The observation room in Solarskis University buzzed with tension. High above the dueling grounds, where the magical entrance exams unfolded, the aristocratic families watched in growing disbelief—especially those from the mage lineages.
In the center of the quiet storm stood Matriarch Evelyn Lunarae, her hands folded too tightly, her expression one breath short of crumbling.
On the battlefield below, her greatest secret had just stepped into the light.
"Jason..." she whispered.
"He wasn't supposed to appear—not yet."
Her voice was barely audible. But the room didn't need volume to smell blood.
Lord Cedric Aurorix leaned forward like a vulture circling a broken-winged bird.
"Well, well, Evelyn," he purred.
"It seems your hidden son has made quite the entrance. Quite the scandal for a woman who claims to embody secrecy and control."
Lady Morgana Tempestarii laughed softly, a sound like perfume over poison.
"All this time, Evelyn—so righteous, so disciplined… and now? Your most precious shadow has turned on the sun."
Even Matriarch Thalassa Vestalyn, known for her restraint, couldn't resist the jab.
"You've always been so quick to critique the shortcomings of other families. It's curious how quickly that elegance crumbles when your own blood disrupts the balance."
Evelyn's cheeks flushed—not from shame, but from the heat of carefully managed rage.
They think this was unintended. Let them.
"Jason is still a child," she replied coolly, attempting to brush it off.
"Each of us faces unique challenges with our children."
Cedric's grin widened like a blade.
"Of course, Evelyn. But you built your house on the myth of perfection. That illusion just shattered."
Morgana's eyes gleamed.
"Preaching control is easy when no one sees the cracks."
Thalassa tilted her head.
"Perhaps it's time to guide, not rule. Power built on fear has poor foundations."
The heat shifted.
Suddenly, Cedric turned his gaze toward the quiet figure standing near Evelyn—
Lord Alistair Solonar.
But this time, there was no contempt in his voice—only cold agreement.
"Well said, Solonar," Cedric drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"At least someone in the Lunarae camp understands when to speak—and when to strike."
Morgana let out a low, amused hum.
"Indeed. A shame that wisdom isn't more evenly distributed within your alliance."
"Perhaps if Evelyn had shown a bit more of your restraint, we wouldn't be watching her secrets unravel in public."
Alistair's expression remained unreadable, but there was the faintest flicker of calculation in his eyes.
Evelyn, meanwhile, felt the shift—subtle, yet sharp.
Even her supposed accusers were now praising Alistair… while leaving her exposed.
A flicker passed between Evelyn and Alistair.
Evelyn turned inward, shielding her thoughts behind a layered telepathic veil.
{Alistair... How did he get out? You had him under 24-hour surveillance. This wasn't part of the timing.}
Her tone wasn't panicked—but it held bite. She was not caught unaware. She was betrayed by timing.
Alistair's eyes didn't move. He stood as if nothing had been said.
{Either Jason outmaneuvered your protocols… or someone nudged him forward. The question is: which would be more useful to us right now?}
Beneath the layered mockery, no one in the room suspected the truth:
That Evelyn and Alistair were never on opposite sides.
That their earlier debates, their public disagreements—were all a carefully orchestrated distraction.
And Jason Lunarae?
Whether rogue or pawn—he was now the perfect storm.
Solonar's voice, as always, was cool and collected, but edged with suspicion.
{Are you certain?}
Evelyn's reply was clipped, tinged with frustration and a trace of worry.
{Yes. Evander Celestari has been giving me real-time updates. Jason was never supposed to be anywhere near this event.}
Solonar was quiet for a moment, gears turning.
{Given how public this is… the scale, the cameras, the chaos—it's possible the guards slipped. Jason is too clever not to seize the first opening.}
Evelyn's silence was answer enough.
She hated it—but he was right.
Jason's brilliance—once a source of maternal pride—was now an unpredictable wildcard, threatening years of careful orchestration.
{We need to be more vigilant. This entire event has exposed too many vulnerabilities.}
{Agreed.} Solonar's voice dropped, laced with new tension.
{There's something else.}
Evelyn's brow furrowed.
{Go on.}
{Helen Hippolytus. She wasn't surprised. She looked… prepared. As if she knew Jason would appear.}
Evelyn's heart skipped. Helen?
{There was no prior contact between us. I took every measure to ensure Jason's location remained classified—even among our trusted vassals.
{Then how did she know?}
Solonar didn't hesitate.
{Someone in your house may be feeding her information. A spy—planted, perhaps long ago.}
Evelyn's fingers twitched at her side—not from shock, but revelation.
{That would explain… everything. The subtle delays. The timing. The silence from certain informants.}
{Trust is currency, Evelyn. And we both know how quickly it's counterfeited in our world.}
{Agreed. But I can't act openly. If the spy knows I'm aware, they'll vanish. Or worse—trigger a fallback.}
{Then be surgical. Clean. Trace communications. Filter low-priority chatter. Flag anyone acting too perfect.}
Evelyn nodded faintly, gaze never leaving the arena.
{I'll root them out. Quietly.}
{And in the meantime… keep a close eye on Helen. Her knowing expression wasn't coincidence.}
{Absolutely. This proves our enemies aren't just outside the circle—they're inside the walls.}
As if untouched by the shadow games playing beneath her feet, Helen stood before the contestants—serene, powerful, and luminous beneath the glow of the full moon.
She looked more like a queen than a judge—draped in shimmering robes, golden hair catching the light like living silk, eyes filled with the kind of pride that disarmed even the most skeptical.
"Congratulations to our top ten," she announced, her voice like tempered silver—commanding, but warm.
The crowd erupted, their cheers thunderous as the contestants stood in quiet awe, their faces reflecting a mixture of pride, fatigue, and wariness.
Helen allowed the applause to fill the night air.
Only when it had reached its crescendo did she lift a single hand.
Silence followed like a trained dog.
"As I mentioned at the beginning of the exam," she said, her voice carrying effortlessly,
"the Top Five will be awarded 10,000 points. A reward not just for power, but for perseverance, strategy, and resilience."
She smiled—a flash of something more cunning beneath the regal surface.
"But to decide who earns that prize… the rules will change."
The crowd leaned forward.
The top ten stilled.
Even Evelyn and Solonar watched her closely now—every word measured, every phrase a possible signal.
Helen's voice echoed like a spell woven into the very air itself:
"Instead of individual battles, as we've done all day, the finals for the top five will be decided by… a Free-For-All."
The words struck like thunder.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
The sacred families stiffened in their seats. Nobles murmured in disbelief. Even Jared Sathe's mask cracked, his mouth slightly agape—a rare, visible breach in his composure.
Across the platform, Yaroslav had been watching Jared carefully—waiting.
When Jared's gaze snapped toward him in fury, Yaroslav smiled. Slow. Devilish.
He said nothing.
But his silence was a sword.
Helen turned on her heel, gliding back to the judge's platform with practiced grace.
"We will proceed shortly," she said, her tone effortless, almost playful.
"I just need to convene with the others… and prepare the stage."
Behind her, the judges gathered, expressions mixed: concern, curiosity, and in Jared's case—pure, boiling irritation.
He didn't wait.
He stepped forward like a blade unsheathed.
"Miss Helen," Jared growled, "would you mind explaining why you've just discarded a 2,500-year tradition for a chaotic spectacle?!"
His voice was sharp, brittle with fury.
Helen tilted her head, a picture of unbothered elegance.
"Mr. Sathe," she replied, her voice like velvet stretched over a blade,
"with the passage of time… comes progression."
A small smile curled her lips.
"This tradition has lasted two and a half millennia.
Perhaps it's time we evolved."
Every word was both a response and a rebuke.
A reminder that Jared had once hoped to be Head Examiner… and wasn't.
Jared's thoughts scattered.
If she changes the finals… the plan will collapse. This format ruins everything. And the final two phases—
They'll fall apart completely!
He scrambled to regain control, his glare masking the panic beneath.
"A touching sentiment. But I doubt the headmaster will allow such a drastic change," he said, forcing calm into his voice.
Helen's smirk widened.
With a slow flourish, she reached into her robes and produced a peculiar artifact.
The moment Jared saw it, he froze.
The seal of Solarskis' Headmaster.
"H-How?! How do you have the principal's seal?!" he gasped, eyes wide.
Helen's voice was like silk drenched in superiority.
"Not that it's your concern… but lucky for you, I'm in a generous mood tonight."
She stepped closer, her presence a quiet storm.
Jared blinked. Swallowed.
"Yes… it was the headmaster who led the assault. Everyone knows this."
Helen nodded, her smile sharp.
"Correct. Now tell me—during the climax, when the headmaster went head-to-head with the Orchid Vampiric Lord…
Who provided the crucial support that turned the tide?"
Jared opened his mouth—and stalled.
The answer… didn't exist in public record.
Helen leaned in, voice lowered like a knife slipped beneath armor.
"You don't know, do you?"
She straightened, smile triumphant.
"Seems like 'The All-Knowing' has some gaps in his repertoire.
Perhaps that title needs to be passed on… to someone who actually knows all."
Gasps whispered through the judge panel.
Jared's glare could have turned steel to ash, but his silence sealed the defeat.
Helen didn't gloat. She didn't need to.
She simply stepped away—already the victor.
Helen's voice dipped into a velvet-lined blade.
"The answer your little mind is scrambling for… was me."
She turned slightly, her condescending smile perfectly measured.
"I was the one who risked my life to distract the Orchid Lord—long enough for the headmaster to strike. He congratulated me after the battle and rewarded me… with this."
She held up the seal like a game show prize, her flair deliberate—a slow burn humiliation for Jared.
"And if memory serves, his exact words were…"
"'This seal is as good as my word. So long as you don't request me to betray humanity, I will heed your words—but only three times.'"
Each syllable was both a flex and a dagger.
Jared's sneer twitched.
He looked toward the towering spire in the distance—the headmadster's sanctum. His mind raced.
If that's true… even the Aeonis Refusal won't override her command.
As long as her request doesn't betray humanity, it will be honored.
He swallowed that bitter truth, then masked it.
"So annoying," he muttered under his breath.
Then—adjusting his stance, tone shifting into false diplomacy—
"Very well. Traditions are traditions. But… perhaps it is time for change."
He bowed slightly.
But everyone knew who had won.
In the background, Jessica Eldritch, an alchemical prodigy and tactical observer, watched everything unfold with a critical eye.
There's tension between these four… but no history. Why are they suddenly clashing like long-time rivals?
Her curiosity flared, but she remained stone-faced.
Something doesn't fit. The timeline doesn't line up.
I'll wait. The truth always cracks the surface eventually.
For now, she stayed neutral—the only judge whose eyes weren't clouded by pride or power.
Helen stepped past Jared without pausing, but her hand came down—firm on his shoulder.
"Such tactics won't work on the battlefield," she whispered, voice like cold wind through iron gates.
"If you want to move chess pieces unnoticed, you must be willing to risk your life securing the endgame."
Then she was gone—ascending once more onto her spectral dragon, light catching the embroidery of her robes like a goddess of war.
Jared stood frozen.
Her words played over in his mind like a curse.
She knows.
She knows who the pawn is.
He returned to his seat, fury simmering beneath his skin.
"Damn bitch… More drastic measures it is," he hissed under his breath, mind already turning.
On the other side of the stage, Percy glanced around, confused.
"Why is everyone acting like they've seen a ghost?" he muttered.
Even Dalton—normally calm and centered—looked rattled.
"Dalton?" Percy asked. "What's going on with Jason? Why is everyone on edge?"
Dalton glanced around warily, then pulled Percy aside.
"Come on. Not here."
They found a quieter alcove, shielded from spectators and telepaths alike.
Percy crossed his arms, gaze sharp.
"Alright. Spill. What's the deal with Jason?"
Dalton leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.
"Jason Lunarae is… complicated. People aren't scared just because he's powerful. It's something else."
Percy arched a brow.
"What do you mean?"
Dalton hesitated.
"There are… stories. Things whispered in the noble circles. His power isn't just strong—it's wrong. People say his very presence warps the air, dulls light, frays emotion. That when you're near him… something in you wants to step away."
Percy didn't flinch.
"Sounds like they're just scared of what they can't control."
But part of him listened deeper.
Something about Jason had unsettled even the bravest. And Percy's instincts never ignored anomalies.
Dalton's hands trembled slightly, his voice tight with honesty.
"Honestly… I don't know."
Percy blinked, caught off guard.
"You don't know?"
"That's not like you, Dalton."
Dalton exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I know. But Jason—he's different. Everything about him ties back to the Lunarae family. And they… they're not just powerful."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"They're secretive. And they've been involved in things that no one talks about openly. Dark things."
Percy's curiosity sharpened.
"Like what?"
Dalton pressed a finger to his lips, scanning their surroundings.
"I wish I could tell you more. But whatever it is, it's buried deep.
Whispers of forbidden magic… ancient curses. Rumors. Nothing solid. But Jason being here?"
He looked Percy in the eye.
"It means something. Something big."
Percy's eyes swept the arena again—watching, reading, eliminating suspects like pieces on a board.
"Then we keep an eye on him. And we stay ready."
Dalton's tension eased slightly, relief flickering behind his eyes.
"Exactly.
This competition just got a lot more dangerous."
On the other side, Marcus Vestalyn gripped the edge of the railing, knuckles pale.
"Lyra… did you see that?"
"Jason Lunarae is here. I can't believe it."
Lyra's gaze never left the distant figure cloaked in calm.
"Yeah. I saw."
Her tone was distant, distracted.
Marcus clenched his jaw, breath quickening.
"This changes everything. He's not just another competitor—he's a game-changer."
He kept speaking—trying to keep himself grounded—but then he saw it:
Lyra's fingers.
They were shaking.
"Lyra?" he asked softly.
"Your hands…"
She glanced down.
Then curled them into fists, forcing composure.
"It's nothing. Adrenaline."
But the lie was thin. She was unraveling.
She shook her head again, more frustrated than afraid.
"I'm… I'm fine. It's just—seeing him stirred something. A memory. But it's locked behind… something. Like a wall made of iron."
Marcus's eyes widened.
"A memory? What kind?"
Lyra pressed a hand to her temple.
"I don't know. It's like a fragment—just out of reach.
But the moment I saw Jason, it felt like something unlocked inside me."
Marcus looked panicked.
"Lyra… please. You've got to push that aside. Whatever this is, you can't let it throw you off."
"We need you sharp. We need each other."
Lyra sighed deeply, then nodded.
"I know. Jason's presence is… overwhelming.
But we can't afford to give into it."
Marcus's voice cracked with anxiety.
"Do you really think we stand a chance? He's here to pick us off, one by one. I'm sure of it."
Lyra turned, meeting Jason's gaze across the arena—his eyes like still, red oceans.
"He's a predator, Marcus. But predators don't fear strength.
They fear strategy."
She squared her shoulders.
"He's dangerous. No doubt. But we can't freeze.
Not now. We've fought tough opponents before. This is no different."
Marcus, trembling, whispered,
"It is different. Jason's not just another contender.
He's ruthless. The second the match starts, he'll go for blood."
Lyra nodded slowly, her voice firm despite the tremor in it.
"That's why we stay close. Watch each other's backs."
She didn't blink as her eyes locked with Jason's once more.
"Together… we outsmart him."
Marcus stared at Jason from across the arena, his body rigid with dread.
"This isn't just a competition anymore," he muttered, voice low and cracked.
"It's survival."
A silence settled between them.
Then, with defeat creeping into his tone:
"Lyra… maybe we should consider surrendering. Jason's too powerful. If we go up against him… we could get seriously hurt."
His hands trembled slightly. His voice lacked its usual edge.
Lyra turned to him—brow raised, eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in quiet disappointment.
"Surrender, Marcus?"
Her voice was smooth, almost curious, but beneath it was an unmistakable steel.
"That's not the prideful, determined fighter I know."
Marcus looked away, jaw clenched.
"I just… I can't shake the feeling that we're outmatched."
His tone cracked under the weight of truth.
Lyra leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper—calm, soft, but laced with something sharper.
"Marcus. Do you remember all the times you stood tall against impossible odds?"
She gave him no time to respond.
"You always said surrender wasn't an option. That pride, that honor, comes from giving your all—even when the odds are impossible."
Her words circled his pride like a slow-burning fire.
Marcus hesitated.
"...I did say that, didn't I?"
Lyra gave a slow, encouraging nod.
"You did. And you meant it."
Her voice, measured and steady, became a rope pulling him back from the edge.
"We've worked too hard to give up now.
Think about everything we've overcome.
Think about what it means to just… walk away."
Marcus exhaled shakily, the tremor in his resolve beginning to still.
"Surrendering… would mean admitting defeat without even trying."
His fists clenched again, this time with purpose.
"And that's not who I am."
Lyra's smile returned—not soft, but sharp.
"Exactly."
She stepped beside him, her presence grounding him.
"We show Jason, and everyone else, that we don't bow.
We fight. With everything. No surrender. No retreat."
Marcus straightened his back, his breath steadying, his fear cooling into fuel.
"You're right, Lyra."
"I won't let fear dictate my choices."
He looked toward the arena again—eyes sharper, posture firmer.
"We'll face him. Together."
Lyra's voice was calm, final.
"That's the spirit."
They spoke the words together, not as a chant—but a vow.
"No surrender. No retreat."