magic could mean something. Where knowledge wouldn't kill the fool who found it—but elevate the one who earned it."
He turned again—this time to the candidates directly.
"To honor that dream," he said, "the Academy was built. The Arcane Ascendancy codified. The lines between discipline and chaos carved."
A pause.
"But somewhere along the line… we forgot."
His gaze sharpened. Focused.
"As mages," he said, "we pursued knowledge with such fervor that we locked it away."
The arena was dead silent now.
"We buried truth beneath titles. We hid tomes behind bloodlines. We shaped nobility not by worth—but by permission."
There it was.
The unspoken rot.
The truth every candidate knew but had never dared hear said aloud by someone who stood above the system.
"A school born of the Mage-Queen's fire," he said softly, "has long been frozen by the ice of hierarchy."
He looked at them—at the twenty-one faces bearing exhaustion, hope, bitterness, and brilliance.
"And yet…"
The air shifted.
His voice grew quiet again.
"This year marks the first step toward change."
Chapter 697: Headmaster (2)
"And yet…This year marks the first step toward change."
That sentence rippled like prophecy.
His hand extended slightly, as if to draw a new line in the world's design.
"You stand here not because of names. Not because of sponsors. Not because of blood."
His gaze lingered, briefly, on Lucavion.
"You stand here because you fought for it."
"You bled for it."
He turned to the other top ranks—Caeden, Elayne, Mireilla, Toven.
"And some of you," he added, "took what even nobility could not keep."
He straightened, and the eleven conceptual spells around him flared once.
"This year will be different. You may not change the world from within. But you will challenge what the world believes is unchangeable."
He lowered his hand.
"And that," he said finally, "is the truest kind of magic."
The Headmaster's voice lingered in the air, like old magic refusing to fade.
And then it softened—not with weakness, but with weight.
"This," he said quietly, "is not the first time I have stood at the end of an exam."
His gaze lowered—not in shame, but reflection.
"I have seen centuries of prodigies pass through these trials. I have watched kings rise from nothing, and nobles fall with everything. I have measured talent. Cultivated genius. Disciplined chaos."
He turned slightly, hands still clasped behind his back, as the eleven conceptual spells slowed their orbit further—less arcane now, more like memories.
"But the truth?" he said, eyes distant.
"I regret much."
Silence returned—but this time, reverent.
"The first of those regrets…" His voice cracked, only slightly. "Is that I could not open the gates wider. That I could not tear down the walls that our forebears built with pride and fear."
He looked around—not just at the top five, but at the other candidates. The battered, the brave, the nearly forgotten. Those who still stood. Those who still breathed.
"I have spent my years studying the weave of the world, binding the tides of aether, and crafting laws where none once stood."
He paused.
"And still, I could not make the gates yield."
A long breath.
"I wish… there were more than five. I wish this list stretched into hundreds. That any soul with the will to learn, to understand, to grow—could walk through those doors and call this place home."
The arena held its breath.
"But I…" he said, almost quietly, "am just an old man. And my time, like my reach, is limited."
He turned once more—fully now—his eyes locking onto Lucavion first.
Then Caeden.
Then Elayne.
Then Mireilla.
Then Toven.
"One day," he said, voice regaining strength, "I will fade. And when I do, it will not be my name carved into the gates of change."
He stepped forward, robes brushing the cracked stone beneath him.
"It will be yours."
A pause.
Long enough to be a vow.
"That is why the burden falls to you five. The responsibility—not only to excel, but to inspire."
His voice deepened now, not with power, but purpose.
"To be the example of virtue. Of resilience. Of truth. To stand not as symbols of power, but as the proof that bloodlines do not dictate greatness. That legacy can be earned."
The Headmaster stood still for a breath longer, letting the silence weigh as heavily as the truths he'd just cast into the open.
Then—
He exhaled, softly.
"…Enough," he said, the edges of his mouth curling into something close to a smile. "Enough of the ramblings of an old man."
A faint murmur of restrained laughter passed through the mages overhead—relief, perhaps, or simply reverence disguised as familiarity.
He turned back to the gathered candidates, his voice lighter now, yet still steady with the force of authority earned rather than demanded.
"You have fought. Day and night. Steel and spell. You have carved your names into the stone of this trial."
He glanced at the distant ridges of the arena—where battles had broken the earth, where illusions had bled truth, where will had turned the impossible into precedent.
"You have every right now…" his tone softened further, "to rest."
The five before him—Lucavion, Caeden, Elayne, Mireilla, and Toven—remained silent, their expressions unreadable in the light of victory, of exhaustion, of the unspoken understanding that rest was never just rest. It was pause before storm.
"The Academy has yet to open its doors," the Headmaster continued. "The Festival of the First Flame still burns. Celebrations, rituals, and ridiculous amounts of parading nobles fill the streets."
His smile widened by a hair's breadth.
"And I imagine," he added, "by now every soul in the capital knows your names."
A few of the younger candidates chuckled nervously.
Toven scoffed.
Mireilla blinked once and then seemed to retreat further into her composure.
Caeden only inclined his head.
And Lucavion… simply watched the Headmaster, as if he had already expected everything.
And then, the Headmaster traced a circle in the air, with a gentle gesture of his hand.
The glyph responded.
A gate shimmered into being behind him—towering, pale gold, rimmed with the same ancient spell-marks that once lit the sky above the arena. It wasn't just a doorway.
It was a transition.
"Go now," the Headmaster said, turning away from them at last, "and prepare yourselves. This was not the end."
He stepped through the gate, his robes vanishing like smoke drawn into dawn.
And with his departure, the authority shifted.
Keleran stepped forward next, flanked by two mage-assistants in slate-gray formalwear. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between duty-bound and vaguely amused.
He clasped his hands behind his back and gave a crisp nod.
"You will be escorted to your accommodations within the inner ward of the capital," he said, voice clipped and precise. "There, you will remain until the commencement of the Imperial Entrance Banquet."
He waited a beat, making sure the words settled.
Keleran's gaze swept once more across the candidates—no longer mere participants, but the ones who had stood when others had fallen.
The storm-tested.
The chosen.
He gave a small incline of his head.
"Further information," he said, "including Academy structure, faction orientation, sponsor invitations, and resource allocations, will be provided over the coming days."
His voice was smooth, polished, as if he'd spoken the same lines a hundred times—and yet, this time, something in his tone felt different. Just slightly less rigid. Slightly more… acknowledging.
"I will not take more of your time now."
A pause.
"You've earned what little of it you have."
He gestured once toward the golden gate, now glowing more brightly—its frame humming with runic resonance, the veil between arena and empire thinned to nothing but intent.
"Rest while you can," he added, tone softer, almost unreadable. "It won't be long before you're asked to prove yourselves again."
Then, with a sharp turn, he stepped forward, his slate-gray cloak brushing the stone behind him.
"Come."
One by one, the five moved.
Mireilla with quiet, calm resolve.
Toven with a crackle of defiant ease.
Elayne like a blade hidden in silk.
Caeden like a knight already bracing for the weight of expectation.
And Lucavion—
Lucavion walked as if the gate had been built for him.
No ceremony. No hesitation.
Only the inevitability of movement.
The five stepped through.
And the gate closed behind them.
The trial was over.
But the game had only just begun.
Chapter 698: Wow
As the five stepped through the golden gate, leaving the arena behind, the shift was immediate—visceral.
Gone was the stone and ash of the battlefield.
In its place: opulence.
The capital's inner ward unfolded before them like a dream sculpted by precision and wealth. White-gold pillars stretched into the sky, each engraved with runes older than empire. Crystalline walkways shimmered underfoot, refracting the sunlight into iridescent patterns across the polished courtyard. And above them—no longer arena ceilings or sky-choked dust—but a dome of floating gardens, suspended by pure aether, blooming in midair with impossible flora that pulsed faintly with life-force.
The very air tasted expensive.
Toven froze mid-step, jaw half-dropped. "...Wow….This is…."
Elayne didn't speak—her eyes were darting to each floating structure, tracking the way golden automatons glided between balconies with trays of silk-covered parcels. Her silence held the tautness of someone raised to expect the bare minimum.
Caeden's shoulders straightened. But not from arrogance—from disbelief, restrained only by decades of dignity. He murmured a quiet word in a language none of the others spoke—a thank-you, maybe, or a warning to himself not to want this too much.
Mireilla's hand unconsciously brushed the side of her skirt, as though checking to see if it had picked up dust where none existed. The sheen of it all unsettled her composure. But she would never admit that aloud.
And Lucavion?
He didn't stop.
The power of wealth without blood.
The elegance of a world that had always shut its gates to people like them—until now.
'So this… is what they've hoarded. What they swore we'd never touch.'
He stepped forward, unflinching beneath archways that sang with mana, as if the land itself whispered "finally."
And then they came.
Attendants—at least a dozen—approached in perfect silence. Not hurried, not subservient. They moved like dancers in formation, garbed in robes of soft silver with accents of the academy's sigil embroidered in dusk-blue.
One by one, they peeled off and approached each candidate.
The attendants bowed—not deeply, but with precision—every movement as practiced as a blade's arc.
And from behind the columned arch, Keleran emerged again, his slate-gray cloak barely disturbed by the breeze that whispered across the floating gardens. His expression was as composed as always—an elegance made of edges and restraint.
"Your attention," he said simply, and the hum of the attendants fell to stillness.
He walked to the front, stopping beside the one who had stepped forward for Lucavion. "Each of you," he began, "has earned your place here not by favor, nor fortune, but by force of will."
His gaze swept the five.
"And as such, you will be treated accordingly."
A beat.
He turned slightly, hands clasped behind his back.
"We begin with the First Rank. Lucavion."
A few attendants inclined their heads slightly deeper. Lucavion, naturally, did nothing. He simply met Keleran's gaze with a quiet amusement and the barest tilt of his head.
'Well. That's new.'
Next, Keleran's voice rang again.
"Second Rank—Caeden Roark."
The tall, quiet swordsman gave a slight bow of his own, the name of his fallen village whispered back into relevance.
"Third—Elayne Cors."
Elayne's lips pressed into a line. Not quite proud. Not quite defiant. Simply… acknowledging.
"Fourth—Mireilla Dane."
She didn't move, but her eyes lifted—cool, unblinking. The kind of grace that needed no stage.
"Fifth—Toven Vintrell."
"Just Toven," the boy added before Keleran could finish. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "Not big on the title thing."
Keleran's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
"You may call yourselves whatever you like," he said, "as long as you understand what it means."
Then, a faint nod to the surrounding attendants.
"These are your coordinators, assigned to you individually for the duration of your induction. They will manage logistics, scheduling, and assist with orientation. Tomorrow you will be fitted for your Academy attire. Basic etiquette, noble protocol, and imperial customs will follow. For today—"
He gestured outward, to the grand courtyard and the dozen buildings nestled within floating platforms.
"—you are to consider this home."
A pause.
"Rest well. You will need it."
And with that, he turned, not waiting for reply, and walked down the silver-lined path—his silhouette slowly swallowed by the garden's light.
As soon as he vanished, the air relaxed—ever so slightly.
[What a show-off], Vitaliara muttered from Lucavion's shoulder, her tail flicking with half-hearted disdain. [I've seen less performance in war councils.]
Lucavion's gaze tracked the crystalline branches above as he walked. 'Why doesn't it suit you? A floating garden, servants who bow, and everything smells like expensive guilt. This is your kind of theater.'
[It's artificial,] she answered, eyes narrowing slightly. [The trees don't grow—they hover. The flowers hum like they were built, not born. Even the wind feels curated.]
Lucavion didn't reply right away.
He glanced at the ground beneath his feet—no dust, no cracks, not even the weight of history pressing upward.
A form of art, then.
And just as that thought settled—
"Sir Lucavion," came a gentle voice beside him.
He turned, and the attendant stood at a respectful distance—no more than twenty, cloaked in silk, a tablet of light in one hand.
The attendant inclined his head once more, then gestured with a subtle sweep of the hand—graceful, unassuming, but firm in intent. "If you would follow me, Sir Lucavion," he said, his tone perfectly neutral, yet tinged with that careful reverence reserved for those newly anointed by spectacle and merit alike. "Your quarters have been prepared."
Lucavion didn't speak.
He simply nodded—just once—and followed.
The others dispersed behind him, guided in similar fashion. Mireilla's heels tapped in soft rhythm, Elayne vanished like a silk thread lost in wind, and Toven could be heard muttering something about "not touching anything that glows unless it asks first."
But Lucavion's path curved inward—deeper.
Through corridors lined with floating glyph-lights that pulsed in sequence as he passed. The walls shimmered faintly, not with reflection, but with memory—faint magical echoes embedded in the material, impressions of the past caught in flickers of light. A soft chime greeted him at each threshold, not mechanical—but organic. As though the building itself acknowledged his presence.
The attendant spoke only when needed. "These structures are carved from aether-infused marble, mined in the upper ranges of Veyrith. Responsive enchantments woven directly into the foundation allow each suite to adapt to the occupant's affinity."
Lucavion's eyes narrowed as they passed through a curved archway, the doorway unfolding before them like petals peeling open at his arrival.
The room beyond?
It could only be described as deliberate excess.
The ceiling was vaulted glass, but not glass—an illusion dome, enchanted to mimic a night sky visible only to those within. Stars wheeled above, subtly shifting with the rhythm of real constellations. The floor was soft underfoot, not rug, but animated silk that shifted hue with temperature and intent.
Crystalline interfaces floated beside the furniture, projecting lists of commands, maps of the inner ward, even a schedule for meals that could be adjusted by voice or gesture. An entire section of the suite was devoted to personal spellcraft—books that hovered in place until chosen, runic canvases that rewrote themselves with new theory the moment he thought of them.
A wall bloomed open near the far end, revealing a private bath—liquid mana suspended in a state between mist and water, giving off a faint shimmer like moonlight poured into a basin.
Even Lucavion—who had walked through noble estates, negotiated in the high halls of merchant cities, and even did rest in a Duke's house recently….
'So… this is what true magical infrastructure looks like.'
Chapter 699: Wow (2)
'So… this is what true magical infrastructure looks like.'
He ran a finger across one of the interfaces. It pulsed gently at his touch, recognizing his presence instantly. "Adjust lighting," he murmured offhandedly—and the walls responded. Shadows shifted, deepened. Another gesture and the dome above rearranged its stars into the pattern of his homeland's sky.
The attendant, still poised a few respectful steps behind Lucavion, waited until he saw the young man's gaze settle on the ambient control panel.
Then, with practiced ease, he stepped forward. "Sir Lucavion," he said, voice polished but soft, as if not to intrude upon the awe that shimmered behind Lucavion's composed expression. "Allow me to explain a few additional details about your suite."
Lucavion didn't turn, but he raised an eyebrow, giving the man permission with silence.
The attendant inclined his head slightly. "Every primary room within this ward is connected to the Sanctum's integrated service matrix. If you require nourishment, rest, restoration, entertainment, or consultation with any of the Imperial Ward's arcane liaisons, you need only speak a command aloud or direct your intent toward one of the floating interfaces."
A crystalline tablet hovered beside them, rotating softly in the air as if listening.
"For example," the attendant continued, "if you were to say, 'Evening meal—flavor profile: coastal, influence: Lorian Empire, beverage: mild,' a course would be prepared within fourteen minutes and delivered either through transport glyph or by hand."
Lucavion's lips twitched slightly. "And if I ask for something ridiculous?"
The man allowed a faint smile. "The system will offer the closest approximation and politely suggest restraint."
'Charming.' Lucavion resisted the urge to test it by requesting "phoenix egg poached in gravity-reversed wine."
The attendant continued smoothly. "Massage services are available at any hour, including rune-assisted therapy. Aetheric restoration chambers are located beneath the suite floor and can be activated through this panel here—" he pointed to a semi-translucent sphere resting on a pedestal, its surface fractured with threads of glowing script.
Lucavion approached it, noting how the artifact almost vibrated with potential.
"This," the attendant said, placing his hand carefully above it, "is a recent development from the Arcanis Mage Tower. It's called the Resonance Conductor. It's… still in testing."
Lucavion shot him a sideways look. "Testing. That's the word you choose when something explodes occasionally, yes?"
The man did not blink. "It has only done so three times in the last cycle. And none of those instances involved bodily harm. The worst case was… an unexpected musical episode."
Lucavion stared.
"Yes," the attendant clarified with the tone of someone deeply familiar with magical oddities. "The user began singing for five minutes without realizing. The room harmonized with him."
Lucavion considered this. "So it's an artifact and a duet partner."
"Precisely, sir."
The attendant reached for the Resonance Conductor again. "To use it, simply place your palm against the surface and speak your intent. Meals. Messages. Atmospheric changes. Entertainment. It will sync with your mana signature and attempt to anticipate secondary needs."
Lucavion touched the orb.
It was cool at first—then warm. Then it felt like him. The glow beneath the surface shifted into a deep indigo streaked with faint traces of silver.
The interface flared.
A soft voice chimed from the orb, smooth and faintly melodic: "Mana resonance acquired. Welcome, Lucavion Sareth. Preferences may now be spoken or projected."
He blinked once. Then murmured, "Tea. Something bitter."
A small tray shimmered into being atop a nearby platform. Steam rose in gentle spirals from an obsidian cup.
Lucavion turned back to the attendant. "...All right. I'll admit. That's impressive."
"Thank you, sir. We do our best."
"And if I need you?" he asked, sipping from the cup—his expression neutral, though the tea was exactly the level of bitterness he'd envisioned.
"You may speak into the orb: 'Attendant Request.' One of us will arrive within a minute."
Lucavion gave a slow nod and turned again toward the suite. The quiet brilliance of the dome above. The unnaturally perfect air. The little magics humming in silence.
Everything crafted to ease. To impress.
Lucavion stood in the center of the suite, cup in hand, as the last trails of steam curled upward and vanished into the air—air that smelled faintly of mana-soaked cedar and polished refinement. The Resonance Conductor pulsed quietly beside him, its light dimming now that it had fulfilled its first request.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Too perfect.
And in that silence, a thought returned—not from this world, but from another.
That other life.
The one where he had once walked beneath buzzing streetlamps instead of floating starlight domes. Where "advanced" meant voice-controlled thermostats that misheard commands half the time.
Where Bruce, just a high-schooler in 2025, had stared at prototype smart-homes with a fascination he never admitted to his classmates. They were the dream then—clean automation, ambient control, tech-assisted life.
But that was Earth.
This—this was Arcania. A world ruled by spellcraft, where most still cooked over open flames and fetched water from enchanted wells.
And yet…
He swept his gaze across the suite again—the intelligent lights, the shifting floors, the Conductor that responded to thought quite faster than maybe even normal attendants.
"So the difference isn't the tools," he mused silently. "It's who's allowed to use them."
He sipped the tea again. Just bitter enough.
The air settled around him, rich with the weight of contradiction.
Magic, here, could rebuild nations.
But it had instead built this—a palace for a fraction of a fraction. A technological marvel hidden behind a curtain of noble sigils and sanctioned bloodlines.
"...How ironic," he murmured.
[What is?] came Vitaliara's voice from his shoulder, her tone curious—not probing yet, but close.
Lucavion's smile curved slow. "Nothing important. Just…" He took another sip, eyes drifting toward the ever-shifting dome above.
"In a world that still draws carriages with mana-beasts and believes chamber pots are a noble inconvenience… someone thought this—" he gestured vaguely at the suite "—was the priority."
[It is beautiful,] she said, cautious.
"It is," he agreed. "But beauty doesn't mean justice. Or sense."
He leaned slightly on the edge of a glasslike balustrade overlooking a suspended balcony, watching illusion-birds flit across the inner ward. His voice lowered, more to himself than her.
[Vitaliara scoffed, her tail curling around his collar with a flick of amused disdain.] [You, talking about justice? Of all people?]
Lucavion let out a quiet laugh, low in his throat. "Fair."
He turned slightly, his silhouette half-lit by the dome's ambient starlight. "I'm not exactly a paragon of fairness myself." A pause. "You've seen that."
[Seen? I've lived it,] she muttered, tone dry.
He didn't argue. There was nothing to deny. He'd made choices—calculated, cold, and cruel when they needed to be. If the world was rigged, he played the rigging. If people played dirty, he learned how to bleed cleaner.
Lucavion exhaled slowly, the weight of everything finally sinking into his limbs now that stillness offered no further excuse to stay sharp. "Might as well enjoy it, then."
And with that, he moved.
Not with swagger or deliberate detachment—just a quiet, fluid motion as he returned to the center of the suite. His coat slipped off and folded itself neatly at the gesture of his hand, an enchantment responding to the flick of his wrist. His gloves followed, set down beside the Resonance Conductor, which hummed softly in acknowledgment.
He pressed his palm against the orb again. "Evening meal. Cuisine: imperial-fusion. Profile: rich, spiced. Surprise me."
The orb pulsed in response. "Meal requisitioned. Estimated time: seven minutes."
He smirked. "Of course it is."
Lucavion settled into the recliner—if it could even be called that. The chair adjusted to him with unnatural grace, contouring to the shape of his tension-worn frame like it had studied the knots in his spine and sworn to exorcise them.
He let his head rest back against the arch of the support.
Outside the dome, illusion-stars wheeled overhead. The hum of distant arcane engines filled the silence, barely audible over the sigh of enchanted wind passing through the branches of levitating gardens.
[You're going to fall asleep,] Vitaliara warned lightly from where she perched along the top of the chair.
"Probably," he murmured. "But not before I eat."
He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the comfort to settle into the gaps that battle had carved out of his body. The trial hadn't just exhausted him physically—it had drained him. Every moment of finesse, every calculation, every burn of mana and blade—paid in full by now.
And tomorrow would begin again. With etiquette. With parades. With the smiling faces of nobles who'd never scraped blood off their own shoes.
He needed time.
Time to think. To move the pieces. To plot out not just how to survive—but how to twist this whole place to his advantage.
But for tonight—
He would rest.
Because for once, the empire had offered a bed that didn't smell like borrowed power or other people's sweat.