The morning sun bled crimson over Ashborn Academy's towering spires, staining the cobblestone path beneath my boots like a fresh battlefield. I inhaled deeply—the scent of iron from the wrought-iron gates, the crisp autumn air, and beneath it all, the faint, crackling ozone tang of magic. My magic. The Lightning Affinity was a new, wild thing in my soul, a storm waiting to be unleashed.
A guard in gilded armor, his breastplate polished to a mirror shine, stepped forward to block my path. The insignia of some minor noble house, a prancing unicorn or some such nonsense, was gleamed above his heart. He was young, nervous, and utterly expendable.
"You're an hour late, sir," he declared, his voice cracking on the last word, betraying his unease. "Academy regulations prohibit entry to the Grand Hall after the ceremony has commenced—"
I didn't let him finish. I simply stopped and looked at him.
"Look at me," my voice was a velvet-wrapped blade, soft but lethally sharp. "Really look. Do I seem like someone who gives a damn about regulations?"
His eyes darted from my face to the Crimson insignia still emblazoned on my cloak—the snarling wolf with shadowed eyes, a mark I'd been ordered to remove but wore anyway like a brand of defiance. It was a symbol of a past I had rejected, but also a power I refused to relinquish.
"B-But Lord Crimson," he stammered, his training warring with his survival instinct. "Your disownment—the official decree—"
I closed the distance between us in one smooth, silent stride. I was close enough now to smell the sour fear on his breath, close enough that he could see the cold, empty abyss in my gaze.
"Let me educate you," I murmured, tapping the hilt of my shadow-bound dagger. I watched his pupils dilate, his breath hitching in his throat. "The Crimson family doesn't disown weapons. We shelve them. Until we need them to cut someone's throat." A slow, venomous smile curled my lips. "Now ask yourself—are you truly willing to die on this hill for a rule about punctuality?"
He stumbled back so fast his helmet slipped sideways, his face a mask of pale terror. "P-Please proceed! My deepest apologies, Lord Ashen!"
I strode past him without a second glance, my cloak whispering against the cobblestones.
[System: That was unnecessarily cruel. I love it.]
"The world bows," I mused, my thoughts a cold, quiet hum beneath the surface. "All it needs is someone strong enough to make it bow."
[System: The original Ashen was a raging wildfire, burning everything he touched out of pure, uncontrolled emotion. You? You're a scalpel dipped in neurotoxin. Far more effective.]
The Grand Hall loomed ahead, its massive oak doors carved with scenes of legendary battles—heroes frozen mid-swing, their mouths open in silent, eternal screams. The wood groaned in protest as I pushed them open.
Silence.
Every head in the vast hall turned. Every eye—hundreds of them—burned into me. I could feel the weight of their stares, a physical pressure. Disgust from the nobles who remembered the slap. Curiosity from the students who had only heard the rumors. And fear from those who had witnessed my performance in the trials. It was a familiar cloak, this mixture of scorn and awe, and I wore it with pride.
At the podium stood Headmaster Evelyn, her silver hair braided so tight it pulled at the corners of her eyes, making her look perpetually severe. The 3rd Ranked mage in the world. The Lightning Tyrant. Her violet gaze locked onto mine, and for a heartbeat, I saw it—not disdain, not anger, but a cold, calculating appraisal. It was the look a general gives a new, unpredictable weapon being tested on the battlefield.
Damn it. I needed her to train me eventually. My little stunt at the gate had probably just doused that bridge in oil, waiting for a spark.
So I smirked, slow and deliberate, and sauntered down the center aisle as if I owned the damn hall. Let them stare. Let them whisper. Their judgment was nothing but fertilizer for the monster I would become.
Then I smelled it—the faint, ethereal scent of moonflowers and the sharp, clean tang of cold steel.
I didn't need to look to know who it was.
Seraphina Loire stood in my path, blocking the aisle, her elven ears flushed crimson with rage. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting her silver-blonde hair in fractured, rainbow colors. The ceremonial dagger at her hip—a gift from her goddess, they said—was already half-drawn, its silver hilt gleaming.
"You," she hissed, the single word dripping with a venom so potent it could have curdled milk.
I stopped just shy of touching distance, taking my time to drink in the sight of her trembling fury. The way her delicate, long fingers clenched around the dagger's hilt. The way her violet eyes burned with enough hatred to melt stone.
"Me," I agreed, leaning back on my heels, my expression one of bored amusement. "Missed me, Princess?"
Her dagger was at my throat before the crowd could even gasp. The blade, impossibly sharp, bit into my skin, drawing a thin line of blood that dripped, warm and crimson, onto the pristine white collar of my uniform.
"You dare show your face here after what you did?" Her voice shook with a barely contained rage that made the air around her vibrate. "You humiliated me in the trials! You—"
I didn't move. Didn't blink. I just let the blade press deeper as I smiled, a slow, lazy curve of my lips.
"Correction," I purred, my voice a low, intimate whisper that was for her alone. "I broke you. There's a difference." My tongue darted out, catching the single drop of blood that trickled down my neck. The coppery taste was a jolt to my senses. "Tell me, did your precious goddess weep when her champion fell? Or did she simply find a new toy to bless?"
Her breath hitched. The dagger trembled in her hand—
CRACK.
A bolt of pure, white-hot lightning split the air between us, its passage so swift it left a trail of sizzling ozone in its wake. It struck the marble floor, close enough to singe the hairs on my arms.
Headmaster Evelyn stood at the podium, one hand outstretched, arcs of blue-white energy dancing between her fingers.
"Enough," her voice was soft, but it carried the deadly weight of absolute authority. "Seraphina. Sit. Ashen… welcome to Ashborn."
The unspoken threat hung in the air like a guillotine's blade: One more wrong move from either of you, and I'll reduce you both to a smoking crater.
I licked the last trace of blood from my neck and gave a mocking half-bow. "Thrilled to be here."
The ceremony dragged on—a tedious procession of speeches about honor, tradition, and the sacred duty of mages. Empty words for empty minds. I tuned it out, my mind already moving on, focusing instead on the complex, three-dimensional chessboard before me.
Seraphina sat rigid three rows ahead, her shoulders so tense they could have shattered diamond. Every few minutes, she'd glance back, her gaze a silent promise of murder.
Headmaster Evelyn's eyes flicked to me whenever she thought I wasn't looking, her fingers absently tracing the lightning-shaped scar on her wrist. She was watching me, analyzing me, and I knew, with a chilling certainty, that her test was coming.
And the others—the lesser players in this game—watched me like rabbits watching a wolf. The noble heirs with their ancient bloodline magic and fragile pride. The desperate scholarship students, hungry for power and recognition. The future heroes and villains alike, all sensing the presence of a new, unpredictable predator in their midst.
[System: You've made quite the impression.]
"The first move is always the most important," I replied silently. "Let them fear. Let them wonder. The game has only just begun."
[EMERGENCY QUEST ISSUED: Survive Evelyn's Wrath]
▸ Objective: Avoid being vaporized by the 3rd Ranked Mage in the World for the next 24 hours.
▸ Reward: [Lightning Resistance (Passive Skill)] - Upgrade from D-Rank to B-Rank.
▸ Failure: Your skeleton will become the academy's new, and very expensive, chandelier.
I grinned, the expression sharp as a guillotine's edge.
Challenge accepted.
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