The training arena was still buzzing, though the duel had ended long ago. Caius Serpentis's name echoed across marble halls like a curse and a warning—his defeat at the hands of a slum-born boy was a story no noble could easily swallow.
Ash stood at the edge of the arena's stone circle, chest still rising with the aftermath of spell exertion, though his face remained calm. He could feel hundreds of eyes on him—some filled with awe, some with hatred, and more than a few calculating what his existence meant for their own carefully crafted positions.
Caius lay on the ground, breath ragged, the serpent-engraved crest on his uniform smeared with dust and ash. His silver hair stuck to his forehead, his once-imperious gaze now sharpened with venomous hate. When his retainers came to lift him, he shrugged them off, staggering to his feet.
"You'll regret this, gutter rat," Caius hissed, loud enough for Ash to hear but quiet enough that the instructors couldn't scold him for dishonor. "The Serpent Crest never forgets."
Ash said nothing. The Codex's voice whispered in the back of his mind like a steady drumbeat:
"Do not waste words on the defeated. They'll return in time. Anticipate, prepare, and when they strike again… make sure they do not rise."
Ash's fingers twitched at the thought. But instead of answering Caius, he merely turned, letting silence and composure sting sharper than words.
The silence broke suddenly with a laugh.
"Well, if that wasn't the most thrilling thing I've ever seen!"
A large boy with chestnut hair pushed his way through the crowd, clapping so loudly it startled a few nearby students. His grin stretched wide, his uniform slightly wrinkled and his boots mismatched in polish—he stood out in all the wrong ways, yet somehow carried himself with cheer that softened the tension.
"You," the boy said, pointing directly at Ash with the enthusiasm of a child spotting a hero. "You're something else! Dodging Caius like a slippery eel and then—bam!—right in the chest with that spell. By the gods, I've never seen Serpentis look so much like a fish out of water."
Gasps rose from the nobles. No one spoke of a Serpentis that way. But the boy didn't care, or perhaps he didn't notice. He slapped Ash on the shoulder like they'd been friends for years.
"Name's Garrick. Garrick Hollow. Don't let the name fool you, I'm not from any fancy line. Just barely squeezed my way into this academy thanks to an uncle who knew the right bribes. But—" He leaned in with a wink. "I've got a keen eye for talent. And you, Ash, you're the kind of guy I'd bet my entire week's meal allowance on."
The nobles sneered, but some common-born laughed quietly, emboldened by Garrick's humor. For the first time, Ash felt the pressure of the crowd lessen, if only slightly.
---
The duel was only the spark. The wildfire came after.
Everywhere Ash walked, whispers followed:
"That's him… the boy who beat Caius."
"He used spells like he'd studied for years. How does a slum-born know such control?"
"He cheated. He must have."
"No, I saw it. That wasn't luck—that was strategy."
Some stared in envy, some in admiration, and some in fear. The instructors began to watch him closely, their gazes lingering when he practiced, as if trying to peel away the layers of his mind.
And through it all, Garrick stuck to him like a shadow.
At breakfast, he shoved trays toward Ash, insisting, "Eat more, you'll need strength for all the noble duels you'll inevitably attract."
During classes, he whispered jokes about their pompous peers until Ash had to smother his own laughter.
At night, when Ash practiced alone, Garrick would occasionally wander by, pretending to "accidentally" find him, though it was clear he came on purpose.
"You're too serious," Garrick would sigh dramatically. "All brooding eyes and silent stares. If you don't loosen up, people will mistake you for an assassin instead of a student."
Ash found himself softening at the boy's antics, though he never admitted it.
---
The Academy of Fangs was less a school and more a crucible. Its sprawling grounds were divided into sectors:
The Hall of Tomes, a vast library guarded by enchantments where only students of noble rank could access the highest levels.
The Arcanum Chambers, where magical circles glowed across the floors and students practiced weaving spells under the supervision of instructors.
The Martial Yard, an open field of sand and stone, where sword and spell collided in drills that left bruises and pride in equal measure.
The Spire of Judgement, the towering structure at the heart of the academy, where professors and the Principal himself resided.
Everywhere, banners of noble houses hung like silent reminders of hierarchy. Serpents, lions, stags, hawks—all proclaiming legacy and power.
Ash, with his plain clothes beneath the academy robe, looked like a stain among them.
But then he answered questions no one else could. He executed spells with unorthodox precision. He carried himself with a calmness that unsettled even the proudest heirs.
The Codex guided him quietly through each lesson.
"Mana flows not only through veins, but through intent. Channel your will, and the spell will obey, even if the incantation falters."
"Observe your peers. That boy—he relies too much on brute mana. That girl—she favors illusions but her control is weak. Knowledge is your true weapon."
Ash obeyed, learning not just the lessons, but the weaknesses and patterns of those around him.
And yet, despite Codex's sharpness, Ash sometimes bent the advice. He helped a struggling commoner with spell formation when the Codex advised against wasting effort. He endured noble mockery without retaliation, even when the Codex urged him to assert dominance.
The strategist's soul noticed.
"You temper the blade I place in your hand. Be wary, Ash. A tempered blade can bend as easily as it cuts."
---
Not all accepted his rise.
Caius Serpentis returned after a week, his bruises healed but his pride burning hotter than ever. He no longer shouted in public, nor sneered so openly. Instead, he watched Ash from a distance, eyes narrowed, whispering with other noble-born in shaded corners of the academy halls.
Ash knew this silence was more dangerous than Caius's insults. The Codex whispered of ambushes, poisons, subtle ruin.
"He plots. He gathers. Strike preemptively and end him."
But Ash only clenched his fist beneath his desk, determined to hold until the moment was right.
Garrick, noticing Ash's tension, tried to lighten it.
"Cheer up, Ash. You look like you're carrying the weight of ten kingdoms on your shoulders. Trust me, I'd know—I once tried carrying a keg of ale bigger than me. Ended in disaster."
Ash gave him a sidelong glance. "I doubt that's the same."
"Details, details," Garrick waved off, grinning. "Point is—you're not alone. Not while I'm here."
And for once, Ash allowed himself a small smile.
---
Late one evening, Ash sat in the library's common section, studying diagrams of spell formations. The lamplight flickered, shadows stretching across the pages.
The Codex whispered suddenly, its tone sharp:
"He moves. The serpent prepares his strike. Tonight."
Ash stiffened, glancing at the door.
Footsteps echoed in the hall beyond. More than one. Slow. Measured.
The shadow of a serpent crest flickered against the lamplight as figures paused at the entrance.
---