The central courtyard of Arcanum Bellator was bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon sun. Students crisscrossed the grounds, mostly nobles. Some rushed to avoid being late for evening curfews, while others gathered in small cliques to gossip. The stark divide between the nobility and the commoners was glaringly obvious in the way the groups segregated themselves.
Phantsin Dawnfire felt nothing but exhaustion.
He sat on the stone rim of the Founders' Fountain, letting the frigid water run over his bruised knuckles.
At this hour, the others were scattered.
Lyla was buried somewhere among the endless tomes of The Athenaeum, the Academy's vast library, fleeing from curious eyes and relentless whispers.
From the eastern foundries, the steady, rhythmic ringing of Korbin's hammer could be heard echoing near the geothermal vents.
And on the far side of the courtyard, near the magically sealed, glowing archway that marked the Entrance to the Geode Dungeon, Eliana Dawnshield was repeating her flawless sword routine, as tireless as a clockwork machine.
Phantsin, on the other hand, just wanted to be invisible.
His gaze drifted toward a solemn, white marble building to his right: The Hall of Echoes.
He knew that inside, adorning the memorial walls, hung the portraits of every graduate to date. Including his parents.
He had never stepped foot inside. He was terrified that, if he looked them in the eyes, they would only see the monster he was becoming.
"Enjoying your new fame, Casanova?"
A cold, drawling voice caused Phantsin's shoulders to instantly tense.
Vlad Blackthorn approached, flanked by two of his sycophants from the Caelum faction. The noble wore the same Ignis uniform as Phantsin, but his black jacket was custom-tailored from spider-silk, and his red tie was fastened with a pin of pure gold.
"Leave me alone, Vlad," Phantsin said, not looking up from the water.
"Oh, don't take offense, commoner," Vlad mocked, stopping right in front of him. "I must admit, I'm impressed. A Silvan elf from the Terra faction. I thought her kind had higher standards regarding hygiene and pedigree, but I suppose charity truly knows no bounds."
Vlad's lackeys snickered predictably.
Phantsin clicked his tongue.
"I said, get lost. There is no rumor. It was a misunderstanding."
"Of course it was," Vlad sneered, crossing his arms. "Street scum couldn't possibly aspire to anything more. It's funny, you know? I did a little digging into the illustrious 'Dawnfire' name in the public registries. No lands. No noble bloodline."
Vlad leaned in, a cruel smile twisting his lips.
"I wonder what kind of miserable rats your parents had to be to leave you in the gutter with nothing but a made-up surname. They probably died in some slum alleyway, begging for a copper coin."
The sound of the water falling in the fountain seemed to stop.
His parents had been heroes. They had died protecting this very kingdom.
In the depths of his mind, the monster roared.
Kill him. Burn his tongue. Turn him to ash.
This time, Phantsin didn't even try to hold it back.
He stood up with inhuman speed. Before the Caelum lackeys could use their much-boasted mobility to react, Phantsin grabbed Vlad by the immaculate lapels of his jacket and hurled him backward with overwhelming, brute force.
Vlad stumbled, but recovered his footing with the agility of a cat. His gray eyes widened in shock, followed immediately by a flash of lethal fury.
"You just signed your death warrant, dog," Vlad hissed.
The noble raised his right hand, and the ambient temperature in the courtyard seemed to instantly plummet ten degrees.
In his palm, a long, razor-sharp blade materialized, forged entirely of Shadow Fire.
The flames licking off the blade were a grayish-black, burning fiercely yet emitting absolutely no heat. It was the signature bloodline magic of House Blackthorn: fire fused with darkness. Elegant and deadly.
"Get back!" Vlad barked at his lackeys, who immediately scrambled toward the corridors, joining other students who were stepping back to watch.
An unauthorized duel meant severe punishment, even expulsion. But in that moment, neither of them cared.
Vlad struck first. He moved like an expert fencer, launching a direct thrust aimed right at Phantsin's chest.
Phantsin managed to twist away at the very last second.
Vlad's Shadow Fire grazed the sleeve of Phantsin's black jacket. Instead of burning normally, the fabric seemed to flash-freeze before crumbling into dust, leaving a trail of black frost across his bare arm.
"Not going to use your little explosive tricks, Dawnfire?" Vlad taunted, unleashing a flurry of rapid slashes. "Show me the Overwhelming Force of our faction!"
Phantsin gave ground, ducking and weaving. He had no weapon; only his bare hands. But his rage was spilling over the edge.
Vlad stepped into a brutal horizontal swing, aiming to decapitate him.
Acting on pure, visceral instinct, Phantsin raised his bare arm to block it.
Vlad's shadow blade slammed into Phantsin's forearm.
But instead of slicing through flesh and bone, the spectral black blade crashed against a flare of roaring purple.
Vlad choked back a gasp of sheer terror.
The violet fire erupting from Phantsin's arm was actively eating him.
The Void devoured the Shadow Fire as if it were dry tinder, racing rapidly up the spectral blade straight toward Vlad's hand.
It's too dark. They're going to see it, Phantsin thought, a spike of absolute panic piercing his rage as he watched the forbidden color manifest. If they see the purple, the Inquisition will kill me!
In an act of desperation and sheer willpower, Phantsin seized the violet energy surging from his body and strangled it. He forced it to shift its spectrum, violently injecting every last drop of his residual mana into the filter.
The color snapped in a microsecond—from an abyssal purple to a blinding crimson. But the sudden influx of energy was too much to contain.
A massive fireball detonated between the two boys.
The concussive shockwave launched Vlad several yards through the air, sending him crashing hard against the thick exterior stone walls.
His shadow blade was completely gone.
Phantsin remained standing at the epicenter, engulfed in thick, blinding smoke, coughing violently.
"ENOUGH!"
A voice thundered across the entire courtyard. Students who had been inching closer froze in their tracks.
Commander Brynja Stonefist landed between them, having made an impossible leap from the elevated stands of The Great Crucible. She slammed her staff down, cracking the paving stones.
A second later, Magister Selena Vyshan appeared in a swirl of brilliant blue energy. She raised a hand, and a blast of frigid air extinguished the crimson flames still smoldering on the tatters of Phantsin's clothes.
From across the courtyard, Eliana dropped her training sword and sprinted toward the commotion.
"Unauthorized magical dueling in the first month?!" Brynja roared. She grabbed Vlad by the collar of his ruined, expensive shirt and hoisted him off the ground like a ragdoll. "I'll hang you both by your thumbs from the astronomy tower!"
"He... he attacked me first..." Vlad stammered, pale and trembling, still trying to process what had just happened to his magic.
Phantsin tried to speak, but his voice failed him.
The colossal effort of choking back the purple fire and forcing the subsequent crimson detonation had completely drained his mana core. The physiological stress of fighting his own fundamental nature collected its toll instantly.
The world around Phantsin blurred into a smear of gray.
He knew he would wake up in The Infirmary, surrounded by Terra healers and bitter potions—assuming he wasn't expelled before he regained consciousness.
The voices of Brynja and Eliana, who had just reached his side, began to sound distant, as if he were sinking underwater.
Phantsin collapsed forward, falling unconscious onto the still-scorched stone of the courtyard.
Three stories above, standing on one of the majestic reading balconies of The Athenaeum, a figure watched as the instructors carried the unconscious boy away.
The figure leaned casually against the marble railing.
She looked to be about nineteen years old. Her black jacket was immaculate, and her sapphire-blue tie perfectly matched the trim of her Aether faction uniform, reflecting the doctrine's focus on Precision and Control. Her jet-black hair was sleek and glossy, cascading over her shoulders like spilled ink. She had porcelain skin, sharply pointed ears, and slanted, venomous amber eyes with pupils that narrowed into vertical slits in the sunlight.
She was a Dark Elf.
The girl had watched the entire duel unfold. More importantly, she had seen the unmistakable purple flash right before the clumsy crimson explosion.
"Fascinating," the girl murmured to herself. "The street pup of Ignis has teeth. Very dark teeth."
She licked her lips, which were painted a deep crimson. A malicious, predatory smile spread across her face.
"So much potential wasted playing the hero... I wonder what would happen if someone were to tame him."
With a fluid swish of her skirts, the girl turned around and vanished into the shadows of the library's towering bookshelves.
In her mind, she was already weaving a trap. One that, sooner or later, Phantsin Dawnfire would inevitably fall into.