The Myriad School of Arts was no longer a secluded sanctuary of learning. The events of the past week had acted like a pebble dropped into a still lake, the ripples expanding far beyond the borders of the Douff Kingdom.
In the neighboring Empire of Solis, a land where cultivation was practiced with military coldness, a high-ranking Grand Inquisitor stood before a reflecting pool. The water shimmered, showing a blurred image of a young man in grey rags "stumbling" through a high-level ice technique.
"A peasant who 'stumbles' into the path of the stars?" the Inquisitor mused, his voice like dry leaves. "The Douff King is hiding something. Or perhaps, he doesn't even know what he has. Send the 'Shadow-Stalkers.' I want a hair from that boy's head. If he is the Vessel of the Scripture, the balance of the continent has just tilted."
In the lawless Neutral Territories, within the smoky dens of the "Vault of Whispers," the price for information on "The Sparrow of Buckinga" had tripled in a single night.
"The Great River Clan is offering a bounty for his 'accidental' demise," a hooded broker whispered to a group of scarred mercenaries.
"But the Merchant Conglomerate is offering double to keep him breathing. And there's a third party—anonymous—offering a King's ransom just for his dental records."
"Dental records?" a mercenary grunted.
"Why?"
"Because," the broker leaned in, "rumor has it his breath smells like the Star-Core Clover of the Ancient Era. They think he's not just a prodigy. They think he's a walking garden of forbidden resources."
Inside the Myriad School, the atmosphere had reached a boiling point. It wasn't just the students anymore; the very walls seemed to watch Vincy.
Master Hemlock was no longer just angry; he was terrified. He had spent the morning trying to wash the blue ink off his hands, only to find that the more he scrubbed, the more it seemed to glow with a faint, violet light.
"It's a curse," Hemlock whimpered, staring at his glowing palms. "The boy didn't just explode my class; he branded me. He's a demon, I tell you! A polite, stammering demon!"
Meanwhile, the Inner Court had split into factions. The "Traditionalists," led by Kaelen's supporters, were calling for Vincy to be tried for "Heretical Cultivation." The "Progressives," fascinated by Seraphina's draw, were debating whether to kidnap Vincy for "Private Research."
Back in the stables, the "Order of the Sparrow" had grown. It was no longer just ten students; it was nearly fifty. They had begun wearing grey headbands and spent their free time "practicing" falling over in hopes of achieving enlightenment.
Vincy sat in the hay, watching Grog try to teach the Dream-Eating Tapir how to play fetch with a Spirit-Sunder blade he'd found in the trash.
"Piet," Vincy whispered, his voice trembling. "The air feels... sharp. Even the birds aren't singing today."
"That's because there are four 'Shadow-Stalkers' from the Solis Empire currently perched on the roof of the library, and a Merchant Assassin disguised as a delivery boy at the gate," Piet replied, his voice devoid of its usual humor. "The storm isn't just expanding, Vincy. It's converging. Every enemy of Douff now knows your name. Every rival sect wants your bones for soup."
Piet's shimmering form appeared, looking out toward the horizon where the sun was setting in a bloody red. "You asked how I know everything? I know because the world is screaming, Vincy. They are terrified of what you are becoming. And terrified people... they tend to burn things they don't understand."
Vincy gripped his broom. "What do we do? We can't stay in the stables forever."
"No," Piet said, his violet eyes glowing with a cold, regal fire. "We can't. If the world wants to play at war, then it's time we stopped playing at being a student. Tomorrow, the school holds the 'Opening of the Secret Realm.' They think it's a test for the disciples. But for us, Vincy... it's an escape hatch."
"The Secret Realm?" Vincy asked. "Isn't that where the Grade-5 beasts live?"
"Compared to what's coming for you in this school," Piet smirked, "a Grade-5 beast is a house cat. Pack your spicy buns, boy. We're going hunting."