Chapter 906: Bet baiter
"Let us make a bet."
Marisse's brow arched, suspicion and curiosity briefly threading through her expression.
"Oh?" Her tone was smooth, but the faint tightening at the corners of her eyes betrayed caution. "And what bet would that be?"
Lucavion's smirk deepened, the kind that suggested he already knew the next five moves.
"A bet," he said slowly, "where we both get what we want."
That earned a small tilt of her head, the faintest shift in posture that hinted she was listening despite herself.
"…?"
"You," Lucavion continued, "are going to pick a student for me to fight."
A faint ripple of reaction passed through the gathered crowd—some startled murmurs from the nobles, low scoffs from the commoners who recognized the provocation for what it was.
Marisse's eyes narrowed slightly, but he pressed on before she could interrupt.
"This won't be rushed. I'll give you as much time as you need—days, weeks, whatever—to choose the one you believe is best. Study them. Train them. Pick the one you find most talented."
"And then," his smirk widened just enough to bare a hint of teeth, "I'll fight them."
Marisse gave a soft, humorless laugh. "And what exactly is at stake, Lucavion? What happens if, against your own… inflated expectations, you lose?"
Lucavion's answer came without hesitation.
"I'll just drop out of the Academy."
The words struck like a bell.
Several students stiffened, the weight of the declaration sinking in almost instantly. A few nobles exchanged sharp glances, while in the back, Caeden's eyes narrowed in something between disbelief and concern.
"…Eh?" The small exclamation slipped out of more than one person in the crowd, and even Marisse's polished composure wavered for the briefest moment.
He didn't blink.
He didn't retract.
Just stood there with the same unhurried calm, as if announcing his own potential expulsion was no more consequential than noting the weather.
"You're serious?" Marisse asked at last, her voice dipping a fraction lower.
Lucavion gave a single, deliberate nod. "Completely. If I lose, I walk away, no arguments, no second chances. You can tell everyone you were right about the quota system—that I was a mistake. That'll be your proof, your neat little ribbon to tie it all together."
The murmurs swelled again—low and rapid, threading between excitement and shock. Elayne glanced at him sharply, lips parting as if to speak, but she stopped herself. Toren's hands had curled into loose fists, his expression unreadable.
Marisse's eyes searched his face for any sign of bluff, but Lucavion met her stare without flinch or falter.
"And if you win?" she asked finally, her voice sharp enough to cut the noise around them.
Lucavion's lips curved again, slow and deliberate, as if the next words had been waiting on his tongue from the start.
"If I win…" he said, drawing the pause just long enough for the attention to settle back on him, "then I get a one-time ticket from you."
Marisse's brows drew together slightly. "One-time ticket?"
"Yes," Lucavion replied, the smirk sharpening. "A one-time ticket that you are going to do a favor for me. Without questioning it."
Her smile thinned almost instantly. "No."
He tilted his head, the expression on his face half amusement, half challenge. "Scared?"
"No," she said evenly. "This simply isn't fair. Your existence in the Academy does not equal a favor from me."
"Really?" His tone carried a mock surprise, like a man humoring a faulty argument.
"Yes," she said firmly.
Lucavion gave a soft laugh, low in his throat. "Good argument. But… why are you speaking as if you'll lose? That's something you only need to consider if you can see the possibility of losing."
Her gaze narrowed, but he wasn't done.
"For instance…" his voice turned almost casual, "if dear Lucien were here, he would have already agreed."
The name left his lips with the ease of an old acquaintance, and the effect was immediate—Marisse's face twitched, a brief crack in her perfect composure.
"Oh? Did I strike a nerve?" Lucavion went on, as if testing the edge of a blade. "No need to be shy. I'm sure our illustrious crown prince wouldn't mind hearing about this little wager, though I imagine he'd have far less hesitation than you. He's quite sporting like that."
The murmurs from the crowd deepened, now tinged with intrigue at the casual way Lucavion spoke of Lucien—as if they were equals.
Marisse's smile returned, tighter than before. "You are playing a dangerous game, boy."
"Only if you think you can lose," he replied smoothly. "But… if you want everyone here to think you're refusing because of the terms, rather than the challenge…"
Her gaze flicked to the surrounding students, the weight of dozens of expectant eyes pressing in. It was one thing to dismiss a commoner—another to appear as though she was backing down from him in front of witnesses.
She exhaled through her nose, the sound quiet but sharp. "Fine. I'll accept your condition."
Lucavion's smirk turned into something a little brighter, a little more dangerous. "Excellent."
He turned slowly, letting his gaze sweep over the gathered crowd. "I'm fairly certain everyone here has witnessed this."
The agreement hung in the air, solidified by the attention of every onlooker.
Then his eyes stopped on someone in particular—black hair, sharp features, and storm-gray eyes that watched the exchange with an unreadable calm.
Lucavion raised a finger and pointed directly at him.
"Prince Adrian of the Lorian Empire," he said, voice carrying with ease. "You'd make a fine witness, wouldn't you?"
Prince Adrian's gray eyes locked onto Lucavion the moment his name was spoken.
It wasn't a heated glare—not the kind one gives to an enemy—but the sharp, deliberate look of someone who had just been pulled into a game he hadn't agreed to play.
Lucavion, of course, didn't flinch. He simply stood there, the faintest curve at the corner of his lips, as if savoring the fact that the board had shifted exactly how he wanted.
Adrian's posture didn't change, but behind that calm mask was something else—calculation, maybe even quiet irritation. The Lorian prince had been sent here under a shadow. His empire's defeat at the hands of Arcanis meant that every step he took in this Academy was under a watchful eye. He had to measure his words, his actions, everything…
One wrong move, and it wouldn't just be his reputation that suffered—it would be the perception of his empire itself.
And now Lucavion had spoken his name.
In front of everyone.
There was no walking away from that.
Lucavion's gaze didn't waver. "Wouldn't you?" he repeated, the question like a soft nudge toward the edge of a cliff.
Adrian's jaw tightened, but his voice, when it came, was steady and clear.
"…Very well."
He stepped forward just enough for the entire courtyard to hear him.
"I have witnessed the agreement between the two beneficiaries," he said, each word precise, deliberate. "I, Adrian Lorian, shall serve as witness to this wager—and I shall be fair."
The declaration carried a weight beyond the duel itself. Everyone here understood the implication: the prince of a defeated empire had just promised impartiality in a matter involving one of Arcanis's own nobles. It was a statement of integrity… and a risk.
Lucavion's smirk deepened, his tone just shy of mocking politeness.
"Much appreciated, Your Highness."
He let his gaze drift deliberately between Marisse and Adrian before stepping back, as if the scene were already decided.
The bet was struck.
The witness was named.
And the entire courtyard knew—this wasn't just a fight anymore.
It was politics with a blade.
Chapter 907: BOOM!
Marisse held his gaze for a long, silent moment, and then, with a small incline of her head, turned away.
Her departure was brisk—measured steps, robes shifting in sharp lines, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in her wake. The students who had followed her moved with her, their whispers starting almost before they cleared the archway.
Lucavion didn't linger either. His smirk faded into something more neutral, his eyes lowering as though whatever spark had lit him a moment ago had simply been switched off. Without another word, he stepped back into the dispersing crowd, his posture relaxed and unreadable.
For a moment, the yard seemed to still—students glancing between Selenne, Lucavion, and the empty space where Marisse had been, each of them cataloging the scene for later gossip.
Selenne remained in place, her gaze tracking Lucavion's retreat.
Her violet eyes caught the light, locking with his pitch-black ones for the briefest of moments when he glanced back over his shoulder. There was no heat in her expression—only the faint, assessing glint of someone who had taken note of him and filed the observation away.
Whatever she thought, she didn't speak it aloud.
She simply turned, her cloak moving in a precise arc, and addressed her group in the same calm, steady tone as before.
"Let us leave as well."
Selenne's voice was crisp, final. She pivoted smoothly, her cloak whispering against the stone as she led the group toward the archway.
The students fell in behind her, the murmurs of the courtyard dimming with each step they took away from the scene. The air felt cooler beyond the Martial Arts block, though the tension still clung faintly, like the aftertaste of strong wine.
Elara walked in silence near the rear of the group, her gaze drawn—almost unwillingly—toward the lone figure of Lucavion as he drifted into the crowd. He didn't speak to anyone. Didn't look around. He simply moved as though the confrontation had been nothing more than an idle moment in his day.
Her eyes narrowed.
Why?
Why provoke Marisse at all?
Why speak like that in front of everyone—staking himself into a wager with no hesitation?
Her mind replayed the image of him from the night before, standing at the banquet table, tossing barbed words toward the Crown Prince of Arcanis as though royal titles were just decorative flourishes to him.
And now—today—standing against a professor.
It wasn't carelessness. The way he spoke, the way he pressed until they reacted, it was… deliberate.
For what reason, though?
Her gaze lingered on his back until the crowd fully swallowed him.
Lucavion.
She let the name turn over in her mind, tasting the weight of it.
What are you trying to do?
Elara wasn't the only one watching Lucavion's disappearing figure.
Marian's eyes tracked him with open skepticism, her arms folding as she muttered under her breath, "Honestly… does he ever stop? Yesterday it was the Crown Prince, today it's a professor. Tomorrow—what? The Headmaster?"
Aurelian gave a quiet, almost humorless chuckle. "Wouldn't put it past him." His gaze was steady, calculating, but there was the faintest shake of his head. "It's like he's walking around looking for trouble to bite into."
Selphine glanced between them, her brows drawn. "No… it's not just random trouble. He doesn't waste words. Every time, he aims for people who hold power—then pushes until they show something they didn't want anyone to see." She paused, then frowned. "Still… he's exhausting to watch."
The twins, predictably, had no shortage of opinions.
Riven smirked faintly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I think he likes the sound of his own voice."
Lysa scoffed. "He likes chaos, Riven. That's different. He stirs the pot, watches everyone scramble, and somehow comes out of it looking like he planned the whole thing."
"Which he probably did," Aurelian added dryly.
Cedric, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke. His voice was low, thoughtful. "You're all missing something. He's not just provoking for fun." His gaze was fixed in the direction Lucavion had gone. "He's watching how people react. Testing them. Seeing who bites and who doesn't."
Marian gave him a sideways look. "That's one way to justify picking fights."
Cedric didn't argue, but his mouth curved faintly, almost grimly.
Cedric's gaze lingered on the path Lucavion had taken.
"He's like that indeed," he murmured.
Aurelian glanced over. "What?"
Reilan—no, Cedric—looked up, his expression smoothing into something unreadable. "Nothing," he said quickly, voice even.
"Hm… okay," Aurelian muttered, though his tone carried the weight of someone filing the moment away for later.
No one pressed further, and the group continued in silence.
The cobblestone path curved eastward, the shadow of the Martial Arts block giving way to the lighter, more open stretch of the Academy's east gardens. The sharp tang of metal and faintly sweet, herbal scents began to drift into the air—an unmistakable herald of their next destination.
Ahead, the Alchemy grounds came into view: long, low-roofed buildings flanking a central courtyard, their chimneys releasing slow curls of tinted smoke into the sky. Apprentices in protective coats moved between them, carrying crates of dried ingredients, sealed vials, and oddly-shaped apparatuses that gleamed in the sun.
Selenne didn't slow her pace. "Stay together," she instructed, her tone brisk. "The alchemists dislike interruptions."
The group followed, the earlier tension not fully dispersed, each step carrying them deeper into the mix of earthy scents, chemical sharpness, and the faint hum of active magic in the air.
The air grew thicker with every step into the Alchemy grounds—layered scents of dried roots, sharp mineral dust, and the faint metallic tang of transmuted essence weaving together into something both alien and oddly clean.
The grounds themselves stretched wider than Elara had expected. Broad, pale-stone walkways crisscrossed a sprawling courtyard, lined on either side by large, rectangular buildings with reinforced glass windows. Tall chimneys puffed threads of blue, green, and faint gold smoke into the sky, each plume curling and dissipating before it could drift too far.
Selenne stepped through the archway first, her violet cloak catching in a soft draft that carried the scent of simmering decoctions. She didn't break stride as she began to speak.
"This," she said, her voice carrying easily across the open space, "is the Alchemy block—responsible for all potion craft, elixirs, material transmutation, and reagent refinement within the Academy."
Elara's gaze swept the grounds. The buildings here were easily as large as those in the Martial Arts or Magicians' blocks, yet the cobblestone paths between them felt strangely empty. A handful of students moved about—each wearing heavy leather aprons, gloves, or enchanted goggles—but their numbers were sparse compared to the crowded training yards and lecture halls they had seen earlier.
It gave the place a sense of breathing room… though paired with the low, steady hum of distillation arrays and bubbling apparatuses behind the glass, it felt almost eerily quiet.
Selenne gestured to the nearest building, where a faint purple glow pulsed from behind the windowpanes.
"You may be wondering," she said evenly, "why there are far fewer students here than in the other blocks."
Her gaze lingered on the group for a moment, as if weighing whether to elaborate—
BOOM!
The ground shuddered beneath their feet, a deep concussive blast rolling through the courtyard. A plume of emerald-green smoke surged from the far end of the block, spiraling upward like a living thing.
Before a single ember could escape the source, glowing sigils flared to life in the air around them—thin lines of pale gold etching themselves into a dome that shimmered faintly under the sunlight. The barrier snapped into place in less than a heartbeat, the explosion's heat and shrapnel folding inward, snuffed out like a candle trapped under glass.
Selenne hadn't moved an inch.
Her cloak lay still at her sides, her posture straight, her expression unreadable—only the faint light fading from the formation stones in the courtyard suggested she had even acknowledged the blast.
The air hummed for a moment as the containment field dissipated, leaving behind the faint smell of burnt herbs and acrid minerals.
"I guess that answers our question…."
Chapter 908: BOOM ?
"I guess that answers our question…" Lucavion's voice drifted lazily from the middle of the group, his lips curling into an amused half-smile.
A quiet giggle followed—low and drawn-out, like he was genuinely entertained by the chaos.
A few heads turned toward him at once.
Selenne's gaze was among them—calm but steady, the kind that could pin someone in place without raising a word.
Lucavion, however, didn't so much as blink. His posture remained loose, his eyes fixed on the last wisps of green smoke curling into the air, as though the explosion had been nothing more than a passing curiosity.
Selenne let the silence linger for a few seconds longer before continuing, her voice returning to its usual, measured clarity.
"There are fewer alchemists compared to mages and swordsmen," she said, resuming her pace forward. "That is not a matter within the Academy's control. The truth is… very few people can even qualify to study this discipline."
Her cloak swayed as she walked, the sharp scent of alchemical herbs following the breeze between buildings.
"To be an alchemist, one must first be awakened, as any other cultivator. But awakening alone is not enough. You require a level of knowledge that will not directly improve your cultivation strength—at least not immediately. You must be willing to study, to memorize, to apply principles that are as much science as they are art."
She gestured toward a distant glass-walled chamber where a student in heavy gloves was carefully pouring a glowing liquid into a copper mold.
"And then… there is affinity. Fire affinity is a requirement. Without it, you will never properly control the delicate heating processes necessary for crafting."
Her violet eyes swept over the group, pausing for a heartbeat on Elara before continuing.
"In short—it is not a path for those seeking easy progress. It demands both cultivation strength and extensive theoretical knowledge. Without both, one cannot hope to produce superior elixirs, pills, or potions."
They passed another building where rows of cauldrons sat under glowing glyphs, steam rising in rhythmic bursts.
"And to gain that knowledge…" Selenne's voice dipped ever so slightly, "…you must experiment."
As if in perfect punctuation, somewhere farther inside the block, another muffled whump echoed, followed by a faint puff of pink smoke from an upper window.
The door to the nearest building swung open with a sharp creak, and a wave of pungent, metallic-sweet air rolled out.
A young man stepped through, brushing soot from the sleeves of a thick leather apron. His hair—probably dark brown under normal circumstances—was streaked with pale ash and a faint shimmer of gold dust. A few dark smudges marked his cheekbones, and the faint singe along the edge of his right glove told its own story.
There was something meticulous about him despite the chaos clinging to his clothes—his posture straight, his movements deliberate, as if even stepping out of the building was done with precision.
He took in the group at a glance, his brow quirking just slightly before his gaze settled on Selenne.
"Who are these people, Magister Selenne?" His voice was even, clipped, but not impolite.
Selenne met his eyes without breaking stride, inclining her head in acknowledgment. "Ah, Aldren. These are the freshmen," she said, her tone as calm as ever. "We are touring the Academy grounds."
The young man's expression softened just a touch. "Ah… I see."
Some of the students in Selenne's group had already begun whispering behind their hands, subtle glances trading between them. Elara caught the flicker of recognition in several pairs of eyes.
It wasn't his face they knew, but his name.
The moment Selenne spoke the name, a faint shift went through the group—an almost imperceptible tightening of posture, a few murmurs passing between the sharper-eared students.
But it was Selphine whose eyes lit with clear recognition. She leaned ever so slightly toward Elara, her voice pitched low enough for only their small circle to hear.
"Aldren… Caevyre," she murmured, the syllables crisp with certainty. "He's the heir to the Caevyre Alchemical Consortium—the most prestigious alchemy family in the Arcanis Empire."
Elara glanced at her. "Prestigious how?"
Selphine's lips curved faintly, though her tone remained matter-of-fact. "Prestigious as in… every major House buys from them. Their elixirs and potions are standard for the Imperial Legions. If a noble wants a rare transmutation done right, they send for the Caevyres. And," she added with a faint arch of her brow, "their vaults are said to hold formulas even the Academy doesn't have in full."
Aurelian, walking just ahead, half-turned at that. "So… we're talking about someone with more influence than most barons and counts combined."
Selphine nodded once. "Exactly. The Caevyres don't just sell goods—they control supply lines. They can raise or lower prices across half the Empire with a single shipment delay."
Riven gave a quiet whistle. "And here he is, walking around with soot on his face."
Lysa smirked faintly. "Well… experiments don't care about your family name."
Elara's gaze drifted back to Aldren. His expression was composed, his attention now on Selenne as if the rest of the group barely existed. But there was an ease in the way he stood here—inside the Alchemy block, with the scent of smoke and reagents in the air—that told her he was entirely in his element.
In the Lorian Empire, the alchemy department had never been given much prominence.
Elara remembered it well—the Royal Court there favored martial prowess and arcane might over slow, painstaking craft. Alchemists were few, their facilities modest, and the crown treated their work as a luxury rather than a pillar of national strength.
Here, though… it was different.
The scale of the grounds, the precision in the structures, the sheer volume of specialized equipment—it all spoke of serious investment. Whatever the Arcanis Empire's priorities, alchemy clearly stood much higher among them.
Aldren finally turned his attention to the gathered students, his composure softening into something more approachable.
"Well," he began, his tone even but warm, "since Magister Selenne has introduced me, I suppose it's only polite to do the rest myself."
He inclined his head in a modest bow, though the gold-dusted smudges on his hair and cheeks gave the gesture a faintly comical air. "Aldren Caevyre—third-year, Alchemy Department. And before you ask—yes, the soot is part of the uniform. No, it's not supposed to be." A faint smile tugged at his mouth, drawing a few chuckles from the group.
"Now… about this place." He gestured around them with a leather-gloved hand. "You've probably noticed it's large. In fact, it's one of the biggest blocks in the Academy. But our numbers? Never anywhere close to filling it. That's not an accident."
He gave a brief, knowing look toward the building that had recently belched green smoke. "We prefer it that way—for safety reasons. The fewer people standing too close to an active experiment, the fewer people needing a healer afterward."
There were a few nods from the more perceptive students. Aldren continued, his voice taking on a casual rhythm.
"The reason we have so much space isn't because we're spoiled—it's because every alchemist here needs a workspace that won't set off their neighbor's work if something… goes wrong. Which it will. Often."
His expression turned faintly wry. "Now, before you think we just get all this equipment and space for free, there is a condition."
He began walking a few steps ahead, motioning for the group to follow. "Since the Academy is providing such resources—space, materials, protective wards—it wouldn't be fair to other departments if we only worked for ourselves. So we don't. We're required to supply potions, elixirs, and various concoctions to other students—combat elixirs for the martial classes, focus draughts for the magicians, and yes, even basic tonics for general injuries."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "In the end, it creates a good cycle. They benefit from our work, and in return, their feedback helps us refine our craft. You'll learn more about this system when… or if… you ever step into one of our labs."
He let the words hang with a faint glint of amusement, as though he already knew most of them wouldn't.
Chapter 909: Background
Aldren's tone shifted slightly, from light to more informative, as he gestured toward the nearest row of reinforced glass windows.
"Now, you should also know… everything in this block is monitored and measured. The quality of your work here isn't judged solely on whether you succeed, but on how efficiently you use your materials, how safely you conduct your trials, and how consistently you can replicate results. That's why there are so many requirements just to apply to the Alchemy Department—minimum cultivation stage, confirmed fire affinity, foundational alchemical theory exams…"
He shrugged, a spark of humor creeping back into his voice. "In short—if you make it in, you've already proven you can survive here. Well… survive the entrance, anyway."
A few smiles flickered among the group.
"That said," he went on, "it's not all smoke and bubbling cauldrons. While we spend a lot of time in our labs, we also work closely with both combat departments. Field testing is a big part of what we do. That means we're often outside—seeing how our concoctions perform under real conditions, not just in controlled environments. Which, I'll admit, is far more exciting than staring at simmering mixtures all day."
He gave a final, easy grin. "So, if any of you ever end up in this block—whether for study or just to pick something up—I hope you enjoy your time here."
And as if the building wanted to punctuate his words—
BOOM!
A thunderous blast shook the ground, followed by a ribbon of bright orange flame curling briefly against the sky before vanishing behind the wards.
Aldren didn't even flinch. His eyes flicked toward the source, then back to the group.
"…And that," he said dryly, "is either someone inventing a groundbreaking new combustion method… or someone forgetting to remove their stir rod before adding frostvine extract."
A pause.
"Statistically speaking… it's the second one."
A couple of students snorted into their sleeves, though Elara suspected he wasn't joking.
Selenne inclined her head toward Aldren, her tone even but not without the faintest thread of genuine regard.
"Thank you, Aldren."
He gave a small nod in return, the faintest hint of a grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth, before turning back toward the building he'd emerged from. The faint scent of burnt frostvine followed in his wake as he disappeared inside, the heavy door closing behind him with a muted thud.
Selenne faced the group once more, her violet eyes sweeping over them in silent command. "Come. We have one more stop."
They fell in line behind her as she led them out of the Alchemy block, the air gradually clearing of the heady mix of herbs and metal. The cobblestone path curved northward, the sounds of distillation hums and muffled explosions fading into the distance until only the muted wind between the Academy's taller structures remained.
The next complex came into view slowly—a far quieter, almost solemn set of buildings compared to the others they'd toured. The architecture here was sharp-edged but restrained, walls inlaid with faint, glowing lines of magic that pulsed at a steady rhythm. It felt… still, yet charged, like the air before a storm.
And it was nearly empty.
Only a handful of students moved between the long halls—most in plain, fitted robes without embellishment, their hands clutching stacks of tablets, books, or crystalline tools. Compared to even the sparsely populated Alchemy block, this place was all but deserted.
Selenne slowed her pace just enough for her voice to carry without strain.
"You will notice," she said, "that there are even fewer students here than in the Alchemy Department."
Her gaze slid briefly toward the nearest rune-inscribed wall, the light catching the edges of the glyphs like fine silver.
"The reason is simple: the criteria to become a rune mage—or to work in rune research—are more difficult to meet than any other discipline in this Academy. Rune magic is fundamentally different from swordsmanship, elemental casting, or alchemical craft. It is closer in nature to the work of scholars than to direct combat."
They passed a courtyard where two students hunched over an open array etched into a slab of blackstone, adjusting the angle of a crystal with slow, deliberate precision. The glow shifted faintly, like a heartbeat under stone.
"That is why," Selenne continued, "the Scholars and Rune-Researchers are housed in the same complex. Scholars focus on the theory of magic—dissecting principles, constructing models, refining understanding. Rune-Researchers, on the other hand, take that knowledge and apply it to devices, formations, and the infrastructure you rely on every day."
She gestured subtly toward the ground beneath their feet. "For example—the cultivation rooms you've all used, or will soon. Those exist because of rune research."
There was a quiet hum of acknowledgment from a few students, their eyes drifting to the patterned grooves in the stone walkways as if seeing them differently now.
"As for the name," she said, her tone shifting to something closer to a lecture, "it comes from the origin of their craft. The first knowledge we had of such formations came from the runes of a lost civilization—fragments of symbols carved into ancient ruins, preserved when even the walls had turned to dust. From there, the work grew… and continues still."
One of the students toward the back—tall, with an almost careless tone—raised a hand slightly.
"So… if rune magic came from an ancient civilization, but what you're doing now has moved far past that… isn't there no point in still calling it 'rune' research?"
A few others murmured in agreement, eyes flicking toward the intricate glyphs carved into the hall's outer walls.
Selenne's gaze shifted to the speaker, her expression calm but unyielding. "You are not wrong. The field has evolved far beyond deciphering the original runes. What we practice now is a fusion of many disciplines—magic theory, crafting, material science, even aspects of alchemy."
She turned slightly, the sunlight catching the faint silver embroidery along the edge of her cloak.
"In fact," she continued, "the change in name has been considered for some years now. Among the younger generation of researchers—particularly those working with large-scale formations and integrated devices—a new term has been gaining traction."
Her voice carried clearly across the courtyard.
"'Magic-Engineering.'"
A few students straightened at the term, the weight of it clicking into place in their minds.
"It is not yet official," Selenne added, her tone lighter now, "but you will hear it more and more as the Academy embraces projects that require interdisciplinary work. Still, the old name remains—for tradition, and for the history it represents. Those first runes were the foundation. Without them, there would be no magic arrays, no cultivation chambers, no barrier wards protecting this Academy."
Her gaze moved deliberately over the group, as if to make sure they understood that what looked like quiet work in these halls was nothing short of essential.
The path curved northward, and soon the Rune-Researchers' halls came into view.
Even from the entrance, it was clear this was no ordinary wing of the Academy. The building's facade gleamed with inlaid silver and gold tracing the lines of ancient glyphwork, each one softly pulsing with a restrained magical light. Tall arched windows revealed glimpses of intricate mechanisms and shimmering arrays within—spinning rings of etched crystal, latticework frames humming faintly, and formation plates the size of banquet tables suspended midair.
It wasn't simply well-kept—it was eye-catching in a way that commanded attention. Every detail felt intentional, from the precise spacing of the glowing sigils along the floor to the perfectly polished brass fittings on the double doors.
Elara caught the faint murmur of awe from one of the freshmen beside her. She understood it—this was not just a department. It was a display. A statement.
Selenne didn't slow her pace. "This," she said, her voice even, "is the Rune-Research and Scholar Division. Much of what you see here is restricted. Most of you will not be allowed inside beyond the public archives."
She gestured briefly toward the great display cases lining the outer hall, where fragments of ancient stone engraved with the original runes rested under protective wards. "You will have opportunities to study the theory behind their work in your general classes. But entry into the inner research chambers requires clearance, sponsorship from a faculty member, and… a great deal of patience."
Her eyes swept over the group. "For now, there is no need to linger. We are not here to waste your time—or theirs."
The tone made it clear: this place wasn't about idle curiosity. It was about precision, purpose, and the kind of prestige that didn't bother advertising itself—because it didn't need to.
Chapter 910: Mages and Runes
They moved on, crossing a short stone bridge that connected the Rune-Researchers' halls to an adjoining structure of pale marble and deep oak—simpler in appearance, but no less refined. The Scholar's Hall bore none of the shimmering glamour of the previous department. Instead, its presence came from the quiet dignity of towering bookshelves visible through open archways, and the faint scent of parchment, ink, and candle wax drifting out into the courtyard.
"This," Selenne said, her voice still brisk, "is the Scholars' Division. They concern themselves with magical theory, historical research, and comparative studies. Their work often overlaps with the Rune-Researchers, though their focus is on the conceptual foundations rather than the construction of physical devices."
They had barely stepped inside before the group came upon a high-ceilinged discussion chamber where a handful of robed seniors stood around a table, arcane diagrams suspended in midair between them. The glowing projection shifted as one of them—an older student with pale hair tied back neatly—tapped a sigil with the tip of his wand.
"I am telling you," he said, his tone clipped but controlled, "altering the structure will destabilize the mana flow. The original cell arrangement has been tested for generations—there's no reason to change it."
Another senior, his dark hair slightly disheveled and ink stains on his fingers, shook his head sharply. "That's exactly the problem—it's been the same for generations. The mana compression rate could be improved by thirty percent if we restructure the anchor nodes and introduce a different cell beat. The current model wastes half its resonance potential."
The first gave a short, dismissive scoff. "And introduce the risk of complete collapse? Brilliant."
Selenne made no move to interrupt. In fact, she subtly motioned for her group to keep silent, her expression unreadable.
The debate carried on, terms like ley-thread harmonics, stability coefficients, and phase loop backlash passing over the freshmen like wind over stone. Even Elara, who prided herself on paying attention, could feel the intricacy of the discussion slipping just beyond her grasp.
Elara had been working under Archmage Eveline for long enough to consider herself more than competent in both spellcasting and magical theory.
Yet as the seniors volleyed back and forth, she found herself pausing on certain words, frowning faintly. Some of the terms were… alien—at least in the way they were being applied here.
A quick glance around told her she wasn't alone. Even the sharper students in the group were wearing the same politely neutral expressions, the kind you used when you didn't want to admit you were lost.
It wasn't surprising, really.
Most Awakened followed a similar foundational path. They used [Mana Accumulation Methods] to develop their cultivation base, to form and stabilize their cores. From there, they learned [Arts]—sets of techniques designed to be compatible with their chosen cultivation method. The same structure had existed for thousands of years, passed down through schools, sects, and academies alike.
But mages… mages were different.
Where close-combat cultivators tended to follow their [Arts] to the letter—channeling mana to reinforce their bodies or coat their weapons in a direct, force-driven way—mages often treated their [Arts] as a framework, not a cage.
They took the core structure and began adding to it—threading in spells they had learned elsewhere, modifying the sequence of mana circulation, altering the casting matrices entirely. Their focus wasn't on the weapon in their hand or the raw strength of a blow, but on the structure and flow of mana itself—the patterns it wove, the resonances it created.
In essence, that was the great divide.
A close-combatant could hurl mana from their core without their weapon, but it was rarely more than brute force given shape—direct, effective, but without the fine detail of magic. A mage, on the other hand, might spend weeks reworking the exact oscillation of their mana threads just to make a spell 0.5% more efficient.
She remembered this well from her own experience.
Eveline had made her do it countless times—break a spell apart until it was bare bones, then rethread it again and again until every strand of mana moved with perfect intention.
It had been tedious at first, exhausting even, but over time it had become second nature. She had developed her own habits of studying, her own ways of mapping mana flows and testing subtle variations until the result matched her vision exactly.
Up ahead, the debate between the seniors showed no signs of slowing. The pale-haired one was now tracing overlapping circles in the air, arguing about "mana beat-phase integrity," while the ink-stained one countered with "structural harmonics over phase lock stability."
Selenne made no attempt to step in, her expression almost amused.
Eventually, though, one of the seniors caught sight of the quiet line of freshmen watching from the doorway. His voice faltered. The other followed his gaze, and a faint flush rose on both their faces—half embarrassment, half the realization they had been effectively performing in front of an audience.
Selenne took the moment to speak, her tone crisp but not unkind.
"Most of you had already have learned the necessary background for such discussions—at least in theory. However, in your first semester, you will take a common course from the Magic Division. Its purpose is to give you explanations like these, in a more… structured form."
She let her gaze travel over the group, her meaning clear.
So that, next time, you wouldn't be standing there pretending to understand every word.
The students nodded in unison, a quiet ripple of acknowledgment moving through the group.
For most of them—especially those from noble houses—this was familiar ground. Magical theory, cultivation methods, the differences between combatants and mages… these were lessons drilled into them long before they had set foot in the Academy.
Selenne seemed to note their composure. With a small, decisive motion, she clapped her hands once, the sharp sound echoing faintly off the marble walls.
"That concludes our tour of the basic divisions," she said, her tone returning to its brisk, guiding cadence. "From here, we move on to the facilities."
She reached to her side and, with the ease of long habit, slipped a hand into the invisible fold of her spatial storage ring. When she withdrew it, a small, smooth sphere rested in her palm—perfectly round, its surface a deep, glassy black that caught the light like polished obsidian.
Without another word, she stepped toward the sunlight spilling in from the open courtyard and held the sphere aloft.
At once, faint threads of light began to bloom within it, like veins of gold weaving through stone. The glow brightened, steady and purposeful, as if responding to her touch, casting a soft radiance across her fingers.
The light within the sphere grew until it seemed to pulse with a steady heartbeat, a muted thrum of mana reverberating through the air. Slowly, the black surface faded away like mist, revealing an intricate projection that hovered in the space just above Selenne's hand.
At first it looked abstract—lines of gold and silver weaving together in a complex network, patches of faint blue and green shading scattered throughout. But as the threads began to shift and settle, the shapes resolved into something recognizable.
A map.
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the group as the full image came into focus—an overhead view of the Academy's sprawling grounds, rendered with precise detail. They could see the broad, rectangular Martial Arts block dominating the western side, the sweeping, towered halls of the Magicians' division to the south, the wide courtyards and reinforced structures of the Alchemy block to the east, and the smaller—but no less prominent—sections for the Rune-Researchers and Scholars in the north.
"It's… a full aerial layout," Aurelian said under his breath, leaning slightly forward.
Something that most of the students were seeing for the first time.
Chapter 911: Another one
"It's… a full aerial layout."
As Aurelian said this, similar reactions started rising from everywhere across.
"Not an ordinary one," Selenne corrected, her voice calm but carrying over their hushed curiosity. "This device is a recent development—still in the testing stage. It uses an array of runic sensors to scan the terrain from multiple points, then compiles the images into a projected topographical model."
Elara's brows rose slightly. She had seen magic used for mapping before, but never with such precision. Even the fine cobblestone paths and rows of trees lining the east gardens were visible.
Selenne let them study it for a moment, then gestured to the largest section in the center. "As you can see, the basic blocks take up the majority of the central grounds—Martial Arts, Magicians, Alchemy, Runes, and Scholars. These are the heart of the Academy, and most of your early months will be spent here."
Her fingers shifted, and the map zoomed in on the grand, many-winged structure that loomed just north of the central plaza. "This is the main Academy building. Administrative halls, archives, formal reception rooms, and certain high-security training facilities are housed here. Students do not enter without purpose."
The projection shimmered, sliding outward again until the full layout was visible. Beyond the basic divisions and main building, faint outlines suggested other areas—smaller clusters of buildings, open fields, and structures whose shapes were harder to define.
"This," Selenne continued, "is one of the first large-scale landscapes scanned by this device. The technology is being refined, but in the future, it will be used for both internal and external mapping—battlefields, excavation sites, even moving formations."
Marian tilted her head. "Impressive. And expensive."
Selenne's lips curved faintly at that, though she didn't comment. With a flick of her wrist, the light within the sphere dimmed, the map folding in on itself until the black glassy surface returned. She slipped it back into her spatial ring in one smooth motion.
"Currently," Selenne went on, "the Academy cannot provide one of these devices to each student. They are still costly to produce, and far from perfect in their function." She glanced over the group, making sure she had their attention. "However, you will each receive a standard map of the Academy grounds—most likely delivered directly to your quarters before the week is over. Study it. Knowing your way around will save you more time than you think."
There were a few quiet nods and murmurs of acknowledgment.
Without further preamble, she turned and began walking, her cloak swaying neatly with each measured step. "Follow. There's one more place you need to see today."
They crossed another stretch of flagstone path, weaving between smaller side buildings until the architecture began to change—broader structures with open fronts, more students coming and going, and a hum of purposeful activity that was different from the training yards.
At the center of this busier section rose a building that looked more like a grand pavilion than a closed hall. Tall marble pillars supported a wide roof, the archway open enough for five people to walk through side by side. A carved frieze along the top depicted various scenes—some of combat, some of crafting, others of what looked like groups traveling through forests or ruins.
"This," Selenne said as they ascended the shallow steps, "is the Mission Hall."
Inside, the space opened into a wide, airy chamber filled with movement and voices. Several long counters lined the far wall, staffed by clerks dressed in dark blue robes with silver trim. Opposite them, three massive enchanted notice boards floated, each one covered in glowing sheets of parchment suspended a few inches from their surfaces. The papers shifted gently, some with faint illustrations of landscapes or creatures, others with lists of objectives written in crisp, glowing script.
Groups of older students clustered around the boards, talking in low tones, some plucking missions from the air with a focused tap of mana and carrying them over to the counters.
Selenne led her group a short way in before halting. "From here, students accept assignments from the Academy—ranging from research requests and courier runs to monster subjugations and territory expeditions. Completion earns Academy credits, which are essential for accessing certain resources, higher-level classes, and exclusive training areas."
Her gaze moved across the freshmen. "You will not be given access to missions immediately. For now, your task is to adapt to the Academy's systems and complete your initial training."
"Missions will come later—either in your second semester or your second year," Selenne continued, her tone even, "depending entirely on your performance in the months ahead."
A few of the students exchanged quick glances, clearly trying to gauge which timeline they might fall into.
"Most of you," she added, "should expect the latter. The second year is the standard."
That drew a soft ripple of murmurs—some disappointed, others relieved. The more combat-driven among them clearly wanted to be out in the field sooner, while others were more than content to avoid danger until absolutely necessary.
"Understand this," Selenne said, her voice firm but not unkind, "missions are not work in the sense of hired jobs. They are regulated learning experiences, chosen and supervised with precision. You will be placed only in assignments that suit your ability, your training level, and your readiness to adapt under pressure."
Her violet eyes swept across the group, ensuring each student was listening. "The Academy places immense importance on your safety. These assignments are meant to challenge you and to expose you to real-world situations, but never to recklessly risk your life. That is why all missions pass through multiple levels of review before they are even posted here."
She glanced toward one of the floating notice boards, where a glowing slip depicted a sketch of a large, tusked beast beside the words: Herb Retrieval — Classified Zone B.
"Think of missions as part of your education—extensions of your classroom training into controlled field conditions. You will not only be tested on your combat ability, but also on your ability to follow instructions, work in a team, manage resources, and adapt to the unexpected. In this way, the Academy ensures you develop as cultivators, mages, and leaders—not just as fighters."
Her words seemed to settle over them like a steady weight—an unspoken reminder that the Academy's standards would not bend for anyone, regardless of background or talent.
Lucavion, standing toward the back, smirked faintly but said nothing. Elara caught the expression and wondered—not for the first time—how someone like him would handle a "controlled" environment.
Selenne gave the hall one last sweeping glance before turning on her heel. "For now," she said, "observe, remember, and prepare yourselves. When the time comes, you'll be ready—if you've done your part."
With that, she led the group back toward the sunlight spilling in through the marble archway, the murmur of the Mission Hall fading behind them.
They were halfway down the pavilion steps when another group emerged from the opposite colonnade.
Older students—judging by their bearing—moved in a tight formation behind a tall man in deep green robes. His stride was long, deliberate, and carried the air of someone used to being noticed.
His hair was silver at the temples, combed neatly back, and a gold chain clasped the front of his robe where a crest gleamed—a hawk with wings spread over a crossed staff and blade.
Elara didn't recognize the man, but the way several of Selenne's students straightened made it clear enough—he was someone with weight here.
The man's gaze landed on Selenne before anything else. He didn't smile. Didn't slow. But there was a flicker in his eyes—a look that said he'd seen her coming and decided how this would go before the first step closed the gap.
"Archmage," he said, his tone polite in form but cold in substance. "Still walking tours?"
It appeared that, Selenne's life was not easy at all…
Chapter 912: Another one (2)
"Archmage. Still walking tours?"
Selenne's expression didn't shift. "Still finding time to speak to me in passing, Marcus?"
He stopped just short of her, the students behind him fanning out slightly, their attention fixed on her with open curiosity. A few were whispering—quiet, but not quiet enough.
"…That's her. The one they—"
Marcus's lips thinned faintly, but he didn't shush them. "I hear your last lecture series ran half-empty. A shame. With your… unique status, one might expect you'd have no trouble filling a room."
"That's the loss of those who don't take the course," Selenne replied evenly.
A few of Marcus's students smirked at that, but the man himself only gave a small shake of his head, as though she'd proven some point for him. "You've always preferred your own methods."
"And you've always preferred commentary over contribution," she returned, stepping aside just enough to let him pass.
He didn't. Not immediately. Instead, he leaned a fraction closer—not enough to breach decorum, but enough for those near the front to catch the words meant for her alone. "Careful you don't mistake tolerance for respect, Selenne. The Tower's favor doesn't last forever."
She met his gaze without a blink. "Then it's fortunate I've never asked for it."
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Marcus gave a short, quiet breath that might have been a laugh—or might not have—and turned away, leading his group past her without another word.
Marcus had only taken a few more steps before his voice carried back—not raised, but pitched just enough for it to be clear this part was meant to be heard.
"Well, you've all seen her now," he said, glancing over his shoulder at the students following him. "The Archmage of Starlight. I trust the name isn't unfamiliar—given how often it comes up in the context of… exceptions."
A ripple of low amusement moved through his group. It was obvious this wasn't the first time he'd spoken about her.
From the center of his students, one figure stepped forward without hurry.
Golden hair caught the sunlight in perfect strands, and his eyes—deep, sharp, and unmistakably red—held the lazy confidence of someone born into power rather than having clawed toward it.
Lucien.
Crown Prince of Arcanis.
He looked toward Selenne with the faintest upward curve to his lips. "So," he said, his tone even but laced with interest, "she is the Archmage of Starlight."
"Yes, your highness," Marcus replied, inclining his head slightly.
Lucien gave him a sidelong glance. "Come on, you don't need to call me that."
"I just prefer it that way," Marcus answered, the deference practiced, deliberate.
Lucien's smile deepened by a fraction before his gaze shifted fully to Selenne. The weight of it was not hostile, but there was nothing casual about it either—more the look of a man measuring a piece on a board, testing how it fit into the game he already had in mind.
Lucien's gaze held on her for a moment longer before he spoke, voice smooth as polished marble.
"Archmage Selenne. I remember we have not met before."
Selenne inclined her head, the motion precise. "Indeed, student Lucien. I also recall that we have not met before."
The shift in his expression was subtle, but it was there—a faint tightening at the corner of his mouth, the glint in his red eyes sharpening by a fraction. It wasn't outrage, not yet… but the change was enough for those watching to notice.
"You…" His tone carried the start of a word meant to correct—or perhaps to warn—but it didn't finish.
Marcus's eyes cut toward her, sharp enough to feel like a second blade at her throat. "Archmage Selenne," he said, his voice cool but edged, "is there a reason you—"
"Is there a problem?" Selenne asked, raising one brow with unhurried precision.
The air seemed to pause with her words.
And no one answered.
Because it was true—within the Academy's walls, titles of court and throne had no formal weight. By rule, students were addressed by their given names or chosen forms. Protocol was for the battlefield or the banquet hall, not here.
Lucien's lips pressed into a thin line. "…"
For a split second, the two of them stood locked in the kind of silence that drew every eye and held it. Not quite challenge, not quite dismissal—just the unblinking tension of two people who had both decided they weren't the one to look away first.
Then—
"Booooh!"
The sudden, drawn-out call came from behind Selenne, loud enough to snap the moment clean in half.
Hmm?
Selenne turned slightly, and so did half the gathered students, to find the source.
Leaning with one shoulder against a pillar, black hair falling carelessly over his forehead, stood a young man whose presence seemed… off, in a way hard to define. His eyes—deep, unnatural black, so dark they seemed to drink the light—watched the scene with a kind of amused detachment.
Lucavion.
The same student who had stirred trouble with Marisse earlier.
Lucavion's gaze slid lazily from Selenne to Lucien, meeting the crown prince's sharp red eyes with unhurried ease.
Then, with a grin that was equal parts mockery and charm, he lifted a hand in a casual wave.
"Oh… it's my friend Lucien. How nice to meet you here."
The words dropped into the air like pebbles into still water—small, but enough to ripple through every ear in range.
Lucien's face twitched, the faint muscle at the corner of his mouth betraying what the rest of his polished composure tried to hide.
"Lucavion… ahem… I don't recall—"
"You don't recall us being friends?" Lucavion interrupted with exaggerated disbelief, hand pressed lightly over his chest. "Come on, don't do that to me. You're hurting my feelings."
The crowd caught the deliberate familiarity in his tone. A few students half-smiled, others looked outright scandalized, but all were listening.
It was Marcus who stepped into the gap, his eyes narrowing like a drawn bow.
"Lucavion… so you're that student."
Lucavion's grin tilted wider. "Damn… I'm famous already…"
Marcus said nothing, but the pause that followed carried the weight of his disapproval. The man's gaze was cold, assessing—as though he were already considering how best to shut this student down.
Lucavion, for his part, only looked more entertained.
Marcus's eyes narrowed further, the faintest furrow cutting between his brows.
"Indeed… you are famous," he said, his tone cool and deliberate. "But fame doesn't always bring good things with it."
Lucavion's smirk didn't budge. "Well, I like challenges quite a lot."
Marcus's mouth curved—not quite a smile, more a subtle sharpening of expression. "You will get them. Don't worry."
"I'd be happy to," Lucavion replied, tilting his head with the air of someone utterly unbothered. "Though… you might first want to have a little chat with your co-worker. Professor Marisse, was it?"
The shift in Marcus's expression was minute but noticeable—an ever-so-slight tightening at the jaw, the kind of reaction that said the name alone was enough to warrant thought.
"What?" he asked, voice dropping just a fraction, caught between suspicion and the unwillingness to admit curiosity in front of an audience.
Lucavion's grin took on a sharper edge, as if savoring the hook he'd just set.
Lucavion gave a small shrug, as if brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.
"You should ask her," he said lightly. "Not me."
Marcus's gaze lingered on him, but Lucavion didn't offer another word. Instead, he tipped his chin in an almost playful manner… and winked.
The gesture earned a faint stir in the crowd—half irritation, half reluctant amusement—but Lucavion's attention had already shifted. His black eyes, still glinting with mischief, caught on something… someone… beyond the visible exchange.
She was standing just at the edge of the gathering, almost unnoticed by the others. A young girl—slender, still as stone—her hair catching a faint shimmer of light. And her eyes…
Purple.
They met his gaze directly, unflinching, as if she'd been watching him long before he'd noticed her. No smile. No frown. Just the kind of look that didn't need words to feel deliberate.
No one else seemed to notice her. The conversation, the tension, the shifting weight of the crowd—all of it moved past her as if she were just another shadow in the corner of the courtyard.
But Lucavion saw her. And she knew he saw her.
Chapter 913: Enough
Selenne could not place him.
The boy's manner was too deliberate to be simple arrogance, too measured to be careless bravado. He moved like someone who knew exactly which threads to pluck, which fault lines to press—enough to draw eyes, enough to make others lean in without realizing it.
From the outside, it looked like pointless needling. First Marisse, now Marcus. Even Lucien himself. But the precision of it… that was what unsettled her.
He wasn't just provoking them. He was choosing them.
Her gaze flicked briefly between the three—the two professors, the crown prince—and then back to Lucavion.
Nothing. Not a tremor in his expression, not the slightest flinch in his posture. The boy's black eyes were like sealed wells; whatever moved in them didn't reach the surface.
But it was Lucien's reaction that made her pause.
Those red eyes, so often softened with polite charm in public, weren't smiling now. The weight behind them had shifted—slightly, but unmistakably. His focus on the boy wasn't that of a prince dismissing an insolent student. It was sharper. Measured. Almost… wary.
Why?
Selenne did not know this Lucavion well—only enough to note his irreverence and the faint ripple of unease it left in his wake—but something in this exchange told her she was missing more than idle gossip could supply.
In the Academy, even the boldest nobles learned early to respect the subtleties of rank. They smiled at the crown prince even when they despised him. They used "Your Highness" as both shield and dagger.
Lucavion hadn't done that.
Not out of ignorance. Not out of rebellion, either.
No—he had looked at Lucien the way one looks at another player across a board, not the way one looks at royalty.
And Lucien… had looked back the same way.
It was enough to stir a rare thing in Selenne—an unanswered question she could not yet thread into sense.
What are you playing at, boy? And why do you think you can get away with it?
Maybe he had someone backing him.
The thought slid into Selenne's mind unbidden. It would explain the way he spoke—as if there were no consequence sharp enough to touch him.
Or perhaps it wasn't protection at all. Perhaps it was overconfidence, the kind that came from strength untested by the sort of trials that left scars.
Either way, Lucavion carried himself as if the space between himself and danger was already accounted for.
And that… was rarely the mark of someone without reason.
Marcus's gaze on him had sharpened to a cold, deliberate line. Lucien's was no different, the prince's red eyes fixed like a weight meant to push an opponent into bowing whether they wished to or not.
But Lucavion didn't bow.
Instead, the atmosphere thickened as a few of the nobles behind Lucien—eager to curry favor—stepped forward.
"You should learn your place," one said, his tone all too pleased to echo the prince's unspoken displeasure.
"Addressing His Highness like that… who do you think you are?" another added, voice sharp with manufactured outrage.
A third smirked faintly, but the edge in his words was clear. "People have been expelled for less."
Lucavion only gave a small, almost lazy wave of his hand, cutting through their noise without even looking directly at them.
"I've said what needs to be said," he replied, voice smooth and final, as though the matter were already beneath him.
Then, unexpectedly, his gaze flicked to Selenne.
Just a glance—quick, unhurried—but there was something in it she couldn't quite name. Not challenge, not amusement… not even the same calculated sharpness he'd shown the others.
It was different.
She couldn't pin it down, but she made a mental note of it all the same.
Marcus's voice cut through the courtyard like a drawn blade.
"Lucavion," he said, the syllables clipped, deliberate, "you seem very eager to test the limits of your welcome here."
The hum of students around them dulled into a quieter, sharper kind of noise—the sound of people leaning closer.
Lucavion didn't flinch. Didn't straighten. His posture was the same loose, leaning ease as before, the faintest trace of a smirk still playing at his lips.
"Test the limits?" he echoed. "I thought we were supposed to explore new horizons here."
A few scattered chuckles from the commoner students broke the tension for half a beat, only for it to coil tighter again when one of the nobles stepped forward.
"You're awfully quick with your mouth for someone who's only here because of charity," the boy said, his polished crest catching the light. "Do you think the rest of us will tolerate that forever?"
Another stepped in, his tone sharper. "You insult His Highness in public and speak to your professors as though they're beneath you—how long do you think that will last?"
"Not long, I imagine," Marcus said, his eyes never leaving Lucavion. The weight in his voice wasn't raised, but it pressed into the air like an oncoming storm. "And when it ends, Lucavion, I assure you it won't be on your terms."
Lucavion's black eyes shifted briefly to Marcus, calm and unbothered.
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just harder to get rid of than you'd like."
That earned a faint ripple of disapproval—an audible breath from one noble, a muttered curse from another. One of them stepped half a pace closer, clearly ready to escalate.
"You wouldn't last two minutes in a real fight."
Lucavion's gaze slid to him, slow and deliberate, like a predator taking measure of its prey. Then he smiled—not wide, but enough to bare just a hint of teeth.
"Two minutes is generous. I only need one."
Lucavion's hand moved with lazy precision, his fingers brushing against the hilt at his hip before drawing the blade just far enough for polished steel to catch the light.
The gesture wasn't aggressive—not quite—but it was deliberate. The tip angled ever so slightly toward the noble who had spoken, as if marking him in the crowd.
"You know," Lucavion said, his tone carrying the ease of someone discussing the weather, "if you're so curious, I could let you have a taste."
He tilted the blade just enough for the light to flash along its length.
"I'm fairly confident I can match you in quickness."
A few chuckles rippled through the onlookers—mostly from the commoner students, though one or two nobles smirked despite themselves. The noble in Lucavion's sights, however, only stiffened, a flush creeping up his neck as his glare sharpened.
Before he could reply, Lucavion slid the sword back into its sheath with a soft click.
"Oh, and—" his gaze cut briefly over the noble's face, "—your fish brain seems to have forgotten what you saw yesterday."
That earned a few puzzled looks at first… until the memory seemed to settle over the crowd.
A day ago.
The sparring yard.
Lucavion's duel with Rowen—son of the Knight Commander himself.
No magic. No tricks. Just steel against steel.
And it had ended in a draw.
That alone had been enough to stir whispers. Rowen wasn't just some noble boy who happened to have a sword—he was drilled since childhood, honed by the man who commanded the empire's finest knights. Most challengers didn't last more than a minute against him.
Lucavion had lasted all the way through.
And hadn't lost.
Eyes began to drift toward Rowen now, a ripple of silent acknowledgment moving through the gathered students.
Rowen stood in the back, the sunlight catching faintly on the silver clasp of his cloak. His expression didn't change—not so much as a twitch—but the shift in the air around him was noticeable.
Without a word, he began moving.
Not toward Lucavion.
Toward Lucien.
The air between the two groups had tightened to a drawn bowstring—just waiting for one more word, one more step, to snap.
That was when a calm, clear voice cut through it.
"Enough."