The dormitory of Class D was a world apart from the golden towers of Class A. Its walls bore cracks, the wooden beams creaked at night, and the training yard was little more than a patch of dirt behind the barracks. To the nobles of higher classes, it was a kennel for failures, a place to toss away the pups who would never grow into wolves.
But to Lucian Ardelion, it was fertile soil.
The lowest seat gave him proximity to those forgotten, overlooked, or underestimated—and history had taught him that overlooked pieces often toppled empires.
The first days of academy life settled into rhythm: early drills in swordsmanship, lectures on history, arcane studies in drafty classrooms. Class D endured them with a mix of resignation and bitterness. Some tried, most didn't. Why bother, when the academy itself declared them useless?
Lucian watched. Always watching.
On the third morning, while wooden blades clashed under the watchful eye of their instructor, he saw two boys brawling off to the side. One was burly, his sleeves rolled up, fists swinging wild. The other was wiry, quick on his feet, eyes like a cornered rat.
The burly boy's punch caught the wiry one across the jaw. Blood spat.
"Pathetic," the burly one sneered. "Class D trash."
Lucian tilted his head. The wiry boy's movements were desperate but clever—he feinted with his weak side, kicked dust into the other's eyes. Crude tricks, but effective.
The instructor barked at them to stop. The burly one swaggered away, laughing. The wiry boy wiped his lip, muttering curses.
Later, in the mess hall, Lucian approached him.
"You fight like a thief," Lucian remarked, sliding onto the bench beside him.
The wiry boy shot him a glare. "And what of it, crownless?"
Lucian's lips curved faintly. "That's not an insult. Thieves survive where soldiers die. What's your name?"
The boy hesitated. "…Kael. Kael Draven."
Lucian filed it away. Draven. I know that name. A minor house stripped of lands after a scandal… He'll hate the nobility even more than I do.
"You're wasted here," Lucian said. "But wasted things can become weapons, given the right edge."
Kael snorted. "And you're offering to sharpen me?"
Lucian only smiled. "I'm offering to use you. But if I use you, you'll rise with me."
Kael studied him for a long moment, then gave a crooked grin. "You're either mad, or you really believe that."
"I'm both."
Kael laughed under his breath. For the first time, Lucian saw the glimmer of something useful in his eyes.
But for every ally gained, there was an enemy waiting.
It came that evening, in the courtyard between the dormitories. Lucian was crossing the flagstones when a voice called out.
"Ardelion!"
Lucian turned. A circle of Class D students had gathered, their expressions eager for a spectacle. At the center stood a tall boy with sharp features, his blond hair tied back neatly. His tunic bore a crest stitched in gold.
Lucian recognized him instantly. Alaric Veynar.
The name alone burned like acid.
House Veynar—the very house whose betrayal had lit the pyre of his downfall in his first life. Alaric had been a thorn back then too, though not yet a dagger. A cousin of the main line, ambitious, petty, venomous.
Alaric's smirk widened. "It seems the academy made a mistake letting you in at all. Lowest seat suits you, crownless."
The crowd murmured, hungry.
Lucian's voice was calm, almost amused. "Strange. For someone standing above me, you sound desperate to drag me lower."
Alaric's smile faltered for an instant. Then he stepped closer, raising his voice. "Do you think you're clever? You humiliated Deyros, but that was luck. Here, you'll find no luck, only skill. And you have none."
A challenge hung in the air.
Lucian met his gaze, unblinking. "Is that so?"
The students whispered, shifting closer. They wanted blood.
Lucian knew this dance well. In his first life, he would have tried to placate, to avoid conflict. It had won him nothing but contempt. This time, he would give them what they wanted—but on his terms.
He smiled thinly. "Then prove it."
Gasps rose.
Alaric's eyes gleamed. "Gladly."
The duel began under torchlight, the circle of students pressing in, their shouts echoing off the walls. Wooden blades were handed out, though both boys knew this was about more than practice.
"First strike decides it," Alaric sneered. "Unless you plan to run."
Lucian rolled the hilt in his palm, testing the weight. His stance was relaxed, almost lazy.
"Try."
Alaric lunged first, blade cutting fast and sharp. His form was precise, drilled into him by expensive tutors. Lucian sidestepped, letting the swing whistle past his shoulder.
A second strike came, then a third, faster, sharper. Lucian parried lightly, retreating a step at a time. To the onlookers, it looked like he was being driven back.
Alaric grinned, pressing harder. "What's wrong, crownless? No spine?"
Lucian's eyes gleamed coldly.
He let Alaric overextend on the next thrust, pivoted smoothly, and struck—not with his blade, but with his elbow, driving it into Alaric's ribs.
The boy gasped, stumbling.
Lucian's wooden sword snapped up, stopping just short of Alaric's throat.
Silence fell.
Lucian's voice was quiet, cutting. "A wolf that shows its fangs too soon only bares its neck."
He lowered the blade and stepped back. The circle erupted into whispers.
Alaric's face burned red with humiliation. His lips twisted into a snarl, but he didn't attack again. Not with so many eyes watching.
Lucian turned his back on him deliberately and walked away.
Every step echoed a new truth into the courtyard:
The crownless heir was no longer prey.
Later, in the dormitory, Seren Veyra approached him. Her gaze was sharp, assessing.
"You knew exactly how far to push him," she said. "Just enough to humiliate him, not enough to get expelled."
Lucian glanced at her, lips curving faintly. "You give me too much credit."
"No," she said. "Not enough. You're dangerous, Lucian Ardelion. More dangerous than anyone here realizes."
He met her eyes, and for a brief moment, the guarded girl dropped her mask. Respect glimmered there. Not trust, not yet, but respect.
Lucian inclined his head. "Dangerous men survive in the wolves' den. The rest get eaten."
Seren's lips twitched, almost a smile. "Then maybe I chose the right wolf to follow."
Lucian said nothing. But inside, the web stretched tighter, strands weaving together—Kael Draven, Seren Veyra, even Alaric Veynar.
Every piece had its place.
And the game had only begun.
That night, Lucian lay awake, staring at the rafters. His body still thrummed with the echo of the duel, the taste of triumph mingling with the bitterness of old memories.
He thought of Alaric's face twisted in rage. Of Seren's words. Of Kael's crooked grin.
He thought of the academy's halls, filled with wolves circling one another, snapping jaws and bared fangs.
In his past life, he had stumbled through these halls blind.
Now, every step was measured. Every breath was war.
He whispered to himself, voice soft but fierce.
"Vipers and outcasts… good. A crownless wolf does not need a throne to rule. He needs only a pack."
The words hung in the silence.
And in the darkness, Lucian smiled.