The Novitiate Spires were a cluster of severe, hexagonal towers connected by soaring bridges of crystal and light. Each tower housed a year of students. Inside, the air was filtered, cool, and smelled of ozone and clean stone. It was a world away from the earthy damp of House Snow or the blood-and-sweat stink of the Proving Grounds.
Damian was assigned to Tower Sigma, Quartet 7-B. He pushed open the door to find a scene of instant, awkward sociology.
The room was spacious, with four identical alcoves, each with a bed, a desk, and a personal mana-lamp. By the window, bouncing on his heels, was Finn.
"Damian! Ha! I knew you made it! You vanished in the Grotto! I got my shard by hiding in a crack and letting a boar fight a Lurker! Not glorious, but hey, we're here!" His aura was a chaotic, cheerful breeze—1st Order, Rank 6, Wind (D-Grade).
In the far alcove, a massive figure was methodically unpacking a kit of worn, fur-lined leathers. The boy stood nearly seven feet tall, his shoulders broad enough to block the light. His hair was pale blond, his eyes a glacial blue. He glanced at Damian, gave a grunt that seemed to vibrate the floorboards, and went back to arranging what looked like hand-axes. Thrain. [Monarch's Gaze: Thrain. Order: 1st - Rank 9. Bloodline: Lesser Frost Giant (C-Grade). Affinity: Ice (D-Grade).]
At the desk nearest the door, a small, bird-like girl with sleek black hair and intelligent, darting eyes was already at work. She wasn't unpacking clothes; she was using a stylus of glowing energy to inscribe intricate, shimmering patterns onto the frame of her bed. Sylvia. She looked up, her gaze sharp and assessing.
"Damian Snow, Ashen Vale, dual Earth-Fire," she stated, her voice crisp. "Finn, Gale Hollow, Wind. Thrain, Icewind Peaks, Ice and brute force. I am Sylvia Veritas, from the Clockwork City of Coghaven. Rune-Scribe, B-Grade." She finished a rune with a flourish; it flared gold and settled into the wood. "Privacy and anti-eavesdropping ward. Basic courtesy. I suggest you all establish your personal boundaries quickly. The social maneuvering begins at dinner."
Her aura was a complex, geometric field of shifting silver light—1st Order, Rank 8, Rune-Scribe (B-Grade). High utility, low direct combat power, but clearly high strategic value.
Damian gave a minimal nod and moved to his assigned alcove. He placed his pack down, his mind only half on the room. The full weight of the Regulator's warning pressed on him. The deep-spectrum soul-scan at dawn. 12% risk.
As the others settled, a chime echoed through the tower. A pleasant, androgynous voice announced, "All Year One Novices, please assemble in the Grand Atrium for Class Allocation and Head Proctor's Address."
The Grand Atrium was a cathedral of light and ambition. The two hundred surviving novices stood on a floor of polished marble that swirled with captured constellations. Above, holographic displays flickered to life, listing names.
Head Proctor Valerius stood on a dais, flanked by Proctors Grond and Lyra, as well as a dozen other instructors in varied robes.
"Your performance in the Gauntlet has been graded," Valerius began, her voice echoing in the vast space. "Not just on victory, but on methodology, resilience, and latent potential. You have been sorted accordingly."
The lists finalized. Damian's eyes scanned.
CLASS S (Special): The list was short. Clarrisa Sylvanus was at the top. Below her were four other names, each radiating palpable power: a boy with a Phoenix Bloodline, a girl whose aura was a shifting mirage (Myriad Demon-kin), a hulking youth with stony skin (Earth Titan Bloodline), and a serene boy surrounded by floating water orbs.
CLASS A: Thirty names. Elite, but not monstrous. He saw several candidates who had fought impressively in the Mirror March. Sylvia's name was here.
CLASS B: His eyes found his own name. Damian Snow. He was placed squarely in the middle of the thirty. A respectable, utterly unremarkable placement for a "D/E-Grade dual affinity." Perfect camouflage.
CLASS C, D, E, F followed, down to the lowest ranks. Finn was in Class D, looking relieved. Thrain was in Class B as well, his placement likely due to raw physical power overshadowing his lower affinity grade.
"This is your starting point," Proctor Grond boomed. "Not your destiny. Advancement between classes is possible through monthly trials, contribution points, and dueling rankings. Demotion is equally possible for failure and indolence. Class dictates your resource allowance, your instructor access, and your dormitory floor. S-Class enjoys the Sky Suites. F-Class cleans the latrines."
"Your homeroom instructors will collect you now," Proctor Lyra said. "Dismissed."
As the crowd began to break into clusters, Damian felt a presence at his shoulder. It was Sylvia.
"Class B. Nice," she said, falling into step beside him as they moved toward the gathering point for their class. "Our homeroom instructor is Magus Kaelen—a 4th Order Void Scion. Theoretical specialist. He dislikes brawlers. You should speak less and observe more." She said it as a simple data transfer.
"Why tell me?" Damian asked.
"You are an unknown variable. I prefer to catalog unknowns before they affect my equations." She gave him a thin smile. "Also, I may require a deterrent at some point."
She drifted away to join the other Class A students before he could reply. Her Pragmatism was a mirror to his own, just expressed through intellect rather than violence.
The Class B group was led by a tall, gaunt man in deep purple robes that seemed to drink the light. Magus Kaelen had eyes like chips of obsidian and a voice that was dry and precise. He led them to their dormitory floor—several levels below the opulent heights of S and A-Class, but clean and functional.
"You are the median," Kaelen stated, standing before them in a common room. "The acceptable core. Your goal is not to become legends. Your goal is to become reliable, competent assets to the magical community. Do not waste my time with dreams of glory. Dismissed to your quarters. First lecture: Mana Theory, tomorrow at dawn."
The message was clear: know your place.
Back in Quartet 7-B, the dynamic had solidified. Finn was nervously chattering about the amazing S-Class students. Thrain was sharpening an axe. Sylvia was already buried in a glowing tome of runic arrays.
Damian went to his alcove and closed the simple curtain. The moment of truth was approaching. He took out the Veil-Weaver Elixir, the shimmering capsule from the cult. 88% efficacy. 12% chance of exposure.
He also had his own skills. His Soul-Sight. His Darkness core, which was attuned to silence, to hiding. Could he layer his own efforts on top of the elixir? Or would attempting to manipulate his own soul-signature during a scan trigger even more alerts?
[Weighing options…]
[Option 1: Trust the cult's tech. Accept 12% risk.]
[Option 2: Attempt to augment the elixir with personal soul-masking. Unknown risk. Potential to lower failure chance to 5% or raise it to 50%.]
[Option 3: Cause a distraction during the scan. Force a delay. High risk of drawing immediate, direct scrutiny.]
[Prompt: The scan is a threat. Threats should be neutralized or turned to advantage. Can the scan be sabotaged for others, creating chaos to hide within?]
A dark, mischievous idea formed. He couldn't sabotage the Academy's main array. But what if he could make someone else look more anomalous than him?
He looked at the small, cold phial in his inventory: Wither-Bark Sap. A substance that thrived on necrotic energy and caused soul-corrosion. If introduced into a living being's system during a soul-scan…
It would be a catastrophic event. The target would light up like a beacon of horrific corruption. All diagnostic attention would focus on them. The scan's sensitivity on everyone else might be lessened in the panic.
He needed a target. Someone disposable. Someone whose disappearance or ruin would raise no major flags.
His eyes, through the curtain, landed on Finn, who was now complaining about his D-Class latrine-cleaning duties.
No. Finn was annoying, but he was a roommate. His disappearance would be investigated here, in his immediate circle.
His gaze moved to the door. The halls were full of novices. Many from lower classes, F or E, with weak affinities, few connections. The Academy expected a certain attrition.
A cruel smile touched Damian's lips. He had a plan. He would use the cult's elixir. And he would give the Academy a bigger monster to find.
He pocketed the Wither-Bark phial and the Veil-Weaver capsule. The deep-spectrum scan would begin at dawn. He had all night to find the perfect sacrifice.
He stood, the curtain falling back behind him. The others looked up.
"Going out?" Sylvia asked, not looking from her book.
"Need some air," Damian said, his voice flat.
"Don't get lost," Thrain grunted, the most words he'd uttered all day.
Damian stepped out into the brightly lit, silent hallway of Tower Sigma. He was a student now. A Class B novice.