January 29, 2012 — 11:20 AM

Asura Academy — The Coral Promenade, Eastern Shoreline

Perspective: Victor Sterling

The exam was scheduled for February 9th.

11 days.

I let that number sit in my chest as I walked along the Coral Promenade — the wide, stone-paved walkway that curved along the eastern cliffs of the Capital’s coastal border. Below us, the Shimmering Strait stretched endlessly toward the horizon, its surface reflecting the pale winter sun in long, broken ribbons of silver. The salt air was cold and clean, and the sound of waves crashing against the base of the cliff provided a steady, rhythmic pulse beneath everything.

Today was a holiday. The Festival of First Blooms — an imperial tradition celebrating the first winter-born flowers that bloomed along the capital’s canal walks and greenhouse gardens every late January. Merchants set up stalls of preserved petals, sugared flower candies, and woven garland crowns. Students were given the day off.

Most were spending it in the commercial district, buying sweets or wandering the greenhouse exhibitions.

I was spending it on strategy.

"You know, most people use holidays to not think about work."

I glanced to my right.

Ivy Faerydae was hovering about a foot off the ground beside me, her translucent crystalline wings beating in a soft, rapid hum. Her pastel lavender hair was pulled into twin buns, and her violet-pink eyes were fixed on me with that specific brand of cheerful disapproval she had mastered.

She was holding a small paper bag of sugared rose petals she’d bought from a festival stall 10 minutes ago. She popped one into her mouth.

"I’m not working." I said. "I’m walking."

"You’re walking and muttering group formations under your breath." Ivy floated a little closer. "I heard you say ’staggered entry permit’ twice."

"Once."

"Twice." She held up 2 fingers. "I was counting because it’s hilarious."

I let out a slow breath, looking out over the strait. The wind pulled at my hair, and I smoothed it back into place.

"The exam is in 11 days, Ivy. Class B has 25 students divided into a 70/30 split. 70% support my leadership. 30% follow Sylvia. If we don’t have a unified strategy by next week, those numbers are going to shift."

"They won’t shift." Ivy said, eating another rose petal. "Everyone who supports you genuinely believes in your leadership. They’re not going to jump ship to the crazy goddess lady because she gave 1 pretty speech."

"Sylvia doesn’t need them to jump ship." I corrected, keeping my voice measured. "She just needs her groups to outperform mine. If her 30% clears the dungeon faster, earns more credits, and takes fewer casualties — then the majority will start questioning whether my unity philosophy actually works, or whether I’m just dragging them down."

Ivy went quiet for a moment. Her wings slowed.

"So what’s the plan?" She asked.

I stopped walking. We had reached a wide, curved section of the promenade where a low stone wall overlooked the cliffs. Below, the waves rolled against the jagged rocks in slow, heavy surges. To the left, a cluster of old maritime lanterns stood unlit along the railing, their brass frames green with salt corrosion.

I leaned against the wall, facing Ivy.

"We form 4 groups of 5 from my 18 supporters, plus the 7 in Sylvia’s faction form their own groups." I began. "But here’s the key — my 4 groups don’t operate independently. They operate as a coordinated battalion."

Ivy tilted her head. "Battalion?"

"I’m assigning each group a specific role." I said. "Group 1 is the Elite. They enter first, clear the upper floors aggressively, and map the dungeon layout as they descend. Group 2 is the Sweeper. They follow Group 1’s cleared path but hunt every remaining monster Group 1 left behind — securing the credit baseline. Group 3 is the Support. They carry surplus healing potions and act as reinforcements for whichever group encounters unexpected resistance. Group 4 is the Reserve. They move at a steady, controlled pace, ensuring no one falls behind."

Ivy stared at me. She slowly lowered her rose petal bag.

"So instead of 4 separate groups fighting alone... you’re running all 4 as a single coordinated army with different functions."

"Exactly." I nodded. "Sylvia’s groups will be fast and brutal — she’ll prioritize raw speed and combat dominance. But if even 1 of her groups fails, she has no safety net. My system has 3 layers of redundancy. If Group 1 hits a wall, Group 3 rotates forward. If Group 2 falls behind on credits, Group 4 slows down and hunts alongside them."

"That’s..." Ivy paused, her wings fluttering faster. "Actually brilliant."

"Thank you."

"Don’t let it go to your head. Your head is already enormous."

I chose to ignore that.

Ivy floated up to sit on the stone wall, her small legs dangling over the edge. She pulled out another rose petal and chewed it thoughtfully.

"I have a suggestion." She said.

"Go ahead."

"Group 1 — the Elite. They should have a dedicated mapper." Ivy’s eyes sharpened. The bubbly exterior faded for a moment, replaced by something keen and focused. "If your Elite maps the dungeon layout as they descend — every corridor, every branching path, every monster nest location — they can relay that map back to the other 3 groups in real-time."

I frowned slightly. "How? We can’t communicate once we’re inside the dungeon. The mana interference blocks Dwarvian Phone signals below the 3rd floor."

"Glamour Markers." Ivy smiled. "I can place tiny, invisible light markers at every junction the Elite passes through. Color-coded. Red means danger. Green means cleared. Blue means branching path. The other groups won’t need to explore at all — they just follow the markers."

I stared at her.

"That cuts exploration time by at least 40%." I said.

"More like 50." Ivy corrected, popping another petal into her mouth. "And there’s more. If Group 1 maps the boss room on the 10th floor before the other groups arrive, I can set a spatial distortion marker at the entrance. It won’t do anything aggressive, but it’ll create a faint gravitational pull that guides the other groups straight to the boss without getting lost on the lower floors."

"You can do that?"

"I’m a Fairy, Victor." Ivy looked at me with exaggerated patience. "Spatial manipulation is in my blood. My grandmother could bend the corridors of an entire fortress to loop intruders back to the entrance. I can manage a few glowing arrows in a dungeon."

I exhaled slowly, running a hand through my hair.

"And 1 more thing." Ivy held up a finger. "If we go first — if Class B enters the dungeon before Class C — my map stays in place. The markers persist for about 90 minutes before the mana field dissolves them. That means Class C enters a dungeon where all my markers have already faded, but we’ve already used them. It’s a natural, built-in advantage for whoever goes first."

"We don’t control the entry order." I reminded her. "The instructors assign it."

"Then maybe you should ask very nicely." Ivy grinned. "You’re good at that. The whole noble, approachable, strong-jawed leader thing."

I looked at her flatly. "Are you complimenting me or mocking me?"

"Both. Always both."

We continued walking.

The promenade curved inland slightly, passing through a small garden terrace where clusters of winter jasmine had been planted along the stone borders. The Festival of First Blooms had left garlands of braided snowdrops and frost-lilies hanging from the iron railings. A few students sat on the terraced benches, enjoying the holiday air.

Then I noticed her.

A girl was sitting alone on 1 of the far benches. Blonde hair, pulled loosely behind her pointed ears. Green eyes. An Elf. She wasn’t reading or eating or enjoying the festival. She was sitting completely still, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, staring at the ground with an expression that looked like she was bracing for something.

Ivy noticed her too.

"That’s Scarlet." Ivy murmured, lowering her voice. "Scarlet Hearst. Class C."

"You know her?" I asked, not slowing our pace.

"Of her." Ivy corrected. "She was in Elfina’s group during the dungeon practical. Group 5. The one that pulled off the decoy flag stunt. From what I’ve heard, she’s their ice mage."

I glanced at the girl again as we passed. She didn’t look up. Her knuckles were white from how tightly she was gripping her own hands.

That’s not exam anxiety.

Exam anxiety looked like restlessness — pacing, fidgeting, checking notes. This girl was frozen. Locked inside something.

She’s worried about someone. Or something that already happened.

I filed it away and kept walking.

"She looks miserable." Ivy observed quietly.

"She does." I agreed.

Neither of us stopped. It wasn’t our business. Not today.

We reached the end of the promenade, where the path widened into a circular overlook with iron benches facing the sea. The view was stunning — the entire eastern horizon was open water, pale blue fading into distant grey. A few seabirds circled the cliffs below.

I sat down on 1 of the benches. Ivy floated down beside me, her wings folding neatly against her back as she settled.

"Victor." Ivy said. Her tone had shifted.

"What?"

"The real threat isn’t the dungeon." She looked at me, her violet-pink eyes serious. "It’s Sylvia."

"I know."

"If her groups outperform yours — even by a small margin — she’ll use it. She’ll stand in front of the entire class and say, ’Look what my philosophy accomplished. Look what his couldn’t.’ And the 70/30 becomes 60/40. Then 50/50. Then you’ve lost the class."

"I know, Ivy."

"And she’ll do it with that stupid smile." Ivy’s wings buzzed with agitation. Her voice rose. "That awful, condescending, oh-look-at-the-mortals-beneath-me smile. Like she’s watching ants try to build a bridge. Like we should be grateful she even bothers to speak to us."

"Ivy—"

"A human, Victor." Ivy’s eyes were blazing now. "A human girl who thinks she is worthy of being called a goddess. Do you understand how offensive that is? My people — the Fae — we have served the true divine courts for centuries. We have seen beings of real, actual divinity. Beings who hold the fabric of the world in their fingers. And this girl, this 15-year-old child, walks around declaring herself the goddess of fate because she scored well on a few exams and has pretty hair?"

"Ivy—"

"It’s disgusting!" Ivy was fully spiraling now, gesturing wildly with her small hands. "She doesn’t even know what divinity means! She hasn’t held a star fragment! She hasn’t walked the Fae courts! She hasn’t knelt before the Eldertree and felt her own smallness in the face of something truly infinite! She’s just — she’s just a really confident girl with good grades and she thinks that makes her a GOD!"

"Ivy."

"WHAT?"

I stood up. "I’m going to get you something cold to drink."

"I don’t NEED a cold drink, I need Sylvia Somerset to develop basic humility—"

"Stay here." I said calmly, already walking toward a small festival stall near the garden terrace. "I’ll be right back."

"— and maybe read a BOOK about what actual divinity looks like because I am SICK and TIRED of—"

Her voice faded as I walked away. The festival stall was selling iced flower cordials — lavender, rose, and elderflower — served in small crystal glasses with crushed mint. I bought 2. Lavender for her, elderflower for me.

When I came back, Ivy was sitting on the bench with her arms crossed, her wings flat against her back, her cheeks slightly flushed from the rant.

I handed her the lavender cordial without saying anything.

She took it. Sipped it. Her wings slowly relaxed.

"...Thank you." She mumbled.

"You’re welcome."

A long silence.

"I still hate her." Ivy said quietly.

"I know." I sat back down beside her. "But we don’t beat Sylvia by hating her. We beat her by outperforming her. Cleanly. Decisively. So that when the results come in, there’s no argument left to make."

Ivy sipped her cordial again. The color in her cheeks was slowly returning to normal.

"Your battalion system." She said. "It’s good. Really good. But you need to finalize the group compositions by tomorrow. Who’s leading each squad?"

"I have a draft." I said. "I’ll present it to the class tomorrow evening. Private meeting, my supporters only. I want them to feel ownership over the strategy, not like they’re just following orders."

Ivy looked at me. The bubbly mask was gone. In its place was something warm and genuinely admiring.

"You’re a good leader, Victor." She said softly. "You actually care about them. That’s rare."

I looked at her. "You say that like it’s unusual."

"It is unusual." She held my gaze. "Most leaders care about winning. You care about the people who help you win. That’s different. That’s better."

The wind from the strait pulled at her lavender hair. The crystal wings caught the light, scattering tiny prisms across the stone bench.

I looked away, focusing on the horizon.

"We should head back." I said. "I want to review the dungeon schematics from last year’s records before dinner."

"Of course you do." Ivy sighed, standing up and stretching her wings. "No rest for the noble and heroic."

"That’s not—"

"Come on, Mr. Knight of the Realm." She floated up, offering me a teasing grin. "Let’s go save the world. Or at least, you know, pass an exam."

I stood up, brushing off my uniform.

11 days.

Sylvia would come at us with everything she had. Her intelligence, her god-complex, her circle of loyalists who worshipped her like she was the Second Coming.

But I had something she didn’t.

I had people who followed me because they trusted me, not because they feared me.

That had to be enough.

We walked back along the promenade, the winter sea stretching endlessly behind us, the sound of the Festival of First Blooms drifting faintly from the gardens ahead.

January 29, 2012 — 12:40 PM

The Gilded Hearth — Private Dining Hall, Academy Commercial Quarter

Perspective: Sylvia Somerset

The lamb was overcooked.

I cut a thin slice, held it to the light between the tines of my fork, and set it down on the edge of my plate without eating it. The chef of this establishment clearly believed that cooking meat until it resembled leather was an acceptable culinary practice. It was not.

The Gilded Hearth was a high-end restaurant tucked into the northern corner of the Commercial Quarter, reserved primarily for noble-born students and faculty. Private booths, heavy curtains, brass lanterns, and an atmosphere of quiet, moneyed superiority. On a normal academy day, it would be half-empty.

Today, the Festival of First Blooms had filled it to capacity. Garlands of pressed winter roses hung from the rafters.

Students from all 3 classes milled about the main floor, buying sugared petals and floral pastries. The noise was irritating.

Our table was in the far corner, deliberately separated from the crowd.

"The festival is charming." Xerxes Okari said, not looking up from the small runic diagram he was sketching on a napkin. His wire-rimmed glasses reflected the candle flame. "In the way that watching insects pollinate is charming. A functional process wrapped in unnecessary decoration."

"You’re such a romantic, Xer." Belial Selar sneered from across the table. She was eating a plate of rare steak — the only person at the table who seemed genuinely satisfied with the food. Her spade-tipped tail swayed lazily behind her chair. "Do you describe sunsets using mathematical equations too?"

"Sunsets are simply light refraction through atmospheric particles." Xerxes replied flatly. "There is nothing to describe."

"See? Romantic."

Leif Haxen was sitting beside Belial, tearing through his 3rd plate of roasted chicken with the table manners of a starving hound. His golden tail wagged slightly with each bite, his floppy ears twitching at every loud noise from the main floor.

"This is really good." Leif said through a mouthful of food. "Lady Sylvia, you should try the chicken."

"I don’t eat with my hands, Leif." I said.

"Oh." Leif looked down at his chicken leg, then slowly set it on his plate and picked up a fork with visible discomfort.

Icarus Nefar was leaning back in his chair, balancing his practice saber across his lap. His ash-silver hair fell messily over his sharp green eyes. He hadn’t touched his food. He was watching the main floor, scanning the faces of students passing by.

"The flowers are nice." Icarus said. "My uncle mentioned the Festival of First Blooms used to be a military tradition. Soldiers planted winter-born seeds before campaigns. If the flowers bloomed by the time they returned, it meant the gods had favored their war."

"And if the flowers died?" Belial asked.

"It meant the soldiers had died too." Icarus shrugged. "Pretty dark for a flower festival."

I sipped my tea. Elderflower. Tolerable.

"Enough." I set my cup down. "We are not here to discuss botany or military folklore."

The table went quiet. All 4 of them straightened slightly — not out of fear, exactly, but out of the instinctive recognition that I had shifted the conversation from casual to operational.

"The monthly exam." I said. "February 9th. 11 days from now. I want a full status report. Xerxes, Icarus — you first."

Xerxes reached into his jacket and produced a single, neatly folded page. He placed it on the table between us.

"I’ve been analyzing the exam rules Instructor Sukuna announced." Xerxes began, pushing his glasses up. "The official guidelines are clear — groups of 3 to 5, timed dungeon descent, credit system based on monster kills, 10th floor boss clear. Standard."

He tapped the page.

"But there are gaps. Specifically, the rules don’t mention inter-group credit sharing."

I raised an eyebrow. "Explain."

"The credit threshold is applied per group." Xerxes said. "Each group must independently meet the baseline. But the rules don’t prohibit 1 group from deliberately leaving high-value monsters alive for another group to kill. In other words — if our strongest group clears the path but intentionally skips certain elite-tier monsters on Floors 6 through 9, we can funnel those kills to our weaker group to ensure they meet the credit baseline."

"Credit funneling." I murmured.

"Precisely." Xerxes nodded. "Instructor Sukuna oversees the dungeon monitoring, and his briefing made no mention of restrictions on coordinated kill allocation between separate groups. Either it’s an intended mechanic they expect the intelligent students to discover, or it’s an oversight. Either way, it is exploitable."

Clever.

I looked at Icarus. "And yours?"

Icarus grinned, pulling a second page from his jacket. This one was covered in hand-drawn corridor diagrams and directional arrows.

"Formations." Icarus said, slapping the page down beside Xerxes’s. "I’ve been studying the dungeon layouts from the academy archives. The controlled dungeon sectors follow a standard descending spiral pattern — wide corridors on the upper floors, narrow chokepoints on the lower floors, open caverns for boss encounters."

He traced a line with his finger.

"Most groups will descend floor by floor, clearing each level before moving down. That’s the safe approach. It’s also slow. My proposal is an aggressive split-rush — we enter as 2 groups. Group 1 blitzes straight to Floor 5 without stopping, skipping all combat on Floors 1 through 4. Group 2 follows behind, sweeping the skipped floors for credits."

"The monsters on Floors 1 through 4 are weak." Xerxes added. "Group 2 can handle them alone without difficulty. Meanwhile, Group 1 reaches the deeper floors with full mana reserves and fresh stamina."

"By the time Group 2 catches up on Floor 5, Group 1 has already cleared Floors 5 through 7." Icarus continued. "We converge on Floor 8, push together to Floor 10, and hit the boss with the combined strength of both groups at peak condition."

He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head.

"Estimated total completion time: 58 minutes. Credit surplus: approximately 340% above the baseline threshold."

I stared at his diagrams for a long moment.

340% surplus. Less than an hour.

"Your time estimates account for variable monster density on the restocked lower floors?" I asked.

"Yes." Icarus said. "Even with aggressive restocking, the upper floors produce nothing above B-tier. Group 2 handles them. The real combat happens on Floors 8 through 10, which is where our full combined force hits."

I picked up my teacup.

"Acceptable." I said.

Icarus blinked. Then a wide, satisfied grin spread across his face.

"Did she just say acceptable?" Icarus whispered to Belial.

"That’s the highest compliment she gives." Belial muttered. "Take it and shut up."

I turned to Belial. "Your report."

Belial set down her steak knife. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand — a gesture that would have been barbaric if she hadn’t also looked genuinely dangerous while doing it.

"Victor Sterling." Belial said. "Right now, he’s on the Coral Promenade with that Fairy girl. Ivy Faerydae."

"Just the 2 of them?" I asked.

"Just the 2." Belial confirmed. "He’s been walking the eastern shoreline for about an hour. Based on what my contact overhead, he’s running strategic formations with her. Group coordination, some kind of relay system."

"Let me guess." I set my teacup down. "He’s planning to use his majority to form coordinated groups that function as a single unit. Safety nets, redundancy layers, mutual support. The classic Sterling approach — no one gets left behind."

Belial stared at me. "How did you—"

"Because it’s what Victor always does." I said. "He builds structures designed to carry the weakest link. It’s noble. It’s heroic. And it has a fatal flaw."

I met their eyes, 1 by 1.

"He cannot save everyone. The dungeon doesn’t care about his philosophy. If a weak student panics on Floor 7 and breaks formation, his entire redundancy system collapses. He’ll waste time, mana, and leadership bandwidth rescuing 1 person while the clock burns."

Xerxes nodded slowly. "The vulnerability of his system is its dependency on the lowest-performing member. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link."

"Exactly." I said. "Victor’s chain has several very weak links. We don’t."

Belial leaned forward. "There’s more."

I waited.

"Leif and I also tracked Rose Valentine." Belial said. Her sulfur-yellow eyes glowed faintly in the candlelight. "She’s at the Scholar’s Canal Walk on the western edge of the Academy grounds. Private meeting with her inner circle — that Elf girl with the ledger, the quiet girl with the grey eyes, and the boy with the hazel eyes who talks too much."

Beatrice Danvers. Cecily Isha. Julian Esther.

"Far from here." Xerxes noted, checking his pocket watch. "The Scholar’s Canal is a 20-minute walk. Quiet, secluded, tree-lined. Exactly where a princess would hold a strategy meeting."

"Rose Valentine is the greatest threat in this academy." I stated.

The table reacted.

Leif’s ears perked up. "What about Lucas Reindhardt? That guy solo’d the dungeon practical. His physical stats and academic scores are near the top."

"Lucas Reindhardt’s gifts are evident." I acknowledged. "His combat ability and academic knowledge are exceptional. But his mindset is worse than a beggar’s. He is a lone wolf who refuses to communicate, cooperate, or follow any structure. During the practical exam, he had zero coordination with his assigned group. He solo’d the entire dungeon through raw power alone."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my Dwarvian Phone. I opened Lucas’s DIS profile and turned the screen toward the table.

The profile picture showed Lucas Reindhardt wearing dark sunglasses indoors, his hood pulled low over his eyes, staring into the camera with an expression of supreme boredom.

His bio read: "The lion does not read unread messages."

Belial squinted at the screen. "Who even wears sunglasses indoors for a profile picture?"

"A boy who thinks he’s the protagonist of his own novel." I said.

Xerxes pushed his glasses up. "Or someone who wants us to underestimate him."

I looked at Xerxes.

"Consider it." Xerxes said, his voice quiet and measured. "His attitude is so aggressively antisocial that it borders on performance. What if the arrogance is deliberate? What if he wants us to laugh at him, dismiss him, and write him off — so that when the moment comes, we’ve never once taken him seriously enough to study his actual capabilities?"

An interesting theory.

"No." I said. "During the practical exam, Lucas did not hold back. He fought at full output from the first floor to the last. He had zero communication with his group. He didn’t strategize, negotiate, or coordinate. He simply destroyed everything in his path."

I turned the phone back toward myself.

"If it were a bluff, he would have shown at least 1 moment of restraint — a flicker of tactical awareness, a calculated withdrawal, something that suggested he was saving strength for a hidden purpose. There was none. He simply does not care about other people. He is capable, absolutely. But he is the definition of a lone wolf. Dangerous in isolation, useless in a system."

"He wants reactions." Icarus said. "The sunglasses, the bio, the sleeping in class. He likes it when people get angry at him. It makes him feel superior."

"Correct." I closed the profile. "Lucas is a weapon without a wielder. Powerful but directionless. Rose Valentine, on the other hand, is a weapon, a wielder, and the entire armory. She is the real threat."

The table fell quiet.

Then Belial smiled — a sharp, predatory expression.

"Speaking of threats." Belial’s voice dropped low. "I saved the best for last."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

"Class C’s mastermind. Elfina."

The name hung in the air.

Xerxes set down his pen. Icarus stopped leaning back in his chair. Even Leif paused mid-chew.

"The girl who pulled off the decoy flag during the practical." Xerxes said. "The one who supposedly orchestrated the entire strategy that exposed Class C’s internal saboteur."

"Supposedly?" Icarus raised an eyebrow. "She had the flag. The real one. The rogue stole a fake."

"That’s what concerns me." Xerxes said. "How does a girl ranked at the bottom of the combat metrics — a support mage with negligible physical stats — orchestrate a deception sophisticated enough to fool a trained rogue, convince 4 groups to follow her leadership, and deliver an emotional speech that unified an entire class of misfits?"

"What if the rogue was 1 of hers?" Icarus proposed, his green eyes sharp. "A plant. Someone she positioned to create a crisis so she could solve it publicly and seize the class representative title."

"Possible." Xerxes said. "But unlikely. The rogue attacked multiple groups indiscriminately. The damage was real. You don’t sabotage your own classmates that aggressively if you’re trying to build loyalty."

I sipped my tea.

"Elfina is a threat who is open from every angle." I said quietly. "And yet we are unable to land a single hit."

They looked at me.

"She has no defensive walls." I continued. "No political faction. No combat dominance. No intimidation. She is completely exposed — a sweet, kind, innocent girl who smiles at everyone and leads through empathy. And yet, somehow, she wins. Every time. The entrance exam. The practical. The representative election. She should be the easiest target in this academy, and instead she is untouchable."

The table was silent.

Belial pulled out her Dwarvian Phone. She checked a message, then turned the screen toward me.

"My contact in Class C just confirmed her current location." Belial said. "She’s at the Moonpetal Gardens — the flower exhibition on the south side of the campus. Apparently she’s been there since morning, enjoying the festival."

"Alone?" I asked.

Belial scrolled through the message. "Her best friend. That black-haired boy. Kaiser Everhart."

Leif’s nose wrinkled. "That lackey? The girl’s the most popular representative in Class C and she’s spending a holiday with him?"

"That’s what the message says." Belial shrugged.

"What do you think, Lady Sylvia?" Leif asked, his amber eyes turning to me.

I opened my Dwarvian Phone and searched Kaiser Everhart’s scouted profile.

The stats loaded on the screen.

Overall Evaluation: 12/100.

I turned the phone toward the table.

Physical Strength: 15/100 [F].

Magical Capacity: 0/100 [F].

Magical Control: 0/100 [F].

Combat Experience: 6/100 [F].

Tactical Intellect: 25/100 [E].

Academic Knowledge: 30/100 [E].

Mana Affinity: 12/100 [F].

Mental Fortitude: 22/100 [E].

Social Skills: 10/100 [F].

Survival Instinct: 18/100 [F].

Belial burst out laughing. "12 out of 100? Zero magical capacity? He can’t even use magic!"

Icarus snorted. "That’s not a student profile, that’s a civilian’s."

Even Xerxes allowed himself a thin, rare smile. "Below average would be generous. This is statistically irrelevant."

Leif didn’t laugh. His tail had gone still.

I stared at the screen.

12 out of 100.

And yet.

"He was there." I said quietly. "During Elfina’s emotional speech to the class — the one that unified all 25 students behind her representative campaign. The one that spoke and gathered everyone’s attention."

"So?" Belial said.

"So the speech was perfect." I said. "Too perfect. The structure. The timing. The emotional cadence. Elfina is sweet and empathetic, yes. But that speech was engineered. It hit every emotional trigger in the room with surgical precision. The phrasing. The pauses. The way she made each student feel individually seen."

I set the phone down.

"Either Elfina is a political genius who has been hiding her strategic mind behind a mask of sweetness — which is possible — or someone coached her. Someone who understood exactly how to manipulate a room full of anxious, frightened students into following 1 leader."

Belial stopped laughing. She looked at the phone.

"Him?" She pointed at Kaiser’s profile. "A boy with zero stats coached the most popular girl in Class C?"

"In my culture," Belial continued, her voice shifting to something lower and more serious, "we have a term. Kha’vren. The Protector of the Throne. In the old demonlands, every royal court had 1 — a shadow who stood behind the princess. Not a knight. Not a soldier. A kha’vren was invisible. They had no title, no rank, no armor. They existed only to ensure the princess survived."

She looked at the table.

"There is a story from the Third Demon War. The Ironblood Legion besieged the human Kingdom of Aelnar for 14 months. They burned every fortress. They killed every knight and every lord. When the walls finally fell, the demon general marched into the throne room expecting to find the princess dead or surrendered."

Belial’s sulfur-yellow eyes burned.

"She was sitting on the throne. Alive. Untouched. Not a single scratch. Every assassin, every saboteur, every siege breaker they had sent inside the walls over those 14 months had simply... disappeared. The princess had no army. No magic. No weapons. Just 1 person standing behind her chair. A boy with no name and no title. A kha’vren."

The table was quiet.

"Nobody could touch her." Belial said. "Because the protector ensured that anyone who tried never tried again."

She pointed at Kaiser’s profile on my phone.

"I get that feeling from these 2."

Xerxes let out a quiet, dismissive exhale. "That’s a fairy tale, Belial. You’re projecting mythological archetypes onto a 12-year-old boy who scored 12 on his scouted evaluation."

"It’s not—"

"It’s a story." Xerxes said firmly. "Empirically, Kaiser Everhart possesses no measurable combat capability, no magical capacity, and an academic knowledge score that places him in the bottom 5% of the entire academy. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one — Elfina is talented, and he is her friend."

"Actually," Leif spoke up. His voice was quieter than usual. His ears were flat against his head.

Everyone looked at him.

"In Beastkin culture, we have something similar." Leif said slowly. "We call it the Scent of the Guardian. It’s not something you see. It’s something you... feel. When a pack member is being protected by something stronger than them, the Guardian’s presence leaves a mark on their scent. Like a warning. Other predators pick it up and instinctively avoid the prey — not because the prey is dangerous, but because whatever is guarding them is."

He looked at Belial.

"I get that feeling too."

Xerxes raised an eyebrow. "You’re basing your strategic assessment on instinct?"

"Canine Beastkin have exceptional intuition." Belial said, surprisingly serious. "Their instincts are rarely wrong."

I held up a hand. The table went silent.

"Kaiser Everhart’s stats are below average." I stated. "His combat rating is 6. His magic is nonexistent. Whatever mythological archetypes you want to project onto him, the data does not support it."

I paused.

"However."

The table leaned in slightly.

"If Elfina is truly the mastermind she appears to be — if she is genuinely this perfect, this capable, this strategically brilliant — then she should be spending this holiday preparing for the exam. Studying formations. Drilling her team. Analyzing the dungeon layouts."

I looked at Belial’s phone, at the message confirming Elfina’s location.

"Instead, she is at the Moonpetal Gardens, watching flowers bloom with her best friend."

I let the silence stretch.

"That is odd." I said. "A true strategist does not take holidays 11 days before a life-or-death exam. Unless she is either supremely confident that she has already won — or she is not the one doing the strategic thinking."

Xerxes’s pen stopped moving. Icarus uncrossed his arms. Belial’s tail went rigid.

"Regardless." I set my teacup down with a precise, quiet click. "After we pass the first monthly exam, I want to shift focus. The 2nd monthly exam will be our opportunity to target Class C directly."

"Target them?" Icarus leaned forward.

"Class C is the weakest class." I said. "If we crush them in a cross-class exam, the benefits are threefold."

Xerxes picked up his pen. "Shall I enumerate?"

"Please."

"First," Xerxes began, "a decisive victory over Class C consolidates your authority within Class B. Victor’s supporters will see your strategy produce real, measurable results. The 70/30 split shifts in our favor."

"Second," Icarus jumped in, "destroying Class C’s morale weakens Elfina’s grip on her class. If her leadership fails to protect them in a cross-class exam, the students who follow her out of admiration will start questioning whether admiration is enough."

"Third," Belial grinned, her sulfur eyes flaring, "it sends a message to Rose Valentine. If we dismantle Class C effortlessly, Class A will know we’re coming for them next. Fear is a weapon. Let them watch us work."

I nodded slowly. "Acceptable analysis."

"I disagree."

Everyone turned to Leif.

The Beastkin boy had stopped eating entirely. His tail was flat against the floor. His amber eyes were fixed on my phone screen, where Kaiser Everhart’s profile photo was still visible.

"Why?" Belial asked.

"Instinct." Leif said.

"What instinct?" Xerxes pressed. "Be specific."

Leif was quiet for a long moment. His ears twitched.

"If we go after Elfina’s class," Leif said slowly, "something bad will happen."

"Something bad." Xerxes repeated flatly. "Could you quantify ’something bad’ in any measurable—"

"No." Leif said. He reached over and touched my phone screen, pressing his claw tip against Kaiser’s face.

"I have a bad feeling about her friend."

Silence.

Then Icarus laughed. "You have a bad feeling about a boy who scored 12? Leif, my practice saber has a higher threat rating than this guy."

Belial smirked. "Maybe his scent is scary."

Xerxes shook his head. "I appreciate the cultural context, but we cannot formulate strategy based on canine intuition."

Leif said nothing. He pulled his hand back, but his eyes stayed on the screen.

I looked at Kaiser’s profile photo.

Black hair. Blue eyes. An expression of complete, practiced boredom.

12 out of 100.

And yet Elfina has never lost when he is beside her.

"I’ll be investigating." I said. "Personally."

The table went quiet.

"Belial." I looked at her. "Keep watch on Elfina. I want movements, contacts, conversations. If she so much as changes her walking route to class, I want to know."

"Understood." Belial nodded.

"And her friend?" Belial asked.

"Leave him to me." I said.

I picked up my teacup and took a final sip. The elderflower had gone cold.

I set it down and looked out through the restaurant’s arched window. Somewhere beyond the commercial district, past the canal walks and the greenhouse gardens, a girl with pink hair was probably eating festival sweets with a boy who couldn’t use magic.

The goddess does not fear mortals.

But she studies the ones who refuse to kneel.

Because the ones who refuse to kneel are the ones who know something she doesn’t.

And a goddess who does not know everything... is not yet a goddess at all.

January 29, 2012 — 2:10 PM

The Scholar’s Canal Walk — Western Academy Grounds

Perspective: Rose Valentine

The canal was quiet. Pale stone walkways bordered the still, narrow waterway on both sides, shaded by rows of silver birch trees whose bare winter branches formed an intricate lattice overhead. Fallen petals from the morning’s Festival of First Blooms floated on the surface in clusters of white and pale blue.

It was the kind of place where conversations were not overheard.

"— which brings us to the deployment order." I said, tracing my finger along the parchment map spread across the stone bench between us. "5 groups. 5 students each. Staggered entry at 3-minute intervals."

Beatrice Danvers sat to my left, her leather-bound ledger open in her lap. Her auburn braid fell over 1 shoulder as she scribbled notes with mechanical precision. Her honey-brown eyes scanned the map, cross-referencing my deployment lines with her own resource charts.

"The credit allocation holds." Beatrice said, tapping her ledger. "At the current monster density estimates, each group needs a minimum of 620 credits to clear the baseline. Your staggered entry ensures the first group draws aggro on the upper floors, allowing groups 2 through 4 to conserve mana for the deeper levels."

"Correct." I nodded.

Cecily Isha was sitting on the stone railing of the canal walk, her legs dangling over the water. Her ink-black hair hung straight and motionless despite the breeze. Her misty-grey eyes were half-closed — not sleepy, but scanning. Always scanning.

"The instructor briefing mentioned a 2-hour time limit per class." Cecily whispered. Her voice was so quiet it could have been the wind. "But they didn’t mention what happens if a group finishes early. Does the clock reset for the next group, or does it keep running?"

I looked at her.

Good question.

"It keeps running." I said. "The 2-hour window is shared across all groups within a class. That’s the first unsaid rule."

Beatrice’s pen stopped. "Shared?"

"Instructor Columbina’s exact words were: ’Each class will have 2 hours to complete the dungeon.’" I recited. "She said class, not group. If she meant each group had 2 hours independently, she would have said ’each group will have 2 hours.’ The phrasing was deliberate."

Cecily’s grey eyes opened fully. "So if Group 1 takes 40 minutes, the remaining 4 groups share 80 minutes."

"Exactly." I said. "Which means the first group must be fast. Not just competent — fast. Every minute they waste is a minute stolen from the groups behind them."

"That changes everything." Julian Esther leaned forward from his seat on the opposite bench. His hazel eyes were sharp, his chestnut hair slightly wind-blown. He traced a geometric pattern on his knee — his thinking habit. "If the timer is shared, then the deployment order isn’t just about strength. It’s about speed-to-strength ratio. We need our fastest clearers going first, not our strongest."

"There’s a second unsaid rule." I continued. "Columbina said the boss on Floor 10 must be cleared for the exam to count. She didn’t say killed."

Julian blinked. "You think there’s a non-combat clear condition?"

"I think the word cleared was chosen carefully." I said. "In dungeon terminology, cleared can mean defeated, bypassed, or neutralized. If there’s an alternate clear condition — a puzzle, a negotiation, a specific environmental trigger — then the group that discovers it gains a massive time advantage."

Beatrice was writing furiously. "And the third?"

"The third unsaid rule is the most important." I folded my hands. "Columbina said credits are earned through monster engagement. Not monster kills. Engagement includes any combat interaction — damage dealt, damage received, support actions, healing, debuffs. A healer who keeps her team alive through a 5-minute fight earns credits. A scout who marks enemies for the group earns credits."

"That protects the support roles." Cecily whispered.

"It protects everyone." I said. "It means we don’t need 25 killers. We need 25 participants who each contribute measurably to combat encounters. The system rewards coordination, not individual dominance."

Silence settled over the canal walk.

Julian leaned back, exhaling slowly. "The strategy is near-flawless, Rose. Genuinely. But there is 1 obvious problem."

"Lucas." I said.

"Lucas." Julian confirmed, his jaw tightening. "He won’t follow a group structure. He won’t coordinate. He’ll walk into the dungeon, destroy everything in his path, and walk out. If he’s in Group 1, he’ll clear the floors so fast that the remaining groups won’t have enough monsters left to earn credits."

"Which is why his group goes last." I said calmly.

Julian paused. "Last?"

"Group 5. Final entry. Lucas and 4 students who can keep pace with his speed." I said. "By the time he enters, Groups 1 through 4 have already swept the dungeon and earned their credits. Lucas enters a dungeon that’s been mostly cleared, which means his solo rampage doesn’t steal anyone’s credit opportunities. He clears what’s left — including the boss — and earns his own credits through sheer output."

"Will he accept going last?" Beatrice asked.

"Lucas doesn’t care about order." I said. "He cares about results. He wants the best record, not the best position. If I frame it correctly — that going last gives him the boss fight with a fresh dungeon reset on the 10th floor — he’ll take it. He gets his stage. We get our structure."

"And if he refuses?" Julian pressed.

"He won’t." I said. "Because going last with a fresh boss is objectively the best record opportunity. Lucas is arrogant, not stupid."

Cecily’s Dwarvian Phone buzzed softly. She glanced at the screen, then slid off the railing.

"I need to leave." Cecily said, her voice barely above a breath. "A few friends from the eastern dormitory want to meet regarding the festival."

"Go ahead." I nodded.

Cecily then walked away.

Julian stood up, stretching his arms. "I should go as well. I have a meeting with the unaligned students in the common hall. There are still 3 or 4 who haven’t committed to a group."

"Bring them in." I said. "Gently."

"Always." Julian flashed a warm, practiced smile.

He turned to leave, then paused.

"Julian." I called. "I need the full class rankings compiled by tomorrow morning. Every student’s scouted stats, dungeon performance, and credit projections."

Julian nodded once. "You’ll have them by breakfast."

He walked off down the canal path, his footsteps fading into the quiet.

Beatrice lingered a moment longer, closing her ledger with a soft snap.

"Rose." Beatrice looked at me. "The strategy is sound. But be careful. 11 days is enough time for something to go wrong."

"Something always goes wrong." I said. "That’s what the contingency groups are for."

Beatrice offered a small, precise nod, then departed down the opposite path.

I sat alone on the canal bench for a long moment. The festival noise drifted faintly from the south — music, laughter, the distant clink of glass ornaments hanging from stall frames.

I should see it.

I stood up, folded the parchment map into my coat, and began walking south toward the commercial district.

It took approximately 4 minutes before the first person recognized me.

"Is that — Rose Valentine?"

A pair of students from Class B stopped in the middle of the cobblestone path. The girl clutched her friend’s arm, eyes wide.

"Your Highness!" A merchant at a nearby flower stall bowed deeply, nearly knocking over his display of crystallized petals. "What an honor! Please — take a garland, on the house!"

"Thank you." I smiled politely. "But I couldn’t accept without paying. Your flowers are beautiful — they deserve a fair price."

I placed 3 silver on his counter and took a small wreath of white snowdrops. The merchant looked like he might faint from happiness.

More heads turned as I walked. Whispers followed me like a tide.

"That’s the princess..."

"She’s even prettier in person..."

"Is she alone? Where are her guards?"

I kept my expression warm. My posture relaxed. My stride unhurried.

This is the part of being a princess that no one teaches you. The performance of ease. The constant, invisible labor of making everyone around you feel comfortable while you carry the weight of their expectations on your back.

I turned into a narrow alley between a tailor’s shop and a closed bookstore. The noise fell away. I reached into my bag and pulled out a dark green hooded cloak — simple, unembroidered, the kind any commoner student might wear on a cold day.

I pulled it over my shoulders, drew the hood up, and tucked my blonde hair inside.

When I stepped back onto the main path, I was no one.

The Moonpetal Gardens were on the south side of the campus — a wide, circular garden space enclosed by low hedge walls and decorated with hundreds of hanging lantern baskets filled with winter-blooming moonpetals. The flowers glowed faintly in shades of silver and pale blue, even in daylight. The festival had transformed the gardens into a small fairground — food stalls, ribbon games, and a large central pavilion where a crowd had gathered around some kind of competition.

I entered through the eastern gate, keeping my hood low.

And then I saw him.

Sitting on a bench near the garden’s northern edge, facing the central pavilion but not watching it. His liquid-gold eyes were fixed on something — or nothing — with a stillness that bordered on statuesque. His spun-gold blonde hair fell neatly around a pale, expressionless face.

Asier Yeshe.

My desk neighbor. The boy who had introduced himself to Class A by saying he hated studying and only enrolled because of his parents. The boy who had not spoken a single voluntary word in homeroom since.

He was holding a paper cup of something warm. Steam curled upward from it.

I approached and sat down on the far end of his bench.

"Hello, Asier."

He turned his head. His gold eyes registered my face beneath the hood with zero surprise, as if he had expected me to be there.

"Rose Valentine." He said. His voice was flat and quiet. Not rude — just empty. Like someone reading a name off a list.

"Here for the festival?" I asked.

"Yeah." He said.

A silence.

"The flowers are lovely." I offered.

"They are flowers." Asier replied. "They do what flowers do."

This is going to be a stimulating conversation.

"Isn’t it risky?" Asier asked, after a pause. "Coming out alone. Without your circle."

"I have a cloak." I said.

"A cloak does not stop a knife."

"No one is going to stab me at a flower festival, Asier."

"Unlikely." He agreed. "Not impossible."

I looked at him. His expression had not changed. It never changed.

The same neutral, empty mask — gold eyes watching the world like a cat watches rain. Not interested. Not disinterested. Simply present.

"Your strategy for the exam." Asier said, still looking at the pavilion. "It was flawless."

I blinked. "You were listening?"

"You presented it to the class 3 days ago." He said. "I was sitting next to you. It would have been difficult not to listen."

"I didn’t think you were paying attention. You were staring out the window."

"I was staring out the window." He confirmed. "And listening."

I let that settle.

"The staggered deployment. The shared timer deduction. The credit engagement theory." Asier listed them without inflection, as if reciting a grocery list. "Optimal. Each component reinforces the others. The strategy minimizes waste, maximizes throughput, and accounts for changing student performance. It is the correct path."

"Thank you." I said. "Do you have any questions? Doubts?"

"No."

"None at all?"

"You chose the optimal path." Asier repeated. "Questioning the optimal path is suboptimal."

I studied him for a moment.

"Why don’t you make friends, Asier?" I asked. "Or connect with anyone socially? You’re brilliant. People would respect you if you let them."

"I am not social." He said. "Interacting with people is... difficult."

"Maybe if you didn’t wear a poker face every second of every day, it would be easier."

"This is not a poker face." Asier turned to look at me. His expression was exactly the same as it had been for the entire conversation.

"I am simply inexpressive. There is a difference."

"The difference being?"

"A poker face is a mask. This is just my face."

I almost smiled.

A burst of cheering erupted from the central pavilion. I turned to look.

"There is a competition." Asier said, nodding toward the crowd. "Floral arrangement. Participants craft decorative pieces from real flowers — crowns, bouquets, sculptural displays. The festival’s signature event."

The pavilion was ringed with small tables, each holding baskets of fresh-cut flowers — moonpetals, frost-lilies, snowdrops, winter jasmine, and a few rare varieties I didn’t recognize. Participants sat in pairs, weaving and folding petals into intricate designs.

The prizes were displayed on a raised platform at the front. A crystal vase filled with preserved aurora blossoms — flowers that shifted color with the ambient mana in the room. A hand-carved wooden music box shaped like a blooming rose. And the first-place prize — a single Moonheart Orchid, a rare pink flower whose petals held a faint, bioluminescent glow, said to bloom only once every 7 years.

"The prizes are beautiful." I murmured.

Most of the participants were adults — couples, by the look of it.

Experienced hands folding petals with practiced confidence. Some had clearly done this before. Their arrangements were precise, elegant, professional.

Then I noticed them.

Near the back of the pavilion, at the smallest table, 2 children sat surrounded by flowers.

A girl with soft pink hair tied in a loose side ponytail, wearing a cream-colored knit sweater and a pale blue scarf. She had her fist raised in the air, laughing brightly, while her other hand gripped the wrist of the boy beside her.

The boy had black hair, blue eyes, and a navy-blue coat buttoned up to the collar. He was staring at the pile of flowers on his table with the expression of someone who had just been asked to defuse a bomb.

Elfina Lunaris. And Kaiser Everhart.

She was dragging him toward the table, practically bouncing with excitement. He followed with the resigned calm of a man being led to his own execution.

"They’re competing." I said.

Asier looked at the pair. "Against adults who appear to have done this professionally."

"Do you think it was her idea?"

"She is holding his wrist." Asier observed. "He is not resisting, but he is also not moving voluntarily. I believe that answers your question."

I watched as Kaiser sat down at the table, picked up a moonpetal, turned it over in his hands, and immediately dropped it.

Elfina cheered him on from beside him, clapping her hands.

"He entered for her." I said softly.

"Evidently." Asier replied.

We watched for a moment. Kaiser attempted to fold a frost-lily into what might have been a petal curl. The stem snapped. Elfina laughed and handed him another one.

"Rose." Asier’s voice shifted. Still quiet. Still flat. But something in the cadence had changed. "Who do you think is the biggest threat in this academy?"

I looked at him. "You’ve never once asked about my wellbeing or how I’m doing, and today you sound like you’re conducting a strategic interview."

"I am conducting a strategic interview." Asier said. "Your wellbeing appears adequate."

I exhaled. "The biggest threat is in our own class is..."

"Lucas."

"He is a threat to the entire academy structure. Not just us."

"He is a threat to the academy, yes." Asier said. "Not to us. Not in this exam. He will perform. He will produce results. He will not sabotage your strategy because sabotage requires caring about other people’s plans, and Lucas does not care about anything except being the best."

He paused.

"I am asking about the cross-class exam. The 2nd monthly test. When the classes face each other directly." His gold eyes held mine. "Who are you going to target?"

I looked back at the pavilion. Kaiser had attempted a second flower fold. It collapsed again.

Elfina patted his head encouragingly, and he stared at the ruined petals with an expression of dignified failure.

"Elfina." I said. "Class C."

"Why?"

"Class B has internal conflicts." I said. "Victor and Sylvia are splitting their class’s resources and loyalty. They’ll weaken each other before we even need to engage them. We have time. But Class C is different. Elfina’s Rank 0 academic status — the perfect Celestial Magic score — has given her a mythical reputation. If we let that reputation grow unchecked, it becomes a rallying point. The other classes will see her as untouchable, and untouchable becomes unkillable becomes unbeatable. We need to challenge that image before it solidifies."

Asier said nothing for a long moment. We watched Kaiser pick up a new flower.

This time, his fingers moved more carefully. The fold held. He placed it beside the others. It was crooked and slightly crushed, but it was a fold.

Elfina clapped.

"Let me ask you something else." Asier said. "About the exam rules."

"Go ahead."

"Did you find anything odd?"

I looked at him. "I found 3 unsaid rules."

"You found 3 rules that Columbina left unspoken." Asier corrected. "I am asking if you found something odd."

I frowned.

"What if," Asier said slowly, "the time-to-credit ratio is not fixed?"

"Explain."

"Columbina said credits are earned through engagement. She did not specify a flat rate per monster." Asier’s gold eyes reflected the lantern light. "What if credits are reduced by the seconds a group spends on each encounter? A group that kills a Floor 3 beast in 30 seconds earns more credits than a group that takes 2 minutes. The system would reward efficiency over thoroughness."

I stared at him.

"If that’s true," I said, "then every encounter has a hidden timer. And every second wasted in combat is a credit penalty."

"Which means a monster’s overall credit value can be reverse-engineered." Asier said. "If you time 3 kills of the same monster type at different speeds and compare the credit outputs, you can calculate the base value and the decay rate. Then you know exactly how fast you need to kill each type to maximize returns."

"That’s..." I stopped. "That’s similar to the entrance exam."

"The negative marking system." Asier nodded. "Where failing to answer correctly was punished, not just unrewarded. The academy builds punishment mechanics into every system. They don’t just reward success — they penalize failure. It is the same philosophy applied to combat."

He’s right.

The entrance exam punished wrong answers with -1. The dungeon exam likely punishes slow kills with credit decay. The academy doesn’t want raw mages. It wants Sorcerers.

"You have a sharp mind, Asier." I said.

"The bench I sit on faces a window." Asier replied. "The window faces the training yard. I watch students train. Which helps me understand combat well."

"That’s not modesty. That’s deflection."

"Deflection and modesty are the same thing. One is simply more honest about its intentions."

I looked back at the pavilion.

Kaiser had found a style. His fingers moved with a strange, mechanical precision now — not the practiced grace of the adult competitors, but something clinical and efficient. He was studying the other tables, watching how the experienced craftsmen folded their petals, and replicating their techniques in real time. Each attempt was slightly better than the last. The crooked folds were straightening. The crushed petals were smoothing out.

At the start, he couldn’t even hold the flower without breaking the stem.

Now his arrangement was beginning to take shape — a small, circular crown of interwoven moonpetals and frost-lilies.

Elfina was watching him with her hands clasped under her chin, her blue eyes wide and sparkling.

"He’s learning." I said quietly. "In real time."

"He is." Asier agreed.

A silence settled between us.

"Don’t target Class C." Asier said.

I turned to look at him.

"Why?"

"You should never judge a person by their face." Asier said. "The ones who show you nothing are the ones carrying the most. And the ones carrying the most are the ones you should never corner. Because when a person with nothing to lose is backed against a wall..." He paused. "They don’t surrender. They become something else entirely."

"That’s vague." I said.

"I once spoke too much." Asier said. His voice didn’t change, but something behind it did — a weight, pressing against the flat surface of his tone like a hand against glass.

"I said the wrong words to someone. I thought I was the greatest. I thought the distance between us was infinite. That no matter how many times they came at me, they would fail. And they did fail. Day after day. Attempt after attempt. Utter defeat, one after another."

He looked down at his cup.

"Yet the resolve remained." He said. "Every morning, they stood up again. Every evening, they came back. I destroyed them completely, over and over, and they simply... continued."

"What happened?" I asked.

"I won." Asier said. "I sent that person to the depths of hell."

His gold eyes were perfectly still.

"But the cost..." He turned the cup slowly in his hands. "The cost is that I do not know whether the one I sent to hell ruled it from beneath. Or whether they are climbing back up, remade as something I no longer recognize. Something that no longer fears me. Something that has surpassed its own humanity."

"How is that related to anything?" I asked.

Asier looked at me directly. For the first time since I had known him, there was something behind his eyes that wasn’t emptiness. It wasn’t emotion — not exactly. It was recognition. The recognition of someone who had seen a pattern before and was watching it repeat.

"You are the most gifted student in this academy, Rose." He said. "The only human who can wield both Cursed and Celestial magic simultaneously. A phenomenal combination. It counters Elemental, Cursed, Celestial, Elvian, Demonic — anything. You mix disciplines the way a chemist mixes reagents. You are, by every objective measure, the most talented person in this school."

"Thank you." I said carefully. "But I sense a qualifier."

"What is talent?" Asier asked.

I thought for a moment. "Talent is the ability to perform at a level others cannot reach through effort alone."

"And what is the distance between the talentless and the talented?"

"Infinite." I said. "That’s the point of talent. It can’t be closed."

"From where we stand," Asier said, "it looks infinite. The gap between someone who can use magic and someone who cannot seems unbridgeable. Permanent. Fixed."

He set his cup down on the bench.

"But give the talentless a reason — a single, genuine reason to close that distance — and they erase it." His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. "Not with skill. Not with training. With something that talent cannot replicate. Something that burns longer, cuts deeper, and does not care how wide the gap is."

He looked back at the pavilion.

"Maybe the devil can have a heart." He said. "Something that makes them believe in kindness. Something that shows them the world is not only cruelty and competition. And when the devil discovers kindness — when they find the 1 thing worth protecting — they become something far more dangerous than any genius."

"Because they have something to lose." I said.

"Because they have something they refuse to lose." Asier corrected.

A roar of applause erupted from the pavilion.

I looked up.

Kaiser was standing at his table, holding a completed flower crown — a delicate, perfectly symmetrical ring of interwoven moonpetals and frost-lilies, accented with tiny sprigs of winter jasmine. It was, somehow, the most beautiful arrangement at the competition. Not because it was the most technically complex — several adult competitors had produced more elaborate pieces — but because it was precise.

Every petal was placed with mathematical intent. Every fold was clean.

The judges were conferring. Then 1 of them raised a hand and pointed at Kaiser’s table.

First place.

Elfina screamed. Not a ladylike exclamation — a full, uninhibited shriek of joy.

She grabbed Kaiser’s arm and shook it violently. He stood there, letting himself be shaken, his expression unchanged.

He picked up the Moonheart Orchid — the rare pink flower, glowing faintly with bioluminescence — and placed it gently in Elfina’s hair, tucking it behind her ear. Then he lifted the flower crown and set it carefully on her head.

Elfina went still. Her cheeks flushed pink. She reached up and touched the crown with her fingertips, as if confirming it was real.

Then she smiled — not the bright, public smile she wore for her class, but something smaller and more radiant.

She took Kaiser’s hand and held it tightly.

"At the start, he couldn’t even fold a petal." I said quietly. "And he won."

"He didn’t want to win." Asier said. "He wanted to see her happy. And look at her."

Elfina was swinging their joined hands back and forth, talking rapidly, her flower crown slightly crooked on her pink hair.

"She is smiling." Asier said. "And she is holding his hand."

A long silence.

"Why not target Class C?" I asked again.

Asier stood up from the bench. He picked up his cup.

"My goal is to live a normal, boring life here." He said. "Graduate from Class A. Nothing more. I will lend you my strength when danger calls. But I will not help you start a war you don’t need to fight."

"Then what’s the winning strategy?" I asked.

Asier looked at the sky.

"Defeat Class B in the yearly final." He said. "They are fractured. Victor and Sylvia will consume each other. Let them. Then, in the 2nd year, make an agreement with Class C. Transfer a select few students — the strongest, the most compatible — into a merged alliance. One that includes Elfina. It’s the most optimal and safe path."

He paused.

"Their representative is here, in fact." He glanced toward Elfina. "You could start the conversation now."

"That’s cowardly." I said. "An alliance built on avoidance rather than victory. And it’s based on nothing — no data, no threat assessment, just your feeling that something is wrong."

I stood up.

"I came to this academy to prove myself." I said. "To earn my place. To show my family, my kingdom, and every person who bowed to me out of obligation that I deserve their respect through merit, not title. Using backdoor alliances and diplomatic shortcuts is not how I intend to graduate."

"Determination is admirable." Asier said. "Just don’t let it become stubbornness."

"Is there a difference?"

"Determination listens. Stubbornness doesn’t."

He turned to leave, then stopped.

"The monthly exam will go in your favor." He said. "Your strategy is the strongest in the academy. I have no doubt. But watch for a sudden rule. The academy likes surprises. Columbina’s smile at the end of the briefing was too long."

He walked away, his cup steaming faintly in the cold air, his gold hair catching the pale winter light.

I stood alone in the Moonpetal Gardens.

The festival moved around me — laughter, music, the soft glow of hanging lanterns. In the pavilion, Elfina was showing her flower crown to a group of admirers who had gathered around her, pointing excitedly at each petal. Kaiser stood a step behind her, hands in his pockets, watching her with an expression I couldn’t quite read from this distance.

I am Rose Valentine.

Princess of the Asura Empire. Class A Representative. The highest-ranked student in Asura Academy’s history.

I came here to win. Not to hide behind alliances. Not to avoid fights. Not to play safe.

My duty is to graduate at the top. To prove that the throne I was born into is the throne I earned. To show every noble, every knight, every citizen who ever whispered that a princess cannot be a sorcerer — that they were wrong.

And yet...

A boy who barely speaks just told me not to corner a devil...

What am I missing?

I shook my head.

Nothing. I’m missing nothing. I have the strongest class. The best strategy. The highest stats in every category. I have Beatrice’s logistics, Cecily’s intelligence network, Julian’s diplomacy, and 23 students who believe in me.

We will pass this exam. We will dominate the rankings. And when the cross-class tests come, we will meet whatever Class B and Class C throw at us — and we will win.

That is not arrogance.

That is preparation.

I pulled the hood of my cloak down and let my blonde hair fall free. The winter air was cold against my face, but the lantern light was warm.

But first...

I looked at the festival stalls. A woman was selling sugared moonpetal candies from a glass jar. A group of children were chasing each other through the hedge maze, laughing. The music from the pavilion had shifted to something slow and gentle.

First, I think I need a break.

I walked toward the candy stall, bought a small bag of sugared petals, and sat down on a bench overlooking the gardens.

The flowers glowed silver and blue in the fading afternoon light.

I ate a petal. It was sweet.

For a few minutes, I was not a princess, not a representative, not a strategist.

I was just a girl at a flower festival, eating candy, watching the lanterns glow.

11 days.

But today isn’t 1 of them.