Chapter 897: Archmage of....
Starlight.
The power said to be born from the cold hush between constellations, older than mana yet stubbornly refusing to fit any of the old arcane taxonomies. Scholars once tried—luminos essence, cosmic qi, astral quintessence—dozens of names filed into dusty academies. None stuck. Because Starlight wasn't merely energy; it was a rumor wearing the shape of power.
It did not glow like fire-aura or crackle like storm-ether. It was quieter, and razor-clean, as if midnight itself had been distilled into motion. Those who'd brushed against it said it felt weightless in the palm but heavy in the soul—an echo of distant gravity, tugging thought outward toward infinity.
No scroll prior to the Ninth Epoch so much as footnoted the attribute. Not one bardic verse, not one marginalia scribble from half-mad court alchemists. Starlight arrived the way comets do: sudden, brilliant, and immediately bending maps around its path.
The first confirmed bearer was a sellsword who answered to many titles and one legend:
Starscourge Gerald.
The first name ever etched beside the word Starlight.
And the only one who wore it like a mantle before the world even understood what it was.
His Starlight did not gleam gold like divine blessings, nor burn red like blood-forged flame. It shimmered violet—deep, deliberate, impossibly vast. Like the color of a nebula glimpsed through a telescope not yet invented. It didn't flash to impress. It pulsed. Slow. Certain. The kind of certainty that made even archmages hesitate before drawing their next breath.
Gerald was born into dust and salt—son of a tradeswoman in the drought-torn southern belts of the continent. His village had no name on official maps, and the house he grew up in had no floor—just packed earth and the stench of old grain sacks. He was never tested for affinity. No one thought to. In a place where magic was rumor and hunger fact, children grew fast and died faster.
But even then—before stars bent to him—he moved different. He watched storms roll across dry plains and tilted his head like he was listening for something deeper than thunder.
Then, when he was fifteen, something answered.
Witnesses spoke of a night where no stars shone above the village, and yet the ground itself glowed. Gerald, thin as thread and bare-chested beneath the frost, had walked into the center of the fields where a neighbor's sons had been swallowed by a droughtfissure. He'd raised a hand. Said nothing. And violet light burst from his skin like a sun trying to remember how to rise.
The fissure closed. The boys survived. The village fled.
Gerald didn't.
By his first year in the army, he marched alone to the Lorian Empire's southern conscription line and demanded a uniform. By his second month, he was on the battlefield—not trained, not polished, but devastating. His strikes came with no element, no chant, no talisman. Just Starlight—whipping like a comet's tail from a blade too dull to deserve it. And still, his enemies fell. Not crushed. Erased. As if the cosmos themselves had redacted their existence from the world.
The generals didn't trust him. The mages whispered.
But war makes pragmatists of all skeptics.
The Arcanis front was losing ground in the border region of Eltvar. Commanders gambled. Sent Gerald. Alone.
He didn't return for three days.
When he did, his armor had melted, his blade cracked, and his expression was… blank. He carried no banners. No trophies.
Just one scroll. The war map of Eltvar.
With every enemy camp circled.
Every circle was scorched into the parchment—by starlight, they later guessed.
Within the month, the Arcanis Empire had pulled back their siege across the Eltvar Ridge. And Gerald had earned his epithet: Starscourge.
What unsettled most scholars and sovereigns alike wasn't just his meteoric rise. It was timing.
Starlight had never been recorded before him. No records, no echoes. No trace of it in ancient cultivator texts. No mythologies foreshadowing its potential. Magic in this world evolved slowly. Lineages refined methods over generations. New attributes took centuries to shape into form.
But Gerald?
Gerald appeared.
Thirty years ago.
Just thirty.
And the wars he fought in—the ones still ink-wet in national memory—were barely two decades old.
His emergence shattered expectations. Attributes weren't supposed to start with one man. They weren't supposed to bloom without lineage. And yet, here it was—cosmic, invasive, transcendent.
Starlight.
They tested his blood. His mana. His soul structure.
None of it matched any known framework. His spiritual lattice bent at angles no one had drawn. His core contained no elemental signature, no attribute resonance. It was silent. Like deep space.
And maybe that's why they feared him most.
Because what Gerald proved wasn't just that a new power had awakened—
He proved it didn't need permission.
Everyone thought it was his alone.
Starlight.
The world whispered it like myth because that's how it behaved—singular, unreplicable, bound to a man who rose from nowhere and carved his name into the annals of warfare by brute will and celestial force.
Gerald had never taken a disciple. Never taught. Never once stopped long enough to be studied.
He fought.
He won.
And then—
He vanished.
Not retired. Not entombed. Gone.
No one saw him fall. No records of burial. Just a war-torn outpost left with glassed craters and silence, and a sky that refused to show stars for three nights after. The only thing left behind was a sigil—burned into black stone. A shape no scholar could decipher.
So it was accepted: Starlight had lived and died with him. A freak mutation of magic. A cosmic gift too strange to replicate. The gods' anomaly.
Until she arrived.
Until Selenne.
She wasn't announced. No legacy. No prophecy. Just a name buried in the margins of minor academy registries—one of a hundred thousand girls enrolled across the continent. Quiet. Distant. And beneath it all…
Wrong.
Wrong in the way stars look when they move out of pattern.
Then came the Southern Incident.
A beast wave—no, a surge—from the Hollowveil Ridge. Creatures that hadn't crawled out of their subterranean dens in centuries suddenly surfaced in swarms, blanketing the farmlands in claw and shriek and shadow. Farmers fled. Cities sealed their gates. Even fortified posts near the southern reach cracked under pressure.
The Draycott family, the ruling ducal family known of the region—renowned for their archmage nurturing and crystalline formations and precise battlefield mana-weaving—reacted too slow.
Perhaps they hadn't believed the reports. Perhaps they thought the defenses would hold. Perhaps, in their arrogance, they assumed nothing could threaten their ancestral lands.
But by the time they mobilized, it was already over.
Because she had arrived first.
Selenne.
No banners. No entourage. Just a cloak of faded twilight and the weight of something far older than the southern soil.
Eyewitnesses spoke in fragments afterward. Of beasts halted mid-charge, their bodies suspended in the air like stars pinned to a frozen sky. Of violet lines—gentle, almost beautiful—drifting across the field before collapsing into blades of light that cut without movement. No gestures. No incantations. Just silence, and then obliteration.
They said she walked into the chaos like she had been waiting for it. As if each monster was a note in a forgotten melody, and she—she—was the composer come to end the song.
She didn't scream orders. She didn't call for aid.
She ended it.
When the Draycotts finally arrived, robes gilded and spells primed, they found a field coated in cooling mana and a sky returning to calm. The beasts were gone. Turned to dust. Turned to nothing.
And in the center of the stillness, Selenne stood—one hand behind her back, the other tracing quiet arcs through the air, as though cataloging something only she could see.
She did not bow to the Draycotts.
They did not question why.
And the name, Selenne, as the second user of Starlight attribute was came to known with that.
Chapter 898: Archmage of..... (2)
It didn't take long after that.
Whispers turned to headlines. Headlines to summons.
The Royal Family of Arcanis sent an envoy within the week. A formal invitation was delivered under starlit escort, carried by knights wearing veils of honor silk. Selenne was requested—no, entreated—to join the Imperial Military as an elite commander. A symbol. A force. A continuation of a legend thought lost.
She declined.
No speeches. No defiance. Just a simple refusal delivered with such quiet certainty that no one pressed her twice.
Instead, she turned toward the Magic Tower.
Not to teach. Not to lead. To study. To refine. To ascend.
For years, she remained within its spiraling halls—emerging only briefly to give obscure lectures or walk beneath the open sky when the constellations shifted. Her research broke apart established mana constructs. She rewrote whole theorems. Entire magical systems were declared obsolete after her corrections.
And then—quietly, without spectacle—
She reached 7-Star.
The announcement came from the Tower itself. Scrawled not in ink, but in glowing starlight etched into the marble above its central spire.
| "Selenne, of no house. Of no order. Henceforth recognized as Archmage."
A name without nobility. A rank earned by will alone.
The continent stirred.
Archmages were not made in decades. They were born of dynasties. Stamped in bloodlines, elevated by generations of collective effort and sanctioned by council.
But Selenne?
She had arrived from silence. From nowhere. From something the world still didn't know how to name.
And now, she stood where only six others on the continent had reached.
Not with fire.
Not with ice.
With Starlight.
Of course, the announcement did not go unchallenged.
Outrage simmered beneath the surface of every academy and noble house, rising in curt letters, whispered assemblies, and scathing publications. Because no matter how quietly it had been delivered, the meaning was deafening:
Selenne had been named Archmage at 7-Star.
Not 8.
Not at the ordained peak where archmages were forged through sanctioned ritual and council confirmation.
At seven.
It was heresy, by tradition's standards.
No exceptions. No precedents. Not even Gerald had been publicly granted the title in his lifetime—his recognition had come posthumously, long after his disappearance had shifted from scandal to myth.
And yet the Magic Tower had inscribed it across their walls in starlight as if it were truth written into the very fabric of mana.
| Selenne, of no house. Of no order. Archmage of Starlight.
The backlash came swiftly.
High Councilors demanded retraction.
Tower elders decried the proclamation as premature.
Scholars, too proud to admit they couldn't categorize her, clung to process like a drowning man clings to dogma.
Because her ascension threatened more than custom.
It threatened hierarchy.
She had not climbed the path paved by names older than kingdoms.
She had built her own road, one step at a time, while the rest of the world squinted upward wondering which lineage she'd been lifted from.
And then the old questions returned.
Was she really the first since Gerald?
Was she the continuation of something the continent had tried to bury?
The theories festered.
Some said she was his secret disciple.
Others claimed she was a vessel—a reincarnation, a living fragment left behind when Starscourge Gerald disappeared.
A few dared whisper darker things: that she was a construct, a magical echo born of his final technique, too powerful and too precise to be mortal.
After all, how else could someone walk a path no one had seen and still reach the same impossible end?
Her answer came during the only press inquiry she ever accepted.
A Tower-controlled forum, limited to ten vetted questions, broadcast across scrying mirrors in three nations.
She wore no regalia. Spoke without flourish.
And when asked—"Are you the disciple of Starscourge Gerald?"—she replied:
"No."
"I was not trained by him. I did not inherit his legacy. I am not his continuation."
"Starlight is not his alone. And it is not mine."
"It is a question the stars asked the world. Gerald answered it his way."
"Now I am answering it in mine."
That should have ended it.
But nothing that changes the world ends in silence.
And what unnerved the world most was not her refusal—it was that she meant it.
No need to cling to myth. No need to weaponize a connection to history's ghost.
She did not seek to wear Gerald's mantle.
She was weaving her own.
And the Magic Tower, ancient as it was, had seen enough.
With a unique element—one unbound by conventional affinity charts and resistant to categorization—Selenne was classified as an Archmage not solely by tradition, but by necessity.
The Tower's internal records, typically sealed behind oaths and wards, confirmed what many feared to say aloud:
Her mana output, even at 7-Star, rivaled that of seasoned 8-Star mages.
And not in fleeting bursts, but with consistency.
Her Starlight didn't overpower through brute quantity.
It overwhelmed through precision.
In controlled trials, binding spells unraveled mid-cast.
Elemental techniques lost cohesion in her presence.
Even sealed formations—tried and tested by imperial legions—shimmered unstable the moment her presence grew near.
Because Starlight did not resist.
It simply ignored.
It made sense, in hindsight, why Gerald's rise had been so meteoric. Why he'd turned tides without mass battalions, why no counterspell could cling to his movements.
He hadn't just been strong.
He'd been untouchable—because Starlight itself was resistant not to energy, but to definition.
And Selenne was no different.
So the Tower, slow as it often was, acted with rare clarity.
They invoked the Exceptional Classification Clause, a clause buried in the Tower Codex's fourth annex—a provision meant for theoretical anomalies.
And they named her Archmage.
Because if they waited for her to reach 8-Star by standard measure, the world might already be reshaped before it arrived.
But it was her next move that turned whispers into political tremors.
She announced—calmly, publicly—that she would be joining the Arcanis Academy.
Not as a guest lecturer.
Not as a consultant.
But as a professor.
The reaction was immediate.
And brutal.
The Royal Family, still sour from her earlier refusal to join the military, saw the move as a calculated slight. They issued formal protest, citing security risks and the "destabilizing presence" of a figure so historically adjacent to Gerald, the infamous Starscourge.
Council members argued it was beneath her rank.
Noble families feared she'd influence their scions—unravel long-standing cultivation doctrines that kept their bloodlines relevant.
But the Tower did not retract the appointment.
And Selenne did not argue.
She simply walked through the Academy's eastern gates one morning—
A violet shimmer trailing her cloak,
A small satchel slung over one shoulder,
No escort.
No announcement.
She entered the professor's wing like gravity itself had made room.
And now—three years later—she remains.
No scandal.
No spectacle.
Just lectures held once per constellation cycle, open to all ranks.
Attendance is voluntary.
And yet, the lecture halls are always full.
She doesn't teach incantations.
She teaches concepts.
Deconstruction.
Essence-lensing.
Mana gravity.
She's dismantling the very way people think about magic—and offering something else in its place.
Not a system.
A question.
The same question Gerald once answered in fire and war.
But now, offered softly—like starlight itself—
through parchment, chalk, and a voice that doesn't demand attention, only dares you to look further.
To most, she is Professor Selenne.
But to the ones who listen—
The ones who feel their spells falter when she walks past,
Who dream of nebulae after leaving her class,
Who trace the sigil on the Tower walls when no one is looking—
She is something else.
The Archmage of Starlight.
"That is all I would say about her."
Selphine briefing ended just like that.
'Such a woman….'
And Elara could only respect someone like that….
Chapter 899: Orient
Selphine's last words hung in the air like the final chord of a song no one quite wanted to end.
For a moment, no one spoke. The misted cobblestone path between them seemed to hold its breath. Even Aurelian, who usually broke silences with some sharp little barb, let it stand.
Then—
"Wait, what?"
It was the twins. Both at once, of course—though one's voice pitched upward in disbelief while the other's dropped lower, like they were splitting the reaction between them.
"You're telling me," the first said, eyes flicking between Selphine and Elara, "that our Professor Selenne—"
"—the one who wears that plain little twilight cloak like she bought it from a traveling peddler—" the other added.
"—is that Selenne?"
Their tone made it sound almost like a conspiracy.
Marian leaned forward slightly, her braid shifting over one shoulder. "You mean to say she's an Archmage? The Archmage of Starlight? And no one thought to mention this?"
"I just did," Selphine replied, dry as frost.
The twins exchanged a look—one of those perfectly mirrored glances that carried the full spectrum of sibling outrage. "You can't just drop that into casual conversation like it's the weather."
"She did," Aurelian murmured, clearly amused.
Elara kept her expression mild, but inwardly she traced Selphine's story again, slotting its details against the fragments Eveline had once let slip. So that's the measure of her… No wonder the air changes when she enters a hall.
"Why's it never in the Academy's announcements?" Marian asked. "I mean, if she's that famous—"
Marian's brows knit slightly, her voice dipping lower. "Still… why wouldn't the Academy broadcast something like that? You'd think they'd have her name etched across the east gate by now."
"That's the part I don't get either," the quieter twin said, his tone almost conspiratorial. "If she's such a legend, why keep it quiet?"
"Maybe they can't," the other twin offered. "Maybe there's some political reason—"
Aurelian gave a faint huff. "Or maybe she just doesn't care."
Marian tilted her head. "Not caring is one thing, but keeping an Archmage's identity under wraps? That feels… deliberate."
They might have spiraled deeper into speculation—layering theory over theory, voices edging toward a mix of awe and intrigue—but the conversation died the moment the air shifted.
Not the weather. Not mana.
Selenne's eyes.
She had turned her head just enough for her gaze to cut across them, steady and unblinking. No raised voice, no gesture, no need for theatrics—just a glance, razor-sharp and impossibly calm. The kind that didn't need to say silence, because it was already there.
The twins shut their mouths in perfect synchrony. Marian straightened slightly, hands folding behind her back. Even Dellen, who could talk through a landslide, let the last word in his throat dissolve.
Without breaking stride, Selenne faced forward again.
And that was when the view opened.
The mist gave way to a vast, sunlit expanse—a campus so large it felt like a city hidden inside the Academy's walls.
Their path fed into a wide stone avenue lined with banners, each thread woven with faintly glowing sigils. At the far center, rising above all else, stood the main lecture hall—a towering circular structure crowned with a spire of silversteel. Threads of light ran along its surface, converging on the highest point like rivers flowing toward the same sea.
The sunlight caught in the silversteel spire, scattering faint arcs of color over the crowd as Selenne's voice rose—clear, even, and pitched just enough to carry over the hum of dozens of footsteps.
"This," she said, her gaze sweeping across the gathered first-years, "is the heart of the Academy's instruction. The central lecture hall—most of your foundational classes will be here, regardless of department. History, theory, cross-discipline mana studies… anything that does not require your specialization's facilities will be taught within these walls."
Her cloak shifted as she raised a hand toward the sprawling ring of structures beyond. "The Academy is divided into dedicated sectors. To the west—" she indicated a low fortress of black stone, its surface marked with the faint impact scars of countless training bouts— "are the Close Combatants' halls. Physical cultivators, martial specialists, anyone whose primary discipline is grounded in bodywork and direct engagement."
Somewhere in the crowd, a student with shoulders like a brick wall grinned, clearly pleased with his placement.
"To the east," she continued, pointing to a cluster of elegant spires capped with slow-turning crystal prisms, "is the Magicians' wing. Elementalists, enchanters, and structured spellcasters work here. You will see the prism arrays refracting both sunlight and spelllight—they stabilize ambient mana flows for certain high-output techniques."
Several heads tilted upward, following the prisms' lazy rotation.
"North-east of the main hall are the Rune Researchers," she said, indicating a latticework of slender towers etched with runes that shimmered in and out of sight. "They handle glyphwork, formation studies, and all things that bind magic into physical permanence."
Her hand shifted southward. "There—Alchemists. You'll know their block by the colors in the steam. Try not to breathe deeply when the vapors run green. Their refining labs are extensive, and yes," her eyes flicked to a cluster of students already whispering, "accidents do happen."
Finally, she gestured toward a serene set of marble halls, their copper roofs gleaming. "And the Scholars' quarter. Archives, research offices, and the lecture theaters for advanced theoretical work. If you're looking for silence, you may find it there… or you may find an argument about the definition of silence itself. Proceed with caution."
A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the group.
Selenne let her hand fall back to her side. "Now—questions."
Hands shot up from all over the gathered students, not just Elara's group but clusters from other dormitories as well. Somewhere off to the left, Lucavion stood with his own contingent—posture easy, eyes half-lidded, though Elara noted the subtle way his attention fixed on Selenne.
A boy from another block spoke first. "Professor—are the facilities open to everyone, or only to their department members?"
"You may request supervised access outside your department," Selenne replied without pause. "Approval depends on merit, not whim. Do not expect to stroll into the Rune towers because you 'feel like learning something new.'"
Another student—a girl with an alchemist's belt already strapped at her hip—called out, "Is it true the Scholars' quarter has texts from the First Epoch?"
"Yes. And no, you may not read them until your instructor clears you."
More hands. "How often do we train with students from other departments?"
"As often as the curriculum demands, and more often if you prove worth pairing with."
Each question was answered in the same unhurried cadence—never clipped, but never indulgent. Even the more ridiculous queries ("Are the floating rocks near the Rune towers dangerous?") received a factual reply.
"They are contained phenomena. Unless you actively provoke them, they will not fall on you."
That earned a few nervous chuckles.
Elara listened without speaking, her gaze drifting briefly across the crowd—catching Lucavion's profile, Aurelian's quiet smirk, the twins' darting eyes as they tried to absorb everything at once. All these moving parts, she thought. And only one center to the web.
Chapter 900: Orient (2)
Selenne's cloak swayed with the shift of her stride as she led them forward, the sea of first-years flowing after her like a tide drawn toward the center spire.
The main lecture hall's great doors loomed ahead—arched silversteel frames inlaid with strips of crystal that pulsed faintly, as though acknowledging their approach. When they opened, it was not with the groan of hinges, but a soft glide, mana-fed and soundless.
Inside, the scale was even more staggering.
The central atrium rose several floors high, the ceiling a dome of etched glass that filtered sunlight into rippling patterns across polished marble. Wide corridors radiated outward like spokes, each marked with suspended glyph-plaques indicating the wings they led to.
Selenne slowed only slightly, enough for her voice to carry. "This hall will be your second home—if you are wise enough to use it well."
She lifted one hand toward the leftmost corridor. "Student Affairs—applications, course adjustments, dormitory petitions, and the unfortunate but necessary bureaucracies that keep this place functional."
A few students chuckled; others already wore the faintly grim expressions of those imagining long waits in line.
"The Disciplinary Committee," she continued, indicating an imposing set of darkwood doors farther along the same hall, "is exactly what it sounds like. If you stand before them, you have likely made a poor decision. They are efficient. They are thorough. And they do not care whose child you are."
That last line carried a subtle weight—enough to still a few murmurs from the back of the group.
Selenne turned slightly, her gesture sweeping to the opposite wing. "The Student Council offices are there. They oversee interdepartmental events, represent student interests before the faculty, and manage certain privileges. You will not find them here today—they are attending a summit in Virellen Province—but you will meet them soon enough."
At that, a few heads tilted with interest. Elara caught the twins exchanging quick glances, no doubt already imagining what sort of people claimed such authority. Marian seemed thoughtful, weighing the idea more than the spectacle.
"Beyond that," Selenne said, letting her gaze pass deliberately over the crowd, "you will discover the rest in time. Part of your education here will be learning to navigate without a hand always pointing the way. This place is large enough to lose yourself in—metaphorically or otherwise."
From somewhere near Lucavion's group, a student muttered, "Otherwise?"
Selenne didn't pause. "The wards keep you safe from most accidents. Most."
The implication settled into a silence broken only by the soft echo of their steps as she moved them toward the inner lecture chambers. The air here felt subtly different—charged, but not in the volatile way of combat halls. More like standing in the quiet before a storm, when all the currents are waiting for the first strike of lightning.
Their footsteps carried them deeper into the main building until the wide corridors opened into a series of vast lecture halls.
Tiered seating curled around open platforms, chalkboards and mana-screens standing side by side. In several, the doors were cracked just enough for voices to leak out—measured cadences of professors mid-lecture, punctuated by the faint rustle of pages and the soft thrum of spell demonstrations.
Selenne didn't linger. "These," she said simply, "are where you will spend much of your time. Observe them later. Today, you only need to know where they are."
They moved on, her pace unbroken.
Within minutes, the procession spilled back into sunlight, crossing a long stone bridge that arched over a slow-moving channel of water. Beyond it, the campus shifted—its ordered geometry loosening into clusters of buildings shaped for very different purposes.
"This," Selenne announced as they entered, "is the Magicians' department."
The first structure loomed ahead—its walls etched with layer upon layer of runes, glowing faintly with residual wards. To one side, a broad training ground stretched out, its air shimmering with heat from a controlled firestorm.
"Here, offensive magic is honed," Selenne continued, her hand sweeping across the array of open courts. In one, mechanical constructs—nothing more than articulated frames of steel and crystal—were being struck by bolts of lightning, their limbs jerking and twisting under the force. In another, a tiered formation of floating orbs launched waves of flame at an empty target square, each burst intercepted by a rotating barrier of ice.
Farther along, an enclosed yard held the defensive training arrays—half-domes of energy rising and falling in sequence, each tinted to the color of the element they resisted. Students there stood behind the shimmering barriers, testing their strength against conjured blasts from automated arrays that fired in precise, punishing intervals.
"Practice is split between field application and controlled environment," Selenne explained. "Both are necessary. One tempers your technique; the other tempers your mind."
To the rear of the grounds stood a tall, austere hall lined with windows—the Theory Wing. Its entrance faced another set of buildings that shared the same pale stone but lacked the aura of active casting.
"That," Selenne said, nodding toward them, "is the Scholars' annex. Many scholars specialize in magic theory but lack the necessary affinity or constitution to wield it themselves. Their work informs what Magicians do here—and often, it corrects it."
Elara's eyes traced the proximity between the two—how easily a student could leave a heated training bout and walk straight into a hall of research. Close enough to share knowledge, she thought, and close enough for tension.
Somewhere off to her right, one of the twins muttered, "So basically the smart ones and the flashy ones live side by side."
The other snorted. "Guess which one we are."
Selenne's head tilted the barest fraction—just enough to make both twins glance away quickly.
Aurelian gave a low hum behind Elara, his voice pitched just enough for their group to hear.
"Well, that explains why the Scholars always look like they're judging you when you walk past. They're probably calculating how many mistakes you're making in real time."
Selphine didn't even look at him. "They don't need to calculate. For some people, the number is constant."
Marian let out a small laugh, the sound soft but genuine. "Still… having them so close to the training fields must make collaboration easier. If they can actually get along, that is."
"They usually can't," Selenne said, not breaking stride. The response was so even, so factual, that it drew a small ripple of chuckles from the students close enough to catch it.
She led them past another set of practice yards until the architecture shifted again. Here, the buildings were smaller, their walls less adorned but their doors marked with embossed sigils of faculty rank.
"This," Selenne said, gesturing toward the long arc of connected structures, "is the Professors' wing. Each department's senior staff keep offices here, along with archives and secured storage for research. My own office," she added without flourish, "is in the northernmost tower. If you must find me outside class, that is where you will knock. Once."
Aurelian's brows lifted slightly at the unspoken warning in her tone. Elara caught the faint smirk tugging at his mouth, but for once he didn't test it aloud.
They moved on, cutting across a shaded colonnade that opened into a quieter courtyard. Low, uniform buildings ringed the space, their doors spaced evenly apart and marked only by small number plates.
"These," Selenne said, "are cultivation rooms. You will use them to refine your mana control, strengthen your core, and, for some of you, to remember how to sit still for more than a minute."
That last remark earned a muted groan from somewhere in the twins' direction.
"There are many such rooms throughout the Academy," she went on, "but they are not all equal. Higher-density mana chambers, specialized elemental environments, or rooms with enhanced time dilation—those are reserved for upper-ranked students and those who have demonstrated consistent performance."
Marian raised a hand slightly. "Performance in classwork, or…?"
"Both," Selenne replied. "Academic excellence and practical skill are weighed together. This is not a place where brilliance in one will excuse mediocrity in the other."
Selphine's voice was quiet but edged with amusement. "So no coasting on talent, then."
"Not if you wish to stay here long," Selenne said. Her eyes swept the gathered faces, sharp but not unkind. "Merit earns opportunity. That is the simplest law you will learn here."
Chapter 901: Expression
The path curved toward a wide, open training ground—and the air changed before they even reached it. The muffled thuds of spell impact grew clearer, undercut by the low hum of dense mana currents at work.
When they stepped past the archway, the sight drew more than a few gasps.
A group of senior mages were mid-session, their formations wide and precise. A wall of living water, easily twice a man's height, surged forward—only to be sliced apart by a jagged arc of flame so intense that the very air rippled around it. Another team followed up, lances of lightning threading through the mist with pinpoint accuracy, striking target constructs until they shattered into harmless shards of crystal.
One of the twins let out a low whistle. "That's… not beginner-level."
Selenne's voice came, even and unhurried. "These are upper-year Magicians. What you see here is the result of years of refinement. Each strike is deliberate. Each defense calculated. You will not reach this standard by simply learning spells—you will reach it by understanding why they work."
She gestured toward the training grounds beyond, where buildings stood in orderly rows, their walls and rooftops painted or tiled in the hues of their elements—deep crimson for fire, rich cerulean for water, pale stone for earth, bright silver for wind.
"The Magicians' block is divided into elemental specializations. These you see—fire, water, earth, and wind—are the general elements, the ones most prevalent among practitioners. Each has its own facilities for study and training."
Her hand shifted slightly toward a smaller set of structures apart from the main cluster, their designs less uniform, colors and sigils mismatched. "Rare elements—lightning, shadow, ice, and others—hold their own buildings. They are fewer in number, but their studies are no less demanding."
Aurelian gave a quiet chuckle. "Looks like the rare ones don't care about matching paint."
Selphine's reply was immediate. "Or they're too busy working to bother with it."
Selenne, as ever, didn't break stride. "Remember what you see here, and remember that those training now were once where you stand. They reached this point through discipline and application. No more, no less."
The tour pressed on, leaving behind the shimmer of wards and the bright spectacle of elemental magic.
The path to the next sector narrowed, passing between high walls until the soundscape shifted—less crackle and rush, more sharp impacts and the rhythm of movement. The scent of scorched mana gave way to the cleaner tang of oiled leather and tempered steel.
Selenne's steps slowed just enough for her voice to carry evenly over the dull thud of fists on training dummies and the clang of steel meeting steel.
"This," she said, sweeping her gaze across the open yards, "is the Martial Arts block. Officially, the Academy still files it under Close Combatants, but that is a poor descriptor. This discipline is not limited to blades and fists—it is the study of applying one's body, weapon, and will in unison, whether the range is a single pace or several."
The sector spread before them in disciplined order. Sparring rings, each marked by white chalk lines, dotted the wide yard. Some were occupied by pairs trading rapid blows, their strikes flowing with a practiced precision that spoke of years under drill. Others trained with weapons—spears spinning in tight arcs, greatswords driving into heavy dummies that shuddered with each impact.
A separate, smaller platform held archers and thrown-weapon specialists. They worked in near silence, save for the hiss of arrows slicing the air and the sharp thock as they struck their targets dead-center.
Several seniors caught the first-years' attention immediately. Their frames were far more solid than the magicians they had just left behind—shoulders squared, muscles honed not for show but for function. Still, it wasn't the exaggerated bulk of dockside strongmen; most carried themselves with a lean, coiled readiness, the kind of strength built for sudden speed. Only a few—towering figures whose biceps strained against sleeveless tunics—bore the kind of overdeveloped muscle that marked certain… specialists.
"Notice the difference," Selenne continued. "A magician relies on range, manipulation, and control of the field. A martial artist must be the field—occupy space in such a way that it denies the opponent every advantage. Here, your weapon is as much your stance as it is steel or wood."
Elara's gaze drifted toward the sparring rings almost without thinking, following the rhythm of movement—the heavy step, the quick pivot, the clean, decisive strike that made the white chalk lines mean something.
And there, beside her, Cedric stood very still.
Not rigid, not in awe—just still in that deliberate way she'd seen before, the kind of focus that latched onto a scene and refused to let go. His eyes tracked the seniors like he was memorizing every exchange. Every shift in balance. Every small tell before a strike landed.
'Of course…' she thought, the corner of her mouth tilting in something between resignation and certainty. 'If there's anywhere he'll stake his claim here, it's in this yard.'
The look suited him—like the tension in his shoulders had eased simply by standing in the presence of movement honed to a blade's edge.
She turned her head slightly, more out of habit than curiosity, scanning the line of their group until her eyes found Lucavion.
Sure enough—his were smiling. Not the flippant smirk he threw at people just to watch them fluster, not the half-lazy charm he wore like a second skin. This was quieter. Sharper.
He leaned forward a fraction, enough for the light to catch on the edge of his grin, and she saw it—the same spark she'd glimpsed once before, when a conversation had veered too close to duels and swords and things that cut cleanly.
'Sword-drunk,' she thought, almost dryly. 'Completely gone for it.'
It wasn't a surprise. Not really. She'd suspected from the moment she saw Luca in the Stormhaven….
Lucavion in Stormhaven.
How easily he'd slipped into the rhythm of a fight that wasn't even necessary, cutting down threats with that unrestrained ease, the way other people might stretch their arms after sitting too long.
Lucavion liked to swing his sword freely. It wasn't about blood or glory—at least, not in the way most duelists craved. No, his satisfaction seemed to come from the act itself. The perfect arc. The clean follow-through. The whisper of steel as it obeyed.
And yesterday, in the banquet, she'd seen it again—clearer, sharper—when he'd faced Rowen in that pure test of swordsmanship. No spells. No tricks. Just blade against blade. He hadn't been smiling then in the careless way that so often disarmed people. He'd been alive in a way she doubted he knew how to be anywhere else.
She'd watched his eyes the entire time. That flicker—not just hunger, but reverence. Like each clash was a conversation only the two of them could hear, and every parry was an answer worth savoring.
Her thoughts stayed on him long enough that she didn't notice Cedric's gaze had also shifted—not toward the seniors sparring, but toward Lucavion.
He was watching him with… something.
Not disdain. Not exactly suspicion. But not admiration, either. It was quieter, heavier. The kind of look that came from assessing weight and balance—not of the sword in someone's hand, but of the person holding it.
His expression was… hard to name.
Chapter 902: In school politics
Selenne's voice cut cleanly through the steady rhythm of strikes ringing across the yard.
"Just as the Magicians' block is divided by elemental specialization, the Close Combatant sector is organized by weapon discipline. The general weapons—swords, spears, axes, bows—each have their own dedicated buildings."
She gestured with a gloved hand toward the line of structures beyond the sparring rings. From here, Elara could make out the signs hung over each arched doorway—etched and gilded in the stylized script of the Academy. Sword Hall. Spear Hall. Axe Yard. Archery Range. Farther down, a darker wood structure bore the emblem of twin daggers crossing, while another, smaller wing carried the curved sigil of polearms.
"The less common disciplines—niche weapons or hybrid forms—are grouped together at the far end of the sector," Selenne continued. "Not because they are lesser, but because their training methods require more adaptable facilities."
Elara's eyes flicked over the signs again. She didn't come here often—not since she'd arrived under her new name. She could name the halls easily enough, but she didn't have the kind of insight into them that she had for the magic blocks. She knew only the broad strokes.
"There are reserved training grounds here as well," Selenne added, her tone matter-of-fact. "Cultivation rooms, too—scaled for the needs of martial artists rather than magicians. They are in constant demand, and access is earned the same way everywhere else in the Academy: performance and merit."
She let that sink in before turning, her cloak sweeping in a measured arc as she led the group back toward the archway.
"Follow," she said simply. And without waiting for stragglers, she guided them out of the Martial Arts block, the sounds of clashing steel and short, disciplined shouts fading behind them.
They were nearly through the last archway when movement caught Elara's eye—a stream of figures emerging from the opposite path, their pace steady, their chatter carrying in brief bursts. Another freshman group.
From the looks of it, their tour had been running parallel to theirs, just through a different sector. The cut of their uniforms was the same, though Elara recognized none of the faces. At the front walked a woman perhaps in her early thirties, her stride sure and unhurried.
The aura around her prickled faintly—not as sharp as Selenne's, but definitely there. Mage, Elara guessed. The measured weight of her mana suggested someone practiced in precision rather than brute force, though without the cold, suspended gravity that Starlight carried.
The two groups drew up before each other almost naturally, bottlenecking where the path narrowed. A few curious glances passed between the students, the quiet appraisal that happened whenever strangers of the same rank sized each other up.
Selenne did not slow. Her eyes flicked over the other guide once, no more than a passing acknowledgment, and she shifted her stance as if to continue on without pause.
But the woman in front of the other group broke into a smile—not the polite sort exchanged between colleagues, but one edged with familiarity.
"Oh, it is mighty Miss Selenne," she said, her tone deliberately carrying over both groups. "Now doesn't even consider us humans anymore."
Selenne's steps slowed—not halted, merely reined in. A subtle shift of weight on her back foot, her cloak settling against her sides as she turned her head just enough to meet the woman's gaze.
"Marisse," she said, the name carrying no flourish, no particular inflection. Only recognition. "I thought it better not to delay your students. Time here is… best not squandered."
The other woman's smile sharpened, though it never reached her eyes. She moved forward a fraction, enough for the lamplight filtering through the archway to catch on the faint embroidery at her cuffs—storm-gray thread on deep indigo, the mark of the Academy's Tactical Formations faculty.
"Oh, of course," Marisse replied, her voice sweetened with the kind of civility that bruised on contact. "Always so considerate. One would almost think you've forgotten how to speak to anyone outside your precious "empty" space."
Marisse's words landed like a flicked blade, the curve of her lips folding into a full sneer before the echo of "empty" had even faded.
Up close, she carried herself like someone more used to the weight of robes than armor—no callouses along the grip fingers, no latent tension in the shoulders that marked a swordsman. Elara's eyes skimmed the fine lines of the woman's stance, the even sway of her step. Mage, she thought. Probably from the Magicians' block as well, no matter how she likes to dress the insult.
Selenne did not answer.
The silence stretched, the kind that made students shift on their feet without knowing why. Those who didn't understand glanced between them, searching for a cue in expressions that gave none.
Marisse filled the gap herself, her gaze sliding downward with a slow, deliberate weight that left no question of where she thought Selenne stood. "Some of you might be wondering," she said, her tone lilting with mock generosity, "what exactly our dear Miss Selenne meant by 'empty space.'"
She let the pause breathe before continuing, eyes still locked on Selenne's. "You see… magic is not just sparks and colors. It is housed—disciplined—by system. By structure. By the place it is kept."
Her attention flicked to the nearest cluster of Selenne's students. "Tell me—have you been to the Magicians' block yet?"
Several nodded, unsure if the question was rhetorical.
Marisse's smile widened, warm only on the surface. "Then you've seen them. The elemental buildings. Fire, water, earth, wind… each with its own methods, its own hierarchy."
Selenne's voice was even when it came. "I have explained everything relevant to them. You're wasting their time."
"Oh, I doubt that." Marisse's chuckle was quiet, but the edge beneath it carried like a wire drawn taut. "In fact, I rather think you've left out… quite a bit."
Selenne's gaze didn't waver. "Stop with baseless remarks."
Marisse tilted her head, feigning wounded innocence. "Come on… if you'd have let me speak, I would've already explained everything by now."
"I somehow doubt that," Selenne replied, tone clipped.
A laugh slid from Marisse's lips—soft, deliberate, and edged just enough to cut. "Haha… you certainly might not have the best discerning ability out there, I would say."
Selenne said nothing.
The pause drew the attention of every student in earshot, the air between the two women pulling tight like a bowstring. Marisse took the silence as her cue, turning to address both groups at once, her voice carrying with a confidence that demanded listening.
"You see," she began, "in those very blocks you've all toured—or will tour—it is our responsibility, as mages, to teach the younger generation. To refine them. To sharpen what talent they bring through these gates."
Her pace was unhurried, her eyes skimming the students as if weighing their worth. "And, of course, for teachers to be good at what they do, they must be tested. Accountable. Naturally, we also have a grading system for that—nothing mysterious. Simple, really."
She smiled, but it was the kind that didn't reach her eyes. "How many students we take under our wing, how many we successfully develop into competent practitioners… that number contributes to our standing here. It is not just a matter of prestige—it's proof of work done."
Her gaze slid back to Selenne, the shift subtle but unmistakable. "And yet—strangely—there is a certain someone who still holds the position of Magister Primus."
A faint ripple passed through a few of the more informed students. The title was no small thing—it belonged to the head of the Magicians' block, the one with ultimate authority over all elemental halls.
Marisse's smile thinned, her words dropping into a sharper register. "And our so-special Archmage manages to keep that seat… without having a single disciple to her name."
Her eyes held Selenne's as the last words landed, letting the implication coil in the air for everyone to taste.
Chapter 903: In school politics (2)
The moment Marisse's last words fell, a ripple went through both groups—subtle in motion, but unmistakable in focus.
Every pair of eyes shifted toward Selenne.
Even the ones who didn't fully grasp the significance of the accusation seemed to understand its weight. The Magister Primus was a title wrapped in authority, influence, and respect. To hear that its holder had no disciples—that she had withheld that fact during her own tour—was enough to stir quiet speculation.
Elara caught the flickers of exchanged glances, the slight tilts of heads toward one another. 'They're waiting for her to falter.'
But Selenne didn't.
She straightened, the lines of her cloak falling clean. "That one," she said, her voice carrying without strain, "is correct."
The murmurs stilled.
"As Miss Marisse claims, I do not have any disciples under my name—per se," she continued, the last words edged with the faintest emphasis, "but that is only under the narrow guise of what the Academy defines as a disciple."
Marisse's smile tightened, as if waiting for her to trip.
"For one to be named a direct disciple," Selenne went on, "they must share the same attribute as their master. It is a matter of direct compatibility—shared essence, shared path. Without that, the process cannot be formalized."
She let the words settle, her gaze sweeping the faces before her. "Since my element is… unique, as you might be aware, someone of the same attribute has yet to appear within these halls. In fact, within the Empire itself."
A few students stiffened at that—not in doubt, but in the dawning realization that such rarity was both a strength and a limitation.
"So yes," she said, meeting Marisse's eyes without flinch, "I have no disciples. Not because I am unfit to teach, nor because I cannot develop those I take under my guidance—but because none share the root of my magic. That is the only truth in your claim."
Her tone sharpened, subtle but unmistakable. "However… that fact does not disqualify me from being Magister Primus. The role is not bound solely to the number of disciples one produces. It is bound to mastery, to capability, to the ability to oversee every branch of the block with the authority to unite them."
Marisse's lips parted before Selenne could go further, her voice sliding in like a blade through cloth. "Mastery, capability… fine words. But words do not raise the next generation, Selenne. You can dress your absence of disciples in whatever rarefied silk you like—it still means there is no one to inherit what you claim to oversee."
A few of the students drew in quiet breaths, sensing the deliberate sting.
Selenne did not so much as blink. "While I cannot directly develop and guide a disciple of my element," she said, her voice steady, "to make up for the space I take here, I am not… spending my time freely."
Her gaze shifted to the gathered students, her tone now carrying a clipped clarity. "As Miss Marisse is also well aware, I conduct three distinct special courses. Each designed to benefit any mage—regardless of attribute."
She ticked them off, not with the air of someone boasting, but simply listing facts.
"First—Innate Mana Flow Control. A discipline in precision channeling, not just for spellcasting, but for sustaining long-form magic under duress."
"Second—Arcane Structural Theory. The advanced study of the frameworks underlying all known spell models—how to adapt and rebuild them under battlefield disruption."
"Third—Interdisciplinary Mana Application. A practical course on fusing multiple attribute magics into stable constructs, even between mages of opposing natures."
Marisse's smile had thinned, but Selenne pressed on.
"These courses are not easy to teach. They require more than rote theory or rehearsed incantations. And yet—there has been measurable success. Not just in passing students, but in elevating their practical combat capacity."
She let the statement hang a moment, then closed it with the same deliberate calm she had held since the first insult.
"I did not speak of this earlier," she said, "because it does not concern those who do not want to—or rather, will not—join the Magicians' block. I will not waste their time with detail irrelevant to their path. My plan was to explain it to the magic students, once the arrangements for their advanced instruction were made."
Her eyes locked on Marisse's one last time, neither rising nor lowering her voice. "Not all of us need to perform for a crowd to prove we are working."
Marisse's smile fractured, the edges of her composure tightening until it looked more like a mask than an expression.
"Oh?" Her voice rose just enough to slice the quiet that had settled. "Was that… an implication, Selenne?"
Selenne's reply was calm. "It was an answer."
"An answer," Marisse echoed, her tone sharp as a snapped quill, "laced with the sort of veiled jab one might expect from someone who knows their position is not entirely unshakable."
The students shifted in place, their gazes darting between the two women.
Marisse stepped forward a fraction, her robes brushing the stone at her feet. "You've always been the same—aloof, dismissive, above the rest of us mere mortals because of that 'unique element' of yours. You walk the halls like the rest of us are air, and then wonder why your block doesn't brim with loyal protégés."
Selenne remained still, letting the words flow past without so much as a twitch.
Marisse's voice dropped, but the scorn in it only sharpened. "The truth, Selenne, is that the title you hold would have been contested long ago if not for the Head Council's little fondness for exceptions. For symbols. You're not the primus because you are indispensable—you are the primus because they like having a glittering rarity to parade when it suits them."
A few in the crowd drew in quiet, uncomfortable breaths. Even for Academy politics, that was a blade aimed high.
"And yet," Marisse added, her smile thin and cold, "you dare to lecture me about performance? About 'not performing for a crowd'? I have students—real, tangible mages—who carry my lessons into the field. What do you have, Selenne? A list of lectures? Theoretical success on paper?"
Selenne's only answer was the faintest lift of one brow.
Marisse let the silence stand for a heartbeat, then gave a sharp, dismissive breath and turned back to her own group. "Come along," she said, not looking back at Selenne. "We've wasted enough time on titles and excuses."
The students parted just enough for her to pass, her cloak sweeping through the narrow gap before her group followed, their chatter low and quick.
The courtyard seemed to breathe again, the tension easing though not dissolving entirely.
Elara stood very still, watching the last swish of indigo vanish around the corner. The others in Selenne's group looked much the same—half-confused, half-curious.
Aurelian broke the quiet first, leaning slightly toward Selphine without much attempt at whispering. "That wasn't about teaching. That was politics."
Selphine's mouth tightened in a knowing line. "Workplace politics," she said softly. "The kind that bleeds in front of an audience when it shouldn't."
Elara's eyes narrowed faintly in agreement. 'She was trying to force her into a corner—make her answer on her terms. And Selenne… didn't give her the satisfaction.'
Chapter 904: Your name
The murmurs began as soon as Marisse's group was far enough down the path that her voice could no longer carry back to them.
It wasn't loud—just the low, unfiltered kind of noise people made when they thought they were safe behind the cover of a crowd.
Elara caught the first threads from the other side—the cluster of well-dressed students who'd followed Marisse. Their accents carried the clipped edges of court schooling, their tones pitched just enough to be overheard without ever looking directly at Selenne's group.
"…always was strange, the Tower naming her an Archmage early."
"Strange? More like shameless. Seven-star and they bend the rules for her? Please."
"She's not even proper lineage. Some fishing-village nobody with a lucky element."
"That's not 'lucky,' that's politics. You think the Royal Family forgot she refused their commission? And in public?"
A quiet chuckle. "Of course not. That's why she'll never see a banner in her name. No House wants someone who snubs the crown."
Another voice—female, sharp—cut in. "She crossed the Draycotts too, don't forget. Took their moment in the Southern Lands and made them look like they couldn't defend their own territory. No wonder half the dukedom wants her gone."
The boy beside her lowered his voice, though not enough. "Well… the other half probably just wants her dead."
A few of them laughed—soft, the kind meant to sting more than to amuse.
Elara shifted her focus to her own side, where the group that had been trailing behind Selenne had fallen into their own hushed exchanges.
"…she doesn't even deny it. No disciples, no House. Just those courses she hides behind."
"You say that like the courses are worthless."
"I'm saying they don't matter if no one of her element exists to inherit what she's building. It dies with her."
Another leaned in, voice dropping into the kind of false secrecy designed to bait an audience. "My cousin says the Head Council keeps her around because she's useful as a piece on the board—unique enough to show off when foreign delegations visit, but easy to cut loose if it comes to it."
One boy—a sharp-jawed type in immaculate black—snorted. "And because she makes the Draycotts furious. The crown likes to remind the dukes they don't control every mage worth naming."
Elara didn't miss the way a few eyes flicked toward the five students in the group whose uniforms bore no noble crest. The commoners. The unaligned.
It wasn't outright hostility, but the weight of implication was there—quiet, heavy, and old as the walls around them.
She'd heard the same tone in other places. In other courts.
It was the sound of people rehearsing the fall of someone they thought was too far above her station.
And Selenne—walking a few paces ahead, shoulders straight, cloak falling in perfect lines—gave no sign she'd heard a word.
Elara's gaze drifted over the line of sneering mouths and averted eyes, settling into a cold, steady glare.
It wasn't a heated look—it was the kind she'd learned in her old life, the one meant to remind the target that she'd seen straight through them.
'Yes… this is how most nobles are.'
The cadence of their voices, the half-smiles that hid knives—it was all too familiar.
'The same tone they used when they thought I couldn't hear… right before they voted to cast me out.'
Her jaw tightened. She didn't want to remember the rest—the chamber doors closing, the seals pressed in wax, the cold signatures written over her fate. She forced the image away, clamping it behind the wall where she kept all things that could unbalance her.
"Vultures," Selphine muttered at her side, her eyes scanning the group that had been talking loud enough to be overheard. "They'll swarm the moment they think the prey's bleeding."
Aurelian gave a short nod, his expression unreadable but his tone edged. "They've probably been waiting for a scene like that for years."
One of the twins—Riven—clicked his tongue. "Not years. Every week, I'd bet. It's just the first time we've seen it in person."
The other, Lysa, added, "This place isn't just about cultivation or titles. It's a chessboard. And half these people think the pieces are more important than the game itself."
Elara let the words pass without answering, her eyes still tracking the path Marisse's group had taken. The Tactical Formations guide was almost gone from sight, her stride brisk, robes swaying in deliberate precision.
And then—
"Pffft…"
The sound was quiet, not much more than a stifled snort, but it carried just enough over the muted footfalls to draw several heads.
"Puhaahahah…"
The same voice again, uncoiling into a low, drawn-out laugh.
Marisse slowed slightly ahead, the set of her shoulders betraying irritation, but the laugh didn't stop.
It wasn't a laugh of mirth—it was the slow, deliberate kind that slid between amusement and mockery, the sound of someone enjoying the discomfort of everyone else.
And then, as though the lack of immediate reaction offended him, the owner of the voice let it break fully.
"Pu—HAHAHAHAHAH!"
The sound bounced off the stone walls and arched walkways, loud enough now that even the most polite in the crowd couldn't pretend not to hear. Students turned, Selenne paused mid-step, and Marisse herself cast a glance over her shoulder.
The laughter finally ebbed, tapering into a few amused breaths before the voice rang out—smooth, resonant, and carrying the sort of self-assured amusement that didn't ask for permission to be heard.
"That," he said, letting the words stretch just a fraction too long, "was pretty funny."
Dozens of eyes shifted toward him. He didn't flinch under the weight of the attention—in fact, he seemed to welcome it.
"People in this Academy," he continued, his gaze sweeping the gathered students like an appraiser in a market, "really love putting on shows, don't they?"
The faintest smirk curved his mouth as he lifted a gloved hand and lazily gestured toward Marisse's retreating form. "First our dear Lucien… and now this. Seems the life here will be quite fun indeed."
That name—Lucien—hung in the air for a beat, an unspoken reminder of some earlier spectacle that only a fraction of the students seemed to understand.
Selenne's expression didn't change, but Elara caught the faint flicker of calculation in her eyes. Marisse's back stiffened before she picked up her pace again, not deigning to respond.
And then—
"Lucavion…"
The name slipped from Elara's lips before she could stop it.
*****
Lucavion let the silence hang just long enough for the weight of Marisse's narrowed gaze to press in before speaking, his tone leisurely, as though the entire exchange were nothing more than casual table conversation.
"Well," he began, "since we were informed that today would be orientation, I suppose I should thank the good Miss for giving us such an unfiltered demonstration of how the Academy actually works. Measurement of authority sticks, was it? Very enlightening."
He gave a small, slow clap—three deliberate beats that weren't loud, but carried all the condescension of someone measuring a wine's bouquet and finding it lacking. His eyes gleamed with that familiar blend of amusement and provocation.
Marisse's gaze sharpened, her voice cooling into precision. "What is your name?"
Lucavion tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Man… the very first thing you ask after hearing all that is my name? I would have never expected it."
"A student of our Academy speaking so rudely to professors," she replied evenly, "of course it is important for me to identify you first."
Lucavion's smirk deepened, but his tone lost none of its languid composure. "I see… then…"
He paused—long enough for the crowd's attention to lean in—and his black eyes caught hers in a steady, unblinking lock. "Make sure you remember it."
He straightened, his voice carrying with crisp clarity. "Lucavion."
Chapter 905: Legendary bettor
Marisse's expression shifted the moment the name left his lips.
A faint tightening at the corners of her mouth.
The briefest flicker in her gaze—recognition, and perhaps something else.
Then came the smile.
It was measured, deliberate… and entirely at odds with her eyes, which remained as cold and appraising as glass.
"Oh…" she said softly, as though tasting the sound of his name. "Lucavion."
She let it linger, drawing it out just enough to suggest familiarity.
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."
Her tone gained a delicate lilt, the kind that pretended at politeness but dripped with judgment. "I had heard… that among this year's special students there was a certain ruffian. One whose manners were… lacking."
She gave a faint shrug, the motion practiced, dismissive. "Considering that, I really shouldn't have been surprised."
Lucavion's smirk curved a little higher—not a flinch, not a frown, but the expression of someone presented with an easy opening and delighted to take it.
"Manners," he said lightly, "are often just a circus act for those who deem themselves higher beings."
His gaze swept lazily over her from head to toe, not with lewdness, but with the air of someone weighing an antique and finding it tarnished.
"I prefer to keep my freedom."
A faint ripple of suppressed laughter moved through the students who had been following the exchange.
Marisse's smile thinned. "Freedom, is it? How… convenient an excuse for a lack of discipline."
Lucavion tilted his head slightly, as though considering the statement, before answering with a deliberate drawl. "Convenient, perhaps. But I find that those who shout about discipline the loudest are often the ones who can't function without a title to hide behind."
He gave her a small, mock-thoughtful nod. "Must be exhausting, really—keeping the mask in place all day."
That one landed. The faint stiffness in Marisse's shoulders betrayed it.
Her eyes sharpened, the smile pulling just a fraction too tight. "Careful, boy. You tread close to—"
"To what?" Lucavion interrupted, his tone still smooth, still unconcerned. "To the place where polite fiction gives way to truth? Or to the point where you realize the audience isn't clapping anymore?"
For a beat, there was only the quiet stir of the students, the air thick with the subtle shift in momentum.
Marisse's composure wavered—just slightly, but enough for those watching to see the edge of her patience.
Lucavion simply stood there, relaxed, the faint smirk still in place, as if he'd never intended to win the exchange outright—only to make her lose it on her own.
Marisse drew in a slow, steady breath, the faint tension in her shoulders smoothing as she exhaled.
When she looked at him again, the smile had returned—not warm, not even polite, but the kind worn by someone who wanted others to believe they were entirely in control.
"Well…" she murmured, her voice dipped in a honey that didn't disguise the steel beneath. "You'll find that things like these… little scenes, little acts of rebellion… are not often overlooked by the Academy."
Her gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat too long, deliberate in its weight.
"One way or another, they have a way of… biting back."
Lucavion tilted his head as if trying to better hear her through background noise, then gave a small shrug, almost casual to the point of insult.
"I just laughed," he said, his tone light, conversational. "And expressed my emotions… my thoughts. If that's what earns me something to 'bite back,' then I can't even begin to imagine what's coming for the ones who do much worse."
The corner of his mouth curved—not in defiance, but in an almost lazy amusement.
"At the very least," he added, his voice carrying just enough for the surrounding students to hear, "I prefer to talk to people while they're standing in front of me… not from behind their backs."
The implication hung between them like a drawn line in the sand.
A few students glanced at Marisse, clearly catching the barb, while others kept their eyes fixed on Lucavion as if waiting for the next spark.
Marisse's smile remained, but the light behind it had dimmed to something colder, sharper.
Lucavion, however, looked entirely at ease—shoulders relaxed, hands at his sides, as if the whole exchange had been nothing more than an idle chat on a sunny afternoon.
"My, my… how very rude you are," she said, her voice still even but edged with dismissal. "There is a reason manners exist, Lucavion. They are what keep a society functioning, what allow people to coexist without descending into chaos."
Her gaze held steady on his.
"If you wish to ignore that, that is your choice."
Lucavion started to reply, but she didn't give him the space.
"Of course," she continued smoothly, "such disregard is hardly surprising, given your… background. A common upbringing. Little in the way of true education."
Her words fell like precise cuts—small, but made to sting. "With a mind like this, I doubt you'll be able to hold onto your place here for long."
A ripple passed through the crowd, quiet but unmistakable.
Marisse's eyes drifted to the five students without noble crests—Lucavion among them—before she let out a soft, mock-thoughtful hum.
"In fact… I imagine it was much the same for all of you, wasn't it? You and the other commoner students did not take seats from the nobles. You were granted your places because the Academy has… certain quotas. Dedicated seats. Reserved for those without a name, so the balance looks fair on paper."
She let that implication hang, the undercurrent unmistakable—you are here because of charity, not merit.
Lucavion didn't answer right away.
But there was a flicker—a glint in the darkness of his eyes, quick as the spark of a blade catching light.
Then his mouth curved into a slow, deliberate smirk.
Marisse didn't let the moment cool.
Her eyes stayed locked on him, her voice as smooth as lacquer over steel.
"This little… quota system," she said, letting the phrase curl with distaste, "has only just been implemented this year. And I, for one, was against it from the very start."
She let her gaze sweep over the small cluster of commoner students again, as if inspecting merchandise.
"Seats earned by tradition, lineage, and years of proven excellence… suddenly handed away because the Council wishes to play at fairness? A sentimental gesture—wasteful, really."
Her attention slid back to Lucavion, and the smile returned, this time edged with something openly mocking. "So forgive me if I am not impressed when one of these… new beneficiaries takes it upon himself to lecture me about masks and manners."
The crowd's murmur deepened, sensing the deliberate escalation.
Lucavion's smirk didn't falter. If anything, the faint gleam in his eyes sharpened—like a hunter spotting the faintest sign of prey in the brush.
He let the silence hang for a beat longer than necessary, then spoke with an ease that felt almost lazy.
"So…" he said slowly, "if you were against it, I imagine you must be dying to prove the whole thing was a mistake."
Marisse's lips curved in that same polished, unyielding smile, but her tone lost any pretense of softness.
"Indeed," she said, "I have been against it from the very start. There is a reason—long-standing and well-founded—that the Academy has traditionally chosen only those with better blood. Generations of cultivation. Houses that have proven themselves in both scholarship and service. That is how standards are upheld."
The words landed like stones tossed into still water.
Around Lucavion, the other commoner students—Caeden, Mireilla, Elayne, and Toren—shifted, each wearing some shade of distaste. Caeden's jaw tightened, Mireilla's brow furrowed, Elayne's lips pressed into a thin line, and Toren's hands flexed at his sides.
Lucavion glanced at them briefly, noting the silent reaction, before turning his gaze back to Marisse.
The faintest smile spread across his face—not warm, not forced, but sharp and deliberate.
"I see."
He let the words sit, and as he spoke again, his eyes locked on hers with an ease that felt almost predatory.
"Then," he said slowly, "let us make a bet."
He spoke the words.