A week passed since the duels, but the echoes of steel and ambition still haunted the training fields.
Despite ascending to 12th place, Garet Caelren felt no warmth from the sun above nor satisfaction from the murmurs of praise. His days blurred into repetition—spear thrusts, footwork drills, mana control, then more spear thrusts until his arms trembled and the courtyard ran slick with sweat.
He could feel it now. The invisible weight that came with recognition. Not respect. Expectation.
"Tch," he muttered, pulling his spear from a cracked training dummy. "They only cheer after you bleed for it."
From across the field, a voice called out. "You'll snap your wrists if you keep shifting your weight like that, Caelren."
Garet turned. A slim figure approached with lazy poise, dressed in midnight-blue robes trimmed with silver thread. Jovhan Raizen.
"Didn't ask for advice," Garet muttered, adjusting his stance anyway.
Jovhan smirked and folded his arms. "I didn't offer it for free. Just figured if you're gunning for the top, might as well make it interesting."
"You planning to stop me?"
"No," Jovhan said, his tone suddenly void of humor. "I want to see if you can reach him."
Sebastian.
Garet met his gaze, measuring the weight behind those words. There was no malice in Jovhan's voice—only something cold and observant, like a noble watching a flame flicker in the dark, wondering whether it would spark or sputter.
"Don't waste the Academy's time, Caelren," Jovhan said. "We've seen too many rise fast and fall faster."
Then, without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away, the hem of his robes trailing through the dust.
---
That evening, the sky hung heavy with clouds, casting the Academy's spires in gray-blue shadow. Garet sat alone on a balcony overlooking the Inner Sanctum—a place where only the top-ranked students were allowed to train.
He had earned access, but not trust.
The nobles eyed him with measured contempt. Some whispered of his commoner roots. Others dismissed his victories as luck. He didn't care.
But tonight… someone approached.
"Do you regret it?"
The voice belonged to Luna Blossomveil, her tone unreadable. She stood a few paces away, arms folded, her eyes like still water—reflective, deep.
"Regret what?" Garet asked.
"Climbing," she said. "It's colder up here than most realize."
He chuckled softly. "You sound like you've been standing on the summit too long."
Luna didn't smile. "I've seen what ambition does to those without balance. You're strong, Caelren. But strength alone won't survive what's coming."
"What is coming?" he asked, half-serious.
She looked out toward the horizon, where the mountains cut into the clouds like jagged blades. Her silence was answer enough.
---
Later that night, a figure knelt in the shadows of a hidden chamber deep beneath the Academy.
Candlelight flickered across the stone walls. A circle of masked figures watched from the dark, unmoving.
"The duels have concluded," the kneeling figure said. "The commoner, Garet Caelren, has reached the top 12."
Murmurs.
"And?"
Another voice—cold, ancient—replied, "Then we watch. And wait. The 1% must never act without necessity."
The candlelight flickered again. And one by one, the masks disappeared into the black.