Lucien stood there, feeling the sudden weight of the silence. He was struck by a wave of awkwardness, unable to believe he had let his emotions get the better of him so publicly. He turned toward the crowd, his gaze landing briefly on Elaine. Surprise flickered in her steely blue eyes. Bet she didn't expect that, he thought.

  He glanced at Dame Seraphine, who looked just as stunned by his sudden action. Finally, he turned his attention to Merinth Vallog. The Headmaster wasn't just shocked; his face had turned a ghostly, bloodless white.

  A faint smirk—barely a curve of the lips—crossed Lucien’s face. Merinth stiffened as Lucien’s storm-grey eyes locked onto his. Without raising his voice, without moving a single inch, Lucien mouthed four silent words:

  “I won the bet.”

  Merinth saw it. The color drained even further from the Headmaster’s face, as if the blood had been physically siphoned away. He looked as though he had just heard the impossible—as if those silent words had reached through the air and struck a part of his soul he had thought long buried.

  Lucien held the gaze for one heartbeat more, then turned away. His expression smoothed back into its default state: cool, distant, and unreadable, as though the world hadn't just tilted on its axis.

  But Merinth remained frozen. He swallowed, the movement barely noticeable against his high, stiff collar. When he finally spoke, his voice was a forced mask of authority.

  “Ray Melborne. Report to the infirmary. Immediately.”

  The auditorium went deathly still. Not a murmur, not a cough, not even the scrape of a shoe against the marble disturbed the silence.

  Ray blinked, still dizzy from the inner-world storm, suspended between terror and a strange, humming exhilaration. He pointed a trembling finger at his own chest. “...Me?”

  Merinth’s gaze hardened. It wasn't unkind, but it carried the weight of a man who would not—could not—handle another anomaly detonating in the middle of his ceremony.

  “Yes, you. Now.”

  Two instructors moved in unison, stepping forward to escort the boy. Lucien stepped aside without a word, his mind like a lens, etching every detail of Ray’s aura and the raw, newborn connection to his Origin Vein. Once the path was clear, Lucien turned and walked away. He pushed open the heavy doors and left the Academy behind.

  Dame Seraphine, still in her servant’s disguise, chased after him into the courtyard.

  "What was that?" she demanded.

  She had felt the unmistakable spike of killing intent radiating off him. In that split second, he looked ready to execute the boy in front of the entire nobility. She was baffled—was he really willing to throw everything away just to kill him?

  "Who was that boy?" she asked again.

  Lucien didn't respond immediately. He wasn't willing to let her into the dark history he shared with that name. He let out a long, weary sigh.

  "I let myself go," he said. "I felt that ominous energy and I just moved to extinguish it. Nothing more than reflex."

  Seraphine didn't believe a word of it. "You said his name when you congratulated him, Lucien. You knew him."

  "Let it go," Lucien snapped.

  It was a rare flash of genuine irritation. He couldn't believe he had lost his cool that way, but just the memory of that oily, dark energy had set him off. He had almost discarded years of planning for a single moment of execution against a Melborne.

  Lucien couldn't help but sigh. "Let's go to the Headmaster's office and wait for him there."

  He recomposed himself, "It’s time to collect."

  "Lucien D’Roselle, you are to report to the field for combat studies."

  A tall man approached them as they waited outside the Headmaster's office.

  "What do you mean?" Lucien asked, his eyes narrowing. "Why is the Headmaster not coming to his office?"

  The tall man straightened his posture. "First of all, the Headmaster congratulates you on connecting to your Origin Vein. He regrets that he cannot be here personally to congratulate you, but he is a busy man and cannot attend to you."

  "That old coot," Lucien muttered.

  The man’s aura flared suddenly, a sharp pressure filling the hallway. "You will show our Headmaster respect, Lucien D’Roselle. I will overlook this once, but if you disrespect him again, you will suffer the consequences."

  Lucien stared at him for a long beat, then clicked his tongue. He turned and swaggered away with his "servant girl" in tow. Only after they had turned the corner did the tall man realize that servants weren't allowed in that wing; when he turned around to reprimand them, they were already gone.

  Dame Seraphine couldn't help but let out a hearty laugh as they walked in the halls. She couldn't believe that someone as esteemed as the Headmaster was going out of his way to evade Lucien.

  She was glad she had come out today. Simply moving through the crowds and seeing how these powerful figures interacted gave her an entirely new perspective on the Empire's "elite."

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  Lucien sighed. He had known the old coot would shamelessly dodge him, but he hadn't expected it to be this fast. He thought he’d had the element of surprise, but he guessed the old man had seen the debt coming the moment the lightning flared.

  Speaking of lightning, Lucien flexed his muscles. Faint, jagged arcs of electricity crawled throughout his body, dancing across his skin with a low hum. Dame Seraphine knew he was different, but she was still surprised by what he was doing. He was already utilizing his power with ease, and from the looks of it, he was already physically ready to receive his second engraving.

  Lucien stopped as they reached the edge of the Academy grounds. "This is where we part ways," he said. "Keep looking for whatever information you can find. It’s time I go to class."

  "What are you going to do there?" she asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  Lucien raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "What do you mean?" he asked, playing dumb. "To study, of course. I am a student, after all."

  Seraphine frowned, clearly not amused by his antics. She knew that wherever Lucien went, a "study session" was the last thing on his mind.

  Lucien couldn’t help but drag his feet as he made his way toward the fields. He wasn't a regular student, or in fact, a regular person. He was a middle-aged man in soul, trapped in a young body—a regressor who had already tasted the end of the world.

  Why should I participate in these things? What a drag, Lucien thought, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

  Then he finally arrived. Dozens of first-year cadets clustered into loose groups, buzzing with a mix of excitement and raw nerves. All except for one. Lucien stood apart, looking thoroughly bored—and that was because he truly was. It felt strange; they were all around his physical age, but he felt like the only adult in a sea of brats.

  From the corner of his eye, he spotted him: Ray Melborne was standing with his roommates, practically vibrating in place with the look of a child whose favorite toy had just been placed in front of them. Then, another fellow approached them.

  Rowboat? Lucien couldn’t quite remember the name, but the boy clearly carried some sort of vendetta against Ray.

  Lucien watched as they shifted into a confrontational stance. Ah, he thought, it looks like they’re getting into position. They were about to scrap. The students around them started to hoot and holler, their voices rising in a rhythmic chant: "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

  Then, a wave of killing intent rolled forward. Lucien’s head snapped toward the source.

  Captain Draevin, this man led the way, his armor as black and cold as a glacier. A long, jagged scar across his jaw did more to silence the teenagers than any lecture ever could. Behind him, ten Mage Division cadets followed in a loose, uneasy formation, their storm-grey cloaks sweeping behind them like trailing clouds. Behind them, ten seniors marched in perfect unison.

  “Form ranks! Combat training begins now!” the scarred man bellowed.

  That was the last thing Lucien truly heard. He drifted off into his own world; this display didn't pertain to him, so he didn't care. The pressing problem was the Headmaster. He needed to make contact. He still couldn't believe that coward was actively evading him.

  He needed his second engraving—and his future ones—from Merinth. The man was a top-tier Engraver; having someone of that caliber work on his soul was an undeniable boon, and Lucien knew he held the perfect bartering item to force the issue. But to use it, he first had to corner the old man.

  It was then that he felt it. Someone was approaching him from behind.

  A desperate cadet, his nerves finally fraying under the Captain's killing intent, lunged forward. He swung a wild, clumsy fist at the back of Lucien’s head. It was a target no sane person would have chosen.

  Before the strike could even graze a hair, Lucien tilted. He didn't dodge or retreat; he simply executed an effortless shift of weight. The attack whistled through empty air. Before the attacker could even blink, Lucien caught his wrist with a speed so sharp it would have bypassed even a seasoned scout's vision.

  Then, the lightning erupted.

  This wasn't the polite crackle from the ceremony. This was feral, white-blue violence—the raw output of an Origin Vein that hadn't yet been tamed. Lucien’s fist slammed into the attacker’s solar plexus.

  BWH-CRACK!

  The student convulsed midair before dropping like a rag doll, his eyes rolling back as he hit the sand, cold and unconscious. Gasps ripped through the gathered cadets, but Lucien didn't pause. He was already frustrated, so why not take it out on these brats? It was as good a way as any to take his mind off things.

  He turned, his storm-grey eyes unreadable, and snapped a finger toward another student attempting to flee the discharge.

  ZRRAP!

  A bolt of lightning bridged the distance instantly. The boy seized, his limbs locking in a rigid, electrified silhouette before he collapsed face-first into the dirt.

  Screams finally broke the silence. Students scrambled backward, tripping over their own feet in a desperate bid for distance. Lucien stepped forward, electricity crawling across his arms in jagged webs. He felt the power gathering in his palm—too much power for a body this young. He lunged toward a third student, his hand humming with a density that made the very air vibrate. His fingers curled, aiming for the throat—

  BOOM.

  A dark figure slammed into the earth between them. Captain Draevin.

  Lucien’s hand clamped onto Draevin’s forearm. This time, he activated Equilibrium, focusing the entirety of the mental scales onto his engraving. It was his first time applying the technique to his lightning, and a spark of genuine excitement flared within him. The scales tilted sharply.

  The lightning detonated.

  A cluster of thunder roared—blinding, deafening, and violent enough to crack the dry earth beneath their boots. Draevin didn't flinch, but his expression tightened. He gritted his teeth, his muscles locking against the localized surge, and with a single, brutal twist, he hurled Lucien backward like a projectile.

  Lucien skidded across the yard, his boots digging deep trenches in the sand before he steadied himself. He stood there, breathing evenly, his gaze ice-cold. He wasn't angry; he was merely assessing the Captain's resistance. Despite the power of the strike, Draevin’s armor had dispersed the worst of the kinetic shock.

  The yard went tomb-silent. Half the cadets were trembling; a few were openly weeping. Draevin shook out his arm, sparks still dancing off his blackened gauntlet, his eyes fixed on the fourteen-year-old who had just produced the output of a veteran mage.

  “You are not to participate,” Draevin’s voice hammered across the courtyard. He pointed a finger off the field toward the equipment sheds. “Leave. Or assist the squires. Your choice.”

  Lucien stared at him—unblinking, a living storm held behind a thin veil of skin. He realized that pushing further would only expose more of his techniques to the Academy's observation, and he had seen enough of Draevin’s reaction speed to know that the current him was no match for the Captain.

  Then, an idea popped into his head. He turned around and left the field with a measured, steady pace. If the Headmaster expected him to play by student rules and stay here for the duration of the class, it meant the old man would likely be at his most relaxed.

  He thinks I'm pinned down by the curriculum, Lucien thought, a cold smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  It was the perfect opportunity to ambush him. While the rest of the year was occupied with "combat studies" and formation drills, the halls of the administrative wing would be nearly empty.

  Time to find the Headmaster.