The Dean’s office was not at the top of a tower, but at the center of a void. To reach it, Kaelen had to walk across a bridge of solidified light that spanned a churning sea of raw, unrefined mana. Here, the air didn't smell like soot or silk; it smelled like the beginning of the world—sharp, cold, and heavy enough to bruise the lungs.Kaelen felt the [Mask of the Noble] humming frantically against his collarbone.[Warning: Ambient Mana Density is 400% above safety thresholds.][System Advice: Maintain 'Low-Profile' mode. If you flare your aura here, the room will ignite.]Kaelen pushed open the heavy silver-oak doors. Inside, there were no books or scrolls. The walls were made of shifting starlight, projecting a live map of the known world. In the center sat a man who looked remarkably ordinary, wearing a simple gray robe that seemed to drink the light around it.This was Dean Alaric. In the Academy, he was a god. In the world, he was the man who decided wh

Thorne didn't stand up. He was simply gone.Kaelen’s heart skipped a beat. His System screamed a red alert across his vision.[CRITICAL ALERT!][Detection: High-Speed Displacement. Direction: Dead Angle.]Kaelen didn't try to look for him. He knew he wasn't fast enough. Instead, he leaned into his instincts—the instincts of a boy who had survived a dozen beatings in the mud of the slums. He threw himself forward in a jagged, ugly roll.A curved blade hissed through the air, inches from the back of his neck. If he had stayed still for a fraction of a second longer, the Mask wouldn't have mattered—he would have been a headless corpse.Thorne reappeared ten feet away, crouching low like a hunting cat. He wasn't breathing hard. He hadn't used a single drop of mana.“You moved before I struck,” Thorne noted, his eyes finally showing a flicker of interest. “You didn't see me. You felt the death coming. Interesting.”“The Dean didn't send me here to be a training dummy,” Kaelen said, pushing

The District of Salt and Iron—the Altherian Docks—was a sprawling labyrinth of rusted cranes, steam-shrouded warehouses, and the rhythmic, metallic heartbeat of the Empire’s commerce. By day, it was the lungs of the city, breathing in raw ore and exhaling finished steel. By night, it was a graveyard for those who didn't look where they stepped.Kaelen stood on the rusted roof of Warehouse 71, the cold wind off the harbor whipping his Academy cloak. The fine silk of the uniform felt absurd here, surrounded by the stench of rotting fish and cheap industrial grease.[Time remaining: 98 Hours, 12 Minutes.]“The air here is saturated,” the System whispered. “Thousands of workers, living in shipping containers, working sixteen-hour shifts for a handful of copper. The ambient Despair is at a constant simmer. If we start a fire tonight, the harvest will be... legendary.”“Focus,” Kaelen thought. “Where is the shipment?”[Scanning... Identifying Mana-Signature 'Liqui

The Upper Spire’s banquet hall was a cathedral of excess. Crystal chandeliers, fueled by the captured light of morning stars, cast a warm, forgiving glow over the cream of Altherian society. The music was a delicate weave of harps and enchanted flutes, designed to drown out the reality of the world below.Valen of House Draken stood at the center of a circle of admirers, a glass of vintage sapphire-wine in his hand. He looked every bit the victor. His father’s influence had already suppressed the news of Julian’s "accident," and tonight, Valen was celebrating the acquisition of three new factory blocks in the West Ward.“To the future,” Valen toasted, his smile as sharp as a blade. “To a world where the strong lead, and the weak… serve their purpose.”Suddenly, the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. The enchanted flutes hit a discordant note and died.The heavy double doors at the end of the hall didn't open; they simply dissolved. Not into splinters, but into a fine, gray a