Huey & Willy strode through campus, taking in the atmosphere.
Virelia's academic district was crawling with students, professors, and Crest trainees.
They realize classes are already over, and Willy shows Huey the Freshman Week schedule.
The debate is happening right now.
The morning sun bathed Virelia's campus in a crisp golden glow, but the energy within the academic district was anything but serene. The pathways filled with students moving between buildings, some flipping through holo-tablets, others engaged in animated discussions about Crest theory, Rift anomalies, or upcoming trials.
Huey half-listened as he walked beside Willy, his gaze sweeping over the grand structures that defined Virelia's architecture. Towering lecture halls with smooth glass-paneled exteriors stood alongside ancient stone courtyards, an intentional blend of cutting-edge technology and old-world prestige.
Above them, holo-displays flickered, projecting event schedules across the wide walkways.
> "Friday: Crest Showcase & Short Tournament!"
"Saturday: The Freshman Ball!"
Huey squinted at the list, unimpressed.
> Huey (flatly): "This whole place is starting to feel like a reality show."
> Willy (grinning): "If it was, you'd already be eliminated."
> Huey: "Bold of you to assume I'd sign up."
The conversation drifted off as they stepped past an open training field, where students practiced their Crest techniques. A girl sent a gust of wind spiraling through a practice dummy, while another formed a temporary gravity field, trapping their opponent in midair.
> Nothing unusual.
> Just a normal day in a school full of walking anomalies.
Ahead, a crowd swarmed the entrance to one of the larger lecture halls. Loud voices spilled out into the courtyard, accompanied by the occasional burst of laughter or boos.
Huey slowed his pace, eyeing the commotion with suspicion.
> Huey: "What's going on?"
> Willy (grinning): "Oh, right. You're gonna love this one. It's the Freshman Debate."
Huey immediately sighed.
> Huey: "Why did I ask?"
Willy pulled out his holo-tablet, flipping through the week's event schedule before shoving the screen into Huey's face.
> Thursday: The Freshman Debate!
Watch Virelia's sharpest first-years clash in a battle of logic and strategy!
Final Round: Logistics & Support vs. Combat & Field
> Huey (unamused): "Who the hell keeps writing these? Who decided a university debate needs dramatic marketing?"
> Willy: "Virelia students take their rankings seriously. Even debates get bloodthirsty."
Huey sighed, giving in to curiosity.
> Huey: "Who's speaking?"
> Willy (grinning wider): "Jonas for Logistics, Josephine for Combat. Co-speakers? Luan and Mira."
Huey paused.
Mira Veltman.
His gaze shifted toward the lecture hall doors, where more students were pushing inside.
> Huey: "Huh."
> Willy (raising a brow): "That's it? Just 'Huh'?"
Huey shrugged.
> Huey: "Just thinking."
And without another word, he stepped toward the hall.
Willy followed.
> Willy (grinning to himself): "That's how you know something just got interesting."
The lecture hall stretched wide, structured like a classic auditorium with rows of seats towering above the central stage.
At the very center, four figures stood beneath the hovering holo-displays, their faces magnified on the massive screens above.
Huey's gaze swept over them, mentally noting each one.
Josephine stood boldly, hands on her hips, a gleam of excitement in her dark brown eyes. There was something **almost theatrical about her stance—**a natural performer, someone who enjoyed the spotlight.
Her thick black curls were pulled back into a ponytail, accentuating her sharp cheekbones and golden-tan skin. She had that classic Latino confidence, the kind that made people either admire her or want to argue with her.
Beside her, Mira Veltman stood unnervingly still.
She was the complete opposite of Josephine. No unnecessary movement, no excess emotion. Just calm, calculated silence.
Her purple hair, laced with thin white braids, was neatly tied back, and her uniform—pristine, tailored perfectly—looked like it had never seen a wrinkle in its life.
Her ice cold eyes reflected her status,with the entirety of it being black including the naturally white sclera save for her iris which shone white like a ring dropped into a black pool, She hadn't spoken yet.
But she was already controlling the atmosphere.
On the other side of the stage, Jonas stood with his arms crossed, exuding quiet confidence.
He looked like the kind of guy who planned everything three steps ahead—sharp, composed, unreadable.
His uniform was perfectly pressed, tie neatly done, the whole look borderline corporate. He had the same deep brown skin and features as Huey, but unlike Huey, he cared about presentation.
Next to him, Luan was clearly checked out.
She was tall, with thick curves and flawless tan skin, her American-Asian heritage showing in the delicate angles of her features. Her curly brown hair was styled into two high buns, bangs covering half her forehead.
She was slouched, arms folded, her dark brown eyes practically screaming, 'I don't wanna be here.'
> Huey (muttering to Willy): "I'm betting 500 credits she leaves mid-debate."
> Willy: "Bold of you to assume she's waiting that long."
Jonas was the first to speak.
> Jonas (sharp, unwavering): "The argument is simple. Crest Bearers hold immense power, and with that power comes responsibility. If you have the ability to stop a disaster, a crime, a Rift incident—you should be obligated to do so."
Josephine smirked, tilting her head.
> Josephine (smoothly): "And if they refuse?"
Jonas didn't blink.
> Jonas: "Then they're cowards."
The crowd erupted—some cheering, others booing.
Josephine let the noise settle before speaking again.
> Josephine (grinning, voice teasing): "So you believe power means obligation? That's interesting, considering your Crest is a low-level Aeon."
The crowd gasped dramatically.
Jonas barely reacted.
> Jonas (calmly): "It's not about the level of the Crest. It's about the system we build around it."
Josephine's grin widened.
> Josephine: "Or maybe that's just the thinking of someone who wants control over something they can't force."
Another ripple of cheers and boos.
Huey tilted his head, watching Mira.
She still hadn't spoken.
But something about her posture told him she was waiting.
And then, when the timing was right—Mira finally spoke.
> Mira (calm, measured): "Power doesn't create obligation."
The crowd fell silent.
> Mira: "Responsibility is a choice. And choice is what defines us—not power."
Her words cut through the tension, sharp and deliberate.
Just as Josephine parted her lips for a rebuttal, the speaker system crackled to life, stealing the spotlight.
"Attention all students. Sonny Grayson, the White Owl of the Arcana order, will soon be arriving on campus for the scheduled exercise. Students assigned to the welcoming committee should prepare accordingly."
The debate instantly deflated, tension dissolving into murmurs of excitement. A legend in the field—here, in the flesh.
Josephine stretched lazily, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Shame. I was just getting warmed up." She shot Mira a side glance. "We should do this again. Maybe next time, you'll come with something stronger than 'society is unfair.'"
The announcer cleared his throat. "With that, we officially wrap up today's event. Thank you all for attending."
Huey barely heard him. His mind still gnawed on Mira's words. What did she mean by all that? But even that thread of thought unraveled under the weight of something bigger—Sonny Grayson White. Here.
The scene shifted.
A stall door creaked open in the campus restroom. Caleb, the very same announcer from earlier, stepped out, straightening his blazer. He adjusted his tie with a sigh before pushing open the door to leave.
A handkerchief clamped over his mouth from behind.
His body reacted instantly. The edges of his irises flared red, his pupils vanishing as raw energy crackled around him. He threw his attacker off, sending them skidding backward into the sink with a sharp crack.
A boy in a white hood and a plain mask met his gaze, unfazed.
Caleb's hand clenched—his crest surged—
A sharp sting at his neck.
The masked figure withdrew the syringe just as Caleb staggered, his limbs turning sluggish, his vision swimming. He tried to focus, to push past the numbing sensation creeping through him, but his knees buckled.
His last fleeting thought: Fast. Too fast.
Then, darkness.
The masked figure lingered for a moment, gazing down at the crumpled form of the announcer. The cracked mirror reflected a distorted image—a figure in white, looming over a fallen student. Then, without a word, they slipped into the shadows, leaving only silence in their wake.