Two thousand students can make a lot of noise, but Head Proctor Vance only needed one metal finger to silence them.
She stood at the centre of the Grand Assembly stage, the mana lamps catching the dull sheen of her prosthetic hand as she tapped it—click, click, click—against the lectern. The sound wasn't loud, but it cut through the chaotic chatter of the amphitheatre like a sniper shot.
The silence that followed was absolute.
"The introspection of the past weeks is over," Vance announced, her voice projected by the acoustics to the very back row. She didn't look like a headmistress; she looked like a retired general surveying fresh recruits. "It is time to look outward. It is time for the Inter-Dorm Rift Trials."
The reaction was instantaneous.
The section of the hall occupied by House Aurelius erupted. Golden banners unfurled from the balcony, and a chant of "Gold! Gold! Gold!" shook the floating acoustic baffles. Across the aisle, House Stone-Hollow began stomping their feet in a rhythmic, subterranean rumble.
I leaned back in my seat, shielding my ears. "A bit theatrical for a sparring match, isn't it?"
"Sparring match?" Finn squeaked beside me, looking at me like I'd just insulted his ancestors. "Murphy, this isn't just sparring. This is the only thing that matters to a lot of students!"
"Translate," I said.
"It's 6-versus-6 objective combat," Finn explained breathlessly, his eyes darting toward the Aurelius section with a mix of envy and fear. "They open stable Pocket Dimensions—Rifts. Capture the Standard, King of the Hill, Siege Breaker. The winning House gets a massive injection of Imperial funding. The payout is based on faculty discretion, but we are talking hundreds, if not thousands, of gold crowns for the winning house. That means new equipment, private tutors, better food and dorm upgrades."
My ears perked up. That sounded useful for someone running an illegal inscription workshop in the basement.
"But that's just the House Prize," Finn continued. "The Faculty watches every match. They select the six best performers—regardless of House—to form the 'Academy Vanguard'. That squad goes to the Capital."
"To the Capital?"
"To compete in the Empire Rift Trials," Finn said, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper. "Against the other Great Academies. In front of the Emperor himself. If you make the Vanguard, you're basically guaranteed a Royal Commission or a Knighthood before you even graduate."
He gripped the edge of the bench.
"House Aurelius has won the House Cup nine years in a row. They treat it like a coronation. But the Vanguard... that's where legends are made. It's the fastest way out of the mud, Murphy."
Head Proctor Vance raised her metal hand again, cutting off the celebration.
"Each House will nominate a Captain," she announced. "That Captain will select five Heroes to stand with them. You have twenty-four hours to submit your rosters. Dismissed."
If the Assembly Hall was a celebration, the Common Room of House Argent was a riot in a phone booth.
The "reject dorm" was usually a place of quiet despair and wet socks, but tonight, it was a war room. Students were standing on tables, shouting over each other. The air was thick with the heat of argument.
"We need power!" a fifth-year shouted. "We need Jarek!"
"He's been running the same strategy for the last two years, and it never works!" a third-year countered. "We need someone new!"
I sat in the corner with the Squad, trying to blend into the shadows. My plan was simple: Stay quiet. I was the guy who had publicly humiliated himself in combat class against Garrick. If I kept my head down, the seniors would fight over the glory, and I could go back to the basement to work on the runes.
"Silence!" a voice bellowed.
Jarek "Iron-Jaw" hopped onto the central table. He was a sixth-year senior, built like a vending machine made of scar tissue. He was handsome like all mages, but he had a jaw that looked like it had been broken and set with a trowel, and he was the unspoken leader of the "Old Guard"—the seniors who had accepted their lot as failures and just wanted to graduate.
"I'm taking the Captaincy," Jarek announced, crossing his massive arms. "I've got the most experience. I know the rifts. We play defence. We turtle. We survive."
A murmur of agreement and objections went through the students. No one wanted to challenge him directly.
"Is there anyone else?" Jarek challenged, glaring around the room. "Anyone who thinks they can lead this House better than me?"
Grace kicked me under the table.
"Ow," I muttered.
"Stand up," she whispered.
"No," I hissed.
"You bought the mattresses, Murphy," Finn pointed out, nudging me. "And the curtains. And the furniture."
Before I could argue, a timid first-year girl—the one whose tuition Grace had secretly paid last week stood up.
"I nominate Murphy," she squeaked.
The room went silent. Jarek turned his glare toward me, squinting as if trying to recall why I mattered.
"The coward?" Jarek scoffed. "The kid who surrendered to Garrick? We need a fighter, not a doormat."
"He got us heat!" a boy from the second row shouted.
"He got us real beef in the stew!" another yelled.
"He is the reason we have comfortable couches and curtains now!"
My stomach dropped. Wait, they knew?
I slowly turned my head to look at Finn. Finn was studying the ceiling with intense fascination, whistling silently.
'You have a leak,' Ronan observed dryly. 'Your scout talks too much.'
"Murphy! Murphy! Murphy!" the chant started.
It wasn't a vote for my combat prowess. They didn't think I was a warrior. They thought I was a Sugar Daddy. They knew I had gold coming from somewhere, and they figured if I was Captain, I could buy our way to a victory—or at least better gear.
Jarek's face turned a dangerous shade of purple. He hopped down from the table, landing with a heavy thud that shook the floorboards. He marched over to our corner.
The chanting died down.
Jarek loomed over me. He smelled of old leather and resentment.
"You think you can buy this House?" Jarek growled. "You think coin makes you a Captain?"
I looked up at him. I stayed seated. Standing up would look aggressive; sitting down just looked tired.
"I think coin buys better armour than pride, Jarek," I said evenly. "But I'm not looking for a fight. If you want the job, take it. I've got... other projects."
"No," Jarek spat. "If I take it now, they'll say I bullied the rich kid. They'll say I'm scared of your 'Jester resources'."
Freeze.
My blood ran cold. Jester resources?
Not only did they know I was paying, but they also knew where the money was coming from. The ownership of the laundry business was a secret shared only by my Squad and Henry Black, who still thought I was a guy called Castian. Jarek didn't say 'resources'; he specifically linked the Jesters to my coin.
That meant the whole House knew. And if the whole House knew, it meant someone had talked.
Jarek didn't notice my hesitation. He pointed a thick finger at my chest.
"A Prelim," Jarek declared. "Tomorrow. The Arena. My squad against yours. Winner takes the Captaincy."
I looked at the Squad. Kael was cracking his knuckles, his eyes dark. Grace was already calculating odds. Finn looked terrified but gave me a shaky nod.
"Fine," I said, standing up. "Your six best against my team."
"Your six?" Jarek laughed, looking at my table. "You don't even have a full roster, fresh meat. Who's crazy enough to fight for a coward?"
I looked around the room. I saw plenty of eager faces—students who wanted to be on the winning side of the Sponsor. But I didn't see allies. I saw liabilities. I saw people who would ask questions if I used the Art of the Echo or phased through a wall.
I couldn't risk a mole. I couldn't risk a stranger seeing what Grace had seen. But how do a few first years compete, never mind win, with both hands tied behind my back?
"I don't need six," I said, my voice calm.
I pointed to Kael, Grace, and Finn.
"I'll take these three."
The room murmured. Even Jarek looked confused.
"Four against six?" Jarek clarified, grinning like a shark. "You're arrogant, kid. I'll give you that. Or maybe just stupid."
"I'm not arrogant," I said, picking up my bag. "I'm just picky about who watches my back."
I turned to the Squad.
"Let's go," I said. "We have work to do."
As we walked out, leaving a stunned common room behind us, Ronan whispered in my head.
'Four against six isn't exactly great odds, Murphy.'
'Yeah, I know.'
The Squad was huddled in the workshop. The night air was stale, smelling of smoke and charged aether. Kael leaned against the stone wall, looking like a gargoyle that had decided to take a break. Finn was pacing, his boots clicking nervously on the cobblestoned floor. Grace was already scribbling on a notepad, the nib scratching loudly in the silence.
"The problem," Finn said, his voice high and tight, "is that we're fighting a six-man senior squad tomorrow. Jarek has a unique Earth Core. Not only does he hit like a siege engine, but he also has a unique art to boot. And you... well..."
He trailed off, looking at me awkwardly.
"Say it, Finn," I said. "I'm the guy who surrendered to a metal-skinned tank last week."
"You surrendered," Finn agreed. "And now you've challenged the biggest hitter in the dorm to a cage match. With a handicap. Four against six."
"I didn't challenge him. He challenged me. There's a difference."
"Tactically, the result is the same," Grace added, looking up. "We are outnumbered. And the Faculty will be watching. If we lose, we lose the Captaincy. If we win..."
"If we win," I interrupted, "and we have to do it without showing our hand, otherwise every other dorm will know exactly what we are capable of."
I looked at them. Kael and Finn knew I was a Water Mage, but they didn't know the extent of my art. They didn't know about the clones or the inventory.
If I sent perfect clones into that arena, people would notice. The Inquisition agents lurking in the city would hear about a 'student who can be in two places at once.'
I needed to dumb it down.
"We need to hustle them," I said, spinning a lie that was close enough to the truth to stick. "If we go out there and fight like pros, Jarek will turtle up. He'll crush us with superior weight. But if I go out there looking like a mediocre, lucky novice..."
"He'll get sloppy," Kael finished, nodding slowly. "He will extend himself to crush the insect."
"Exactly," I lied. "We need to masquerade. I need to make my water summons look... messy. Weak. Wobbly."
Finn frowned. "Murphy, your summons are wobbly. Last time I saw you cast, it looked like a puddle with legs."
"You've seen me practice my water clones?" I frowned at Finn.
"Sure, outback at guild hall," Finn said tentatively. Looking unsure if he should admit it. "Our whole party did. You remember Elara and Gror."
I suppressed a grin. That was Rony. My skills had evolved significantly since then, but Finn's low expectations were my best shield.
"Yeah, I remember them, don't worry, I've been practising," I said vaguely. "But I need to make sure they look extra bad tomorrow. I need visuals. I need a distraction."
"So we're putting all our hopes in your shitty water clones? No offence," Grace said, not looking up from her notes.
"My shitty water clones are about to get an upgrade", I corrected. "It's time all our experiments in the workshop paid off."
An hour later, I was walking back from the Lower District with a bag full of junk from Oddities & Occurrences—rings, capes, and useless trinkets I planned to strip for code.
The streets were empty, save for the distant tolling of the heavy iron bells.
'This is a mistake,' Ronan said, his voice tight. 'We're wasting time playing gladiator, Murphy. The Hunger is less than five months out. Probably less. We should be Training, crafting armour and hunting Cores.'
"We need the money, Ronan," I argued, kicking a loose cobblestone. "The workshop is eating gold faster than the laundry can print it. If we win the Trials, we get Imperial funding. We get Star-Steel. We get resources to actually fight the Swarm."
'Or we get exposed,' Ronan countered. 'Every time you step into an arena, you roll the dice. The Inquisition is watching. Is the prize worth the risk? Maybe we should be running.'
"Running where? The Hunger is coming for the whole world. There's nowhere to run."
I stopped under a streetlamp. The debate was paralysed. Ronan wanted to prepare in the shadows; I wanted to secure the resources to fight in the light.
Clink.
A sound cut through the silence. Something metallic hit the cobblestones right between my boots.
I looked down. It was a gold coin. It wasn't Imperial currency. It was stamped with a Jester's grin on one side.
Underneath it lay a small, folded piece of parchment.
My Danger Sense didn't even twitch. I crouched down and picked it up. The paper smelled of popcorn and sulfur.
'Indecision is boring,' the note read in elegant, looping script. 'Flip for it. - L'
"Ludo," I whispered.
'The God of Games,' Ronan murmured, sounding wary. 'He is watching.'
I picked up the coin. It felt heavy and warm.
"Heads, we compete in the trials," I said. "Tails, we keep training."
I flicked my thumb. The coin spun into the air, catching the magelight in a golden blur. Slap. I caught it on the back of my hand.
I lifted my hand.
Heads. The Jester grinned up at me.
"We compete," I said.
Ronan grunted. 'Check the other side.'
I flipped the coin over.
Heads. Another Jester, identical to the first.
'Of course,' Ronan sighed. 'The game is rigged.'
"At least the instructions are clear," I said, pocketing the coin. "We're doing the tournament."
Back in the armoury workshop, the real work began.
The Squad had dispersed to prep their gear, leaving me alone with Grace in the damp silence of the workshop. I sat at the desk in front of the Kill Box, the brass ring clamped in a vice. Grace stood beside me, wielding a magnifying lens.
"You lied to them," Grace said softly. It wasn't an accusation; it was a statement of fact.
"I protected them," I corrected, tracing the faint, etched runes on the inside of the band. "And I managed the risk. Only you three and Henry knew I owned the Jesters. In that common room earlier, every student in House Argent knew."
I glanced up at her, my expression grim.
"That means someone talked. I can't take the chance that the next secret they spill is the one that gets me executed. I trusted you with the truth because you have a vested interest in keeping the machine running. The others... they're safer not knowing."
"And the masquerade?"
"Necessary camouflage," I said. "If the Inquisition sees a clone that breathes, they'll unbind me. So we put a bag over its head."
I studied the ring I bought. It was crude, but it was exactly what I needed.
"I need to copy this," I said, grabbing my charcoal. "But I need to apply it to the Clones directly."
As I worked, I felt the pressure in my chest. My Core was humming—a dense, heavy thrum of Dark Blue energy that felt like a swollen bruise.
"Ronan," I thought, pausing mid-stroke. "We're close. I can feel the wall. We could push for Green tonight. Before the fight."
'No,' Ronan's answer was immediate and firm.
"It would double our capacity," I argued. "Twenty-four clones. More mana for the shields. It's a force multiplier."
'It's a risk,' Ronan corrected. 'Your Core is pressurised, yes. But it isn't tempered. You have expanded the tank, but the walls are thin. If you force the breakthrough now, you risk a fracture. You need to settle the energy first. Stabilise it.'
"We don't have time to stabilise."
'We don't have time to be dead,' Ronan snapped. 'Fight the Prelim at Dark Blue. Earn the tempering through combat. Then we ascend. Do not be greedy, Murphy.'
I gritted my teeth, but I knew he was right. The Paladin understood the foundations of power better than I did. I was just the guy trying to hack the system.
"Fine," I muttered aloud. "We wait."
"Clone One," I called out.
Pop.
Clone One appeared. He looked perfect. Too perfect.
"Hold this," I said, handing him the parchment with the new 'Water Skin' rune.
Clone One took the paper and pushed a drop of mana into it.
The effect was instantaneous. The clone's detailed skin tones vanished, replaced by a translucent, wobbly blue tint. His features blurred. He didn't look like a person anymore; he looked like a rough sculpture made of blue jelly.
He looked like a standard, novice-level Water Elemental.
"Perfect," I whispered.
Grace squinted at the wobbling blob. "He looks ridiculous."
"He looks harmless," I corrected. "He looks like a spell cast by a struggling first-year student."
The clone waved a translucent blue hand. It left a faint trail of droplets in the air—an illusion, but a convincing one.
"When I fight Jarek tomorrow," I said, leaning back in my chair, "I won't be fighting with a twin. I'll be fighting with a 'summon'. If it gets hit, it splashes. If it moves, it ripples. No fingerprints. No face. No Anomaly."
'It's camouflage,' Ronan realised. 'You're disguising competence as incompetence.'
"That's the game, Ronan," I said, grinning at the wobbly blue blob. "If they think I'm weak, they'll get sloppy. And when they get sloppy..."
The blue blob suddenly snapped into a perfect combat stance, the movement far too fast and precise for a bag of water.
"...we catch them."