"I expect you," he said quietly, "to decide the fate of this academy… and eventually… the fate of this empire."
The principal stood absolutely still after delivering his revelation, as though the air itself might shatter if he moved too abruptly.
Then, slowly, he reached into his robes and withdrew a thin, rune-etched plaque shaped like a folded piece of dark glass.
"This," he said, "is your schedule."
He placed it on the desk between them.
"At the academy, these serve as both your weekly timetable and your calendar. It updates automatically with new assignments, events, evaluations, and… political expectations." There was a faint, knowing pause. "Yours may update more often than most."
Sora didn't touch it yet.
The principal exhaled, steadying himself.
"Now, for the matter of your… standing."
He folded his hands behind his back again.
"Prince Sora," he began, "you are in a position of potential far beyond what this academy, or this empire, can reasonably treat as normal." He lifted his chin. "So I am giving you an offer."
Sora waited.
The principal gestured toward the window; the floating gardens below shimmered faintly.
"As principal, I can shield your results, suppress rumours, and discreetly manage the information regarding your… manifestation. In return, I ask you for only one thing."
He met Sora's eyes.
"Do not destabilize the academy."
Sora blinked. "…That's it?"
The principal's lips pressed together. "Yes. That is the deal."
"And the warning?" Sora asked.
The principal's expression darkened.
"The warning is this: your brothers are not fools."His tone sharpened."And neither are the imperial factions who support them."
He stepped closer.
"Whatever your father believes, whatever role he invited you to play, your siblings were raised for power. They will sense your growth. They will feel the shift." His voice lowered. "And they will act."
Another beat.
"Surpass them if you must. Challenge them if you wish. But inside these walls…"He tapped a finger on his desk."…keep the peace. Even Sovereigns can bleed."
Sora tilted his head slightly at that phrase.
The principal's eyes flicked to the schedule plaque.
"Your first class begins tomorrow morning," he said. "Foundations of Arcane Theory. Room 304. Professor Arlune."He pushed the plaque forward.
"You will also meet your homeroom group, your practical instructor, and your advisor. Try to avoid terrifying them."
Sora raised a brow. "No promises."
The principal pinched the bridge of his nose. "I expected as much. You may go."
Later — Sora's Dorm Room
The door clicked shut behind him.
Quiet.
The faint glow of dusk filtered in through the enchanted window. His uniform jacket was still draped loosely over one shoulder. He tossed it onto the desk without much thought.
He set the schedule plaque down next.
It lit up instantly.
His weekly timetable unfolded into neat rows of shimmering text:
Arcane Theory
Mana Flow Control
Combat Fundamentals
Dimensional Studies
Astral Meditation
Noble Conduct & Political Etiquette(Sora stared at that one for a moment longer than the others.)
He sat on the edge of his bed and leaned back, letting his head rest against the wall.
His thoughts were… still. Calm.
Unbothered.
A Sovereign Soul, huh.
That's what they're calling it.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Genesis and Oblivion.
Creation and Uncreation.
Two forces in contradiction.
He wasn't surprised.
Not excited.
Not shaken.
Just mildly… inconvenienced.
Father is going to make this a whole ordeal, isn't he.
He shifted his leg across the other.
The principal's warning replayed in his mind.
His brothers. Imperial factions. Power struggles.
Sora exhaled slowly through his nose.
Annoying.
He lifted the schedule plaque again, scrolling through the classes.
Most seemed trivial. Some sounded mildly interesting. One or two, he suspected, might actually be entertaining.
But overall?
At least it won't be boring.
His gaze drifted to the window, the academy lights shimmering like distant stars.
If the world expected him to follow its rules…If the empire expected him to compete…
He allowed himself the faintest smirk.
They'll adjust.
He stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head, eyes half-lidded in uninterested calm.
Tomorrow would be the first real day at the academy.
And if the universe truly believed he carried a "seed of sovereignty"…well—
it could wait its turn.
.....
The academy was unusually restless that evening.
Whispers darted across halls, gliding through courtyards, clinging to walls in the form of gossip and speculation.
A prince.
A late arrival.
A beast mount that shouldn't exist.
A dorm suite more luxurious than most noble estates.
And a principal who personally escorted him.
Rumours flared like sparks in a storm.
"Is it true he arrived on a sky-scaled dire wyvern!?"
"No, no — it was a draconic griffon!"
"I heard the principal bowed to him—"
"I heard he made the principal bow."
With every retelling, Sora's legend grew.With every exaggeration, his presence became heavier, stranger, more intriguing.
And all the while—
Sora Lay on His Bed
Still awake.
Eyes half-open.
He wasn't thinking about rumours. Or politics. Or even the Sovereign Soul the principal had panicked over.
His mind drifted to one thing only:
Mana.
He lifted his hand slightly.
A faint pulse of pale gold shimmered around his fingers—gentle, silent, obedient.
And beneath it, like a shadow devouring the edges of light, curled velvety black mana, soft as smoke and cold as winter.
Two forces.
Two tides.
Two instincts that should have annihilated each other.
Yet they didn't conflict.
They simply waited.
Genesis and Oblivion, he mused. One creates. One erases. One breathes. One buries.
His fingers snapped shut, and both lights vanished.
He wasn't sure what the world expected of someone with a "Sovereign Soul," but he was fairly certain the world cared more about the concept than he did.
As long as they don't bother me, he thought lazily, shifting on the mattress, I won't bother them.
His stomach rumbled.
Right. He hadn't eaten since morning for weeks.
He didn't feel like going to the dining hall.
He tapped the small crystal on his desk.
A moment later, elegant handwriting lit across it:
Would His Highness prefer a meal delivered tonight?— Chef Armand
Sora squinted at it.
He typed back:
Soup. Something simple. No fuss.
He paused.
Then added:
And bread. Not stale.
The crystal flickered in acknowledgment.
He slid it aside and lay back again, exhaling softly.