High above the sprawling training grounds, atop one of the stone spires flanking the arena, a single presence lingered in the air like a coiled serpent.
Cecil stood with her arms folded, red hair fluttering behind her in the sharp breeze.
Her lips curved.
Not a smile.
Something sharper.
"Interesting," she murmured again.
Her eyes tracked Sora with predatory precision as he walked off the training platform, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed to the point of disrespect — yet his every step landed in perfect rhythm with the shifting mana currents of the platform.
He wasn't just strong.
He was in tune with the environment in a way she had only seen from seasoned commanders on the battlefield.
He reads the flow instinctively… without consciously perceiving it.
She replayed the spar in her mind.
His dodges were not the dodges of someone reacting.
They were the movements of someone who knew where the attacks would be.
Someone who saw the battlefield like a board.
Someone who knew every piece before the game began.
Precognition? No… too smooth. Not a power. A state of being.
The arrogance of the Dawncrest boy hadn't surprised her.
The academy was full of nobles whose bloodlines whispered entitlement into their ears.
What had surprised her—
Was Sora.
No killing intent.
No competitive drive.
No flare of ego.
He had dismantled Aric like a bored adult swatting at a noisy child.
And then walked away as though he hadn't even warmed up.
Cecil's eyes sharpened.
Ptomelus was right. If this boy ever fights seriously… he will break far more than a trial chamber.
A gust of wind swept by.
Sora didn't look up — but Cecil noticed the slightest tilt of his head.
A small, almost imperceptible acknowledgment.
He knew he was being watched.
He sensed me? At that distance? In a crowd full of mana signatures?
Her pulse quickened.
Then—
A grin finally touched her lips.
"Well then, Your Highness," she murmured into the wind, "let's see just how deep this 'infinite potential' runs."
She flickered.
Disappearing into the ether.
Leaving nothing but a whisper of mana behind.
....
Far from the civilized airways and floating spires of the Academy, beyond even the sanctioned maps of the Empire, the world twisted.
A storm of corrupted mana boiled across a ravine.
A canyon cut open by something far older than war, older than nations.
The locals called this place the Howling Maw.
The organization called it Headquarters.
Inside the canyon, buried under stone and obsidian roots, a fortress pulsed with dim red light.
Angular, jagged halls carved by unnatural claws, doors lined with runes mortals did not write.
A cloaked figure descended a spiralling staircase, the boots making no sound.
At the bottom, a vast chamber awaited, dark as pitch, lit only by a circular stone table of black marble.
Around it sat twelve silhouettes.
Their faces were concealed behind masks: bone-white, obsidian-black, metal etched with old sigils.
Together…
They were known as The Veilborn Council.
If the world learned they existed, empires would collapse overnight.
The cloaked figure approached the table and knelt.
"My Lords. I bring news from the Floating Academy."
One of the figures leaned forward, voice distorted and calm.
"Speak, Operative Nine."
The man removed his hood, revealing a scarred face and sickly pale eyes shimmering with a faint violet glow.
"The Academy has taken in a new prodigy. Young. Royalty. And… maybe problematic."
The air shifted.
Several masks turned toward him.
"Name," one demanded.
"Prince Sora. He is a fifteen year old transcendent."
The room went deathly quiet.
Even the stone seemed to stop breathing.
Finally, one of the senior voices spoke, slow and grave:
"Are you certain?" another asked, voice trembling despite the distortion enchantments.
"Yes," Operative Nine said. "And more concerning, his potential readings exceeded our projections."
"What level?"
"…Infinite."
A thunderous crack echoed as the obsidian-masked elder slammed a palm onto the table, cracking marble.
"No mortal holds infinite potential. Do not toy with us."
"Then it seems," Operative Nine said, bowing deeply, "the boy is not mortal."
A ripple of unease swept the chamber.
"Does the Academy know?" a voice whispered.
"A few." Nine nodded. "The Principal kept the matter contained. Only the Vice Principal and a handful of faculty are fully aware."
The youngest member of the Council, wearing a mask shaped like a smiling serpent, leaned back, amused.
"My, my… what luck. The academy shelters a power that could one day surpass the world's ceiling. How delightful."
"Delightful?" another hissed. "It is catastrophic. If he reaches adulthood, he will become a threat even to us."
Operative Nine bowed his head.
"There is more."
"Oh?" The Serpent Mask tilted his head. "And what revelation do you bring now, little spy?"
Nine swallowed.
"The Academy's defences are weaker than usual. The Vice Principal is away on military duty. Several instructors are scattered on frontier assignments. And the floating mana pillars are undergoing maintenance."
Silence.
Then—
A low murmur.
A shift in posture.
A dozen hungry hearts beginning to beat faster.
Finally, the obsidian mask spoke:
"…We can strike."