"Noticed is just another word for targeted," the man said, stepping directly into Seraphelion’s path to force a halt.Seraphelion stopped, his boots kicking up a fine, gray dust that coated the damp floor of the tunnel.He kept his posture relaxed, his hands held at his sides, though his eyes were already cataloging the exit points of the corridor."I didn't ask for the attention," Seraphelion said.The man sneered, a jagged movement of thin, pale lips."In this place, you don't have to ask for a blade in your back, yet you’ll receive it all the same.""And you are?" Seraphelion asked, tilting his head slightly."Someone who knows exactly what happens to people who use techniques that haven't been taught in five centuries," the man replied.He leaned in close, his breath smelling of stale tea and ink."My name is Silas, and you’ve just been assigned to my squad."Seraphelion blinked, his expression remaining maddeningly placid."A squad assignment is usually delivered by a Proctor, no

"The West Wing was not erased by time, Seraphelion," Silas said, his voice dropping to a harsh, gravelly whisper. "It was erased by design."Seraphelion stopped in the center of the damp corridor, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the shadows for listeners."Be careful where you cast those accusations, Silas," Seraphelion countered. "History is a volatile subject for a man who wants to survive the semester."Silas let out a sharp, cynical bark of a laugh that sounded more like snapping bone than amusement."Survival? My family lost their title, their land, and their legacy because they wouldn't sign off on the official 'historical correction' regarding the fall of the old dynasties."He stepped closer, his shadow stretching long and jagged against the weeping stone of the wall."You show up, you fight like a relic of a dead war, and you expect the status quo to simply welcome you into the fold?"Seraphelion tilted his head, his face a mask of carefully constructed indifference."I expe

"Look at the bark, Seraphelion," Silas commanded, his finger trembling slightly as he pointed toward the blackened, splintered remains of a tree trunk.Seraphelion stepped forward, his boots crunching on the brittle, ash-covered ground.He crouched, his fingers hovering inches above the scorched wood."This wasn't fire," Seraphelion murmured, his eyes tracking the geometric precision of the lacerations."It’s cauterized," Silas added, his voice dropping to a low, warning rasp. "Whatever did this didn't just bite through the timber; it burned the very essence out of it."Seraphelion stood abruptly, his gaze snapping to the dense, shifting shadows of the forest edge."That’s not a natural beast," Seraphelion noted, his hand instinctively gripping the hilt of his training blade."Of course it isn't," Silas spat, pacing a tight, restless circle around the mangled brush. "The Academy has been dumping 'decommissioned' artifacts in this sector for decades."Seraphelion turned to face him, hi

"That’s a dire-hound, but it’s wrong," Seraphelion shouted, his voice cutting through the humid, stagnant air like a razor.The beast lunged from the thicket, but it didn't move with the fluid grace of a predator.It jerked, its limbs snapping into place with the rhythmic, discordant clicking of a broken clock."Look at its ribcage!" Silas bellowed, raising his shield as the creature collided with them.The dire-hound’s chest wasn't made of fur and bone; it was a patchwork of rusted copper plating and pulsating, violet-lit circuitry."It’s powered by a dampening field shard!" Seraphelion lunged, his training sword flashing in a tight, defensive arc.The blade sparked violently as it connected with the creature’s reinforced shoulder."If you hit the core, you’ll trigger a rupture!" Seraphelion warned, twisting his body to avoid a swipe of razor-sharp, metal-tipped claws."Then how do we stop it without dying?" Silas grunted, shoulder-checking the beast to keep it away from his throat.

"Exactly," Seraphelion replied, his gaze locked on the dissipating indigo vapor. "This wasn't a biological mutation; it was a reactivation."Silas wiped his hands on his tunic, his skin still prickling from the static charge of the dying machine."Reactivation?" Silas asked, his voice trembling. "Those cycles ended a millennium ago. The history scrolls say there was nothing left but dust."Seraphelion sheathed his training blade, the movement fluid and unnervingly precise for a student his age."History scrolls are written by the victors, Silas," Seraphelion said, his eyes darkening. "And the victors rarely like to admit they kept the weapons of the vanquished.""You speak as if you were there to see them write the lies," Silas muttered, staring at the metallic carcass.Seraphelion ignored the observation, his focus shifting toward the looming silhouette of the Academy’s central spire in the distance."We have the proof now," Seraphelion said, gesturing to the mangled circuitry embedd