Cassian hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs with an audible whuff. His hand clutched at his ribs—not broken, thankfully, but the bruising would be spectacular by morning.
"Cassian!" Amber's scream cut through the training ground murmur as she rushed toward him, her footsteps kicking up small clouds of dust.
I shouldn't have told him about the admission test, Amber realized, watching the scene unfold.
The memory played back with clinical clarity. During the admission test, Raylan's trio had been systematically hunting Rank 2 monsters—impressive for new students, less impressive for their survival instincts. When the Skeleton Knight appeared, things had deteriorated rapidly.
That particular undead had wielded its greatsword with the casual grace of someone who'd been doing it for centuries—which, technically, it had. Marcus's sneak attack had failed spectacularly; the knight caught him mid-lunge and hurled him at Raylan with enough force to send both crashing into a tree.
Then it charged Elara.
The girl had agility, Amber recalled, but not enough. She'd dodged the first overhead cleave by a hair's breadth. The second strike would have split her skull if Amber hadn't intervened—appearing from the fog like some avenging spirit and removing the knight's head with brutal efficiency.
After that, the fight became manageable. The headless undead fought on instinct rather than strategy, and the trio finished it without further casualties.
But then came the argument.
Amber claimed the greatsword—spoils of combat, perfectly reasonable by adventurer standards. Raylan's group refused, citing some convoluted logic about how they'd "initiated" the encounter. The ensuing confrontation ended with Amber retreating, outnumbered three-to-one and unwilling to escalate into serious violence over loot.
She'd mentioned it to Cassian in passing—just venting frustration at the unfairness.
And Cassian, being Cassian, Amber thought with a mixture of exasperation and resignation.
Noble pride was a fascinating affliction. It transformed reasonable people into walking liability generators.
Valen caught up to Amber as she knelt beside Cassian, already fishing through her pouches with practiced efficiency. Her fingers found a small vial—healing potion, judging by the viscous red liquid inside—and she tipped it carefully into Cassian's mouth.
The prince swallowed reflexively, grimacing at the taste. Color returned to his face almost immediately as the potion's magic accelerated cellular repair.
Why didn't I just let it go? Cassian thought hazily through the pain. Pride. Always pride. Father would say I dishonored the family by losing. Mother would say I dishonored them by fighting at all. He met Amber's eyes. At least she doesn't look disappointed. Just... tired.
Amber's head snapped toward Raylan, standing near the impromptu arena's edge with his party. Her glare could have melted steel. "What, you're still not satisfied?" she demanded, voice sharp with barely controlled anger.
Valen observed Raylan's micro-expressions—the slight tightening around his eyes, the defensive shift in his stance. Guilt mixed with defensiveness, he cataloged. He knows this looks bad but won't back down in front of witnesses.
I didn't want it to go this far, Raylan thought, frustration warring with guilt. He kept pushing. Three rounds. He wouldn't stop. What was I supposed to do—let him win out of pity? His eyes flicked to Elara, who stood slightly behind Marcus. She's the one who should be angry. She's the one who almost died.
The surrounding crowd had fallen into uncertain silence. Just moments ago they'd been cheering for Prince Cassian—who won first blood, then confidently called for more. Then Raylan stepped up, and the narrative flipped.
Main character privilege, Valen noted clinically. Not invincibility, but statistical improbability made manifest.
A sudden realization jolted through Valen's analytical calm like ice water down his spine.
Wait. This scene—
His memory pulled up fragments from the novel with uncomfortable clarity. The confrontation. The injured noble. The protagonist standing victorious while accused of going too far.
This was supposed to happen, he realized, mental gears clicking into place. This exact scenario. I'm watching a scripted event from the original story.
"Master, it's very difficult to match the original story's timeline and events from our perspective," Iris's voice chimed in his mind, carrying apologetic tones. "We made a miscalculation."
"Damn. Am I in the bad guys' camp now?" Valen muttered under his breath, quiet enough that the nearby chaos drowned him out.
From the protagonist's perspective—Raylan's point of view in the novel—this confrontation was justified. He and his party had fought the Skeleton Knight first. They'd taken the damage, used their resources. Amber's intervention, while helpful, didn't entitle her to all the spoils.
But Amber saw it differently, Valen acknowledged. Without her strike, Elara would be dead. Saving someone's life carried weight that transcended loot distribution formulas.
Two perspectives, both internally consistent, yet incompatible.
Amber's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "You think because you're the 'hero' of your little story, you can just steamroll over everyone else? She would have died without me!"
He doesn't even remember, Elara thought, hands clenched at her sides. Or he does and doesn't think it matters. The way that blade came down—I can still see it. I couldn't move fast enough. She looked at Amber's rigid posture. She moved faster than thought. And we treated her like she was in the way.
Marcus stepped forward, his expression carefully neutral—the kind of studied blankness that nobles wore when navigating political minefields. He opened his mouth to speak, then his eyes found Valen.
He stopped.
Valentine Ashford. Marcus felt the familiar weight of political calculation settle over him like armor. The cousin I barely know. The one who avoided combat trials yet demonstrated something grandfather called 'unprecedented.' He weighed options with practiced speed. I can't afford more enemies in the family. Not yet.
Interesting, Valen thought, noting the abrupt shift. In front of everyone else, he's confident, even aggressive. Now he's cautious.
The question was why. Recognition? Respect? Fear?
Political calculation, Valen decided, reading the minute tells. Marcus knows antagonizing another family line creates complications his position can't afford. The returned heir walks a knife's edge between legitimacy and suspicion.
"We should go," Marcus said quietly to his party, voice pitched to carry authority without aggression.
Raylan's jaw tightened. "We're not—"
"We're going," Marcus repeated, firmer this time. His hand landed on Raylan's shoulder with just enough pressure to convey listen to me.
The protagonist hesitated, clearly torn between pride and pragmatism. Finally, he gave a curt nod.
Smart, Valen assessed. Marcus understands when to de-escalate. Raylan's learning.
But the trio didn't leave immediately. They stood their ground, radiating silent defiance—not actively hostile, but refusing to retreat like beaten dogs.
The crowd watched with bated breath, uncertain whether violence would reignite.
Valen made his decision.
He stepped forward into the space between the two groups, his movement deliberate and unhurried. Every eye turned toward him—curiosity from some, recognition from others.
"Perhaps," Valen said, voice carrying the calm reasonableness of someone utterly unaffected by the surrounding tension, "we're all approaching this from the wrong angle."
He raised a hand gently—not silencing anyone, just requesting patience. "You three know that without Amber's intervention, Elara would have been in serious danger. That's not speculation. That's fact."
Raylan's expression hardened, but he didn't interrupt.
"Life debt carries weight," Valen continued, addressing the trio directly. "It's not about loot distribution. It's about acknowledging that someone put themselves at risk for your party member. Surely that warrants something—compensation, gratitude, recognition."
He let the words hang in the air for a moment before turning slightly toward Amber.
"That said," he added, tone shifting just enough to include her in the analysis, "claiming the entire reward might be... excessive. A middle ground exists here. One that honors both contributions."
Amber shot him a look that mixed surprise with suspicion. "Valen—"
What is he doing? Her eyes flickered with that golden glow for half a heartbeat, trying to read his intentions. No fear. No agenda I can see. Just... observation. Like he's solving one of those test questions.
Elara, who'd been silent throughout the confrontation, stepped forward. Her voice was quiet but clear. "He's right. She saved my life. I—" She swallowed, pride warring with honesty. "Thank you. I should have said that immediately."
I should have said it then, Elara thought, shame burning in her chest. In the forest. When my heart was still racing and I could barely breathe. I let Raylan speak for us and he made it about the sword.
Good, Valen thought.
Amber's expression softened fractionally, though her defensive posture remained. "I don't need the whole sword," she said finally, each word measured. "But I won't walk away empty-handed after pulling your party out of a disaster."
"Then don't," Valen interjected smoothly. "Keep something of equivalent value from what you've already earned. Consider it payment rendered for services in crisis."
He paused, then added with deliberate casualness, "In fact, if you're all interested, I have an Automaton in my dormitory, left by my senior Rock. If we can learn to operate it, it would make an excellent housekeeper."
The shift in topic was so abrupt that several people blinked in confusion.
"Automaton?" Marcus repeated, interest flickering across his features.
"Mechanical and magical constructs," Valen clarified.
Change the context, he thought. Give them something else to focus on besides wounded pride.
Amber caught on first, her sharp mind recognizing the offered exit ramp. "I might take you up on that," she said slowly. "After I help Cassian back to quarters."
Cassian, still recovering on the ground, made a sound between a groan and a laugh. "Don't... talk about me... like I'm furniture," he managed, though his attempt at dignity was somewhat undermined by his prone position.
Raylan exchanged glances with Marcus and Elara. Some unspoken communication passed between them—quick, practiced, the kind that developed between people who'd survived combat together.
"We'll come," Raylan said finally. "But we're not apologizing for defending our position."
But maybe I should, a quiet voice whispered in the back of his mind. Maybe that's what being strong actually means.
"Wasn't asking you to," Valen replied evenly.
Cassian, supported by Amber, managed to stand—though "stand" was generous. "Lean" was more accurate. He shot Valen a look that was equal parts gratitude and annoyance. "I'm not going," he muttered.
Fair enough, Valen thought.
From the shadows near the training ground's edge, a figure watched.
The wooden doppelganger adjusted its stolen spectacles with one bark-textured finger, head tilting in that distinctly inhuman way that characterized all its movements.
"How... interesting," it murmured, voice like wind through dead leaves. "I orchestrated this conflict to expose emotional volatility. Chaos breeds revelation. And yet—"
It stared at Valen's retreating form with eyes that shouldn't have been able to see.
"This one deflects. Redirects. Transforms confrontation into... cooperation?"
The doppelganger's expression—if the carved features could be called that—shifted into something approximating displeasure.
"The Chaos Heir is here," it muttered, more to itself than any listener. "Hidden among these students. Emotional extremes reveal them—rage, fear, despair. I was so close to triggering a cascade."
Its bark-fingers clenched slowly.
"Valentine Ashford," it spoke the name like tasting poison. "You are in my way."
The figure melted back into the forest shadows, leaving only the faint scent of decaying wood and crushed leaves.
Valen led the group toward his dormitory mansion—the walk gave everyone time to cool down and reassess.
Amber walked beside him, supporting Cassian, who'd insisted on accompanying them partway before returning to rest. The protagonist trio followed several paces behind, maintaining distance but not hostility.
Neutral ground established, Valen assessed. I should be safe.
"That was clever," Amber said quietly, voice pitched for Valen's ears only. "The whole 'automaton project' distraction."
"It's not a distraction," Valen corrected mildly. "I actually have an Automaton."
She studied him with sharp eyes—analytical in a way that reminded Valen uncomfortably of looking in a mirror. "You defused that whole situation without taking sides. That's either brilliant diplomacy or cowardice. Haven't decided which yet."
Though I'm leaning toward the former, she admitted to herself. Most nobles would have picked a side based on who had more power or better connections. He just... solved the problem.
"Can't it be both?" Valen replied, echoing words he'd heard Marcus use in a different context.
Amber surprised him by laughing—short, genuine, edged with exhaustion.
They reached the mansion's entrance. Cassian excused himself with muttered gratitude, heading toward his own quarters.
"Master, we should keep tabs on him," Iris whispered in his mind. "I don't like the way he left."
Valen agreed silently.
"Where are your housemates? The seniors?" Amber asked as they entered his dormitory.
"They're at the other campuses," Valen replied. "The senior who built the automaton should have left for Labyrinth Campus by now."
"Wait, there are other campuses in the Academy?" Raylan asked, genuine surprise in his voice.
Oh right. The protagonist trio weren't supposed to know about this until later.
Amber answered before Valen could respond. "Were you not briefed by any seniors?"
They won't be, Amber, Valen silently lampooned. They're protagonists.
"Come inside," he said aloud, gesturing toward the entrance. "It's almost lunch time. We can talk over the dining table."