The first 2 months at the Obsidian Aegis Academy hadn't been defined by epic battles, but by a series of "impossible" accidents that had turned 'Cilla' into a living urban legend. In the cramped, steam-filled kitchens of the Obsidian Force barracks, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of cabbage stew and the sharp tang of sharpening stones.
Noah, Liam, and Jennie were huddled around a scarred wooden table, watching Priscilla. She wasn't using a focus-crystal; she was currently using a common kitchen knife to mince a pile of mountain roots with a speed that made the blade look like a silver blur.
"I'm telling you, it's not just martial arts," Liam whispered, leaning back as a stray piece of root flew past his ear. "Did you see her in the yard yesterday? Cassian threw a Tidal-Class water bind at her, and she didn't even move. She just… sighed, and the spell evaporated. It didn't break. It just gave up."
"She's a freak of nature," Jennie added, braiding her violet hair with deft fingers. "But a nice freak. She helped the freshmen with their spiritual meditation last night. Three of them manifested their first spark within ten minutes. That usually takes months."
Noah, the leader of their small band, kept his eyes on Priscilla. Over the last ninety days, he had found himself drawn to her in a way that terrified him. She had a way of looking at you—like she was reading your soul's blueprint and finding the one line of code that was causing all your trouble.
"Cilla," Noah called out, "stop trying to kill the vegetables. Come sit. We were just talking about the Gala."
Priscilla wiped the blade and joined them, her "Baddie" smirk tucked away behind a mask of weary, scholarship-kid fatigue. "The Gala? You mean the night where we stand in the corners and pretend we don't exist while the Heirs drink wine that costs more than my life?"
"Exactly that one," Ezra piped up from the corner, where he was polishing his daggers. "But it's the Vane-Crest Anniversary. The whole world is celebrating the Sovereign. They say she's the most powerful being to ever walk the Grid. My dad used to say she was born from a star and raised by a dragon."
Priscilla nearly choked on her water. "Born from a star? That's… a bit dramatic, don't you think?"
"Not really," Noah said, his voice turning serious. "The Vane-Crests aren't just royals, Cilla. They're the architects. Priscilla Vane-Crest rebuilt the North from ash. She gave the scholarship kids a future, even if the Academy is trying to steal it back. My brother is in the Northern Militia—he says when she walks into a room, the air feels like it's vibrating with pure gold."
"He says she's a bit of a baddie, though," Liam chuckled, nudging Priscilla. "Ruthless. Cold. If you cross her, she doesn't just exile you; she deletes your family's mana-rights. I bet she's terrifying to talk to."
Priscilla looked into her stew, a strange, melancholy warmth blooming in her chest. If only you knew, Liam. I'm currently worrying about whether I can afford new boots.
"She sounds like a lot of work," Priscilla said softly. "Maybe she's just… lonely. Being the only person who can see the whole map has to be exhausting."
The conversation was interrupted by a chime. Combat Practice.
The group moved to the lower arena—a place of cold stone and flickering mana-lamps, far away from the gilded halls of the Heirs. Today, they were practicing Psychological Fortitude.
"Alright, Cilla," Noah said, stepping into the sparring ring. "You've been the talk of the barracks. Everyone says you're the best fighter we've seen in a decade. Show me why."
Noah lunged. He was a werewolf-hybrid, and his speed was immense. He didn't use a blade; he used his fists, each strike backed by a Boulder-Class weight.
Priscilla didn't draw a weapon. She moved with a fluid, rhythmic grace—a martial art she had developed herself, blending Internal Mana-Flow with Kinetic Redirection.
"Your footwork is heavy, Noah," she said, sidestepping a punch that would have shattered a wall. She tapped his elbow, just a light touch, but it sent his momentum spiraling. "You're fighting with your muscles. Fight with your breath. The spirit is light; the body is the anchor. Don't let the anchor drag you down."
"Easy for you to say!" Noah grunted, spinning for a kick.
Priscilla dropped low, her gi snapping like a whip. She swept his leg and, in the same motion, caught his hand, pulling him back up before he could hit the ground. For a second, they were inches apart.
"The Sovereign wouldn't fight you with her fists, Noah," she whispered, her eyes glowing with a faint, accidental violet light. "She'd fight you with your own doubt. Martial arts is just psychology in motion."
Noah stared at her, his heart hammering. "Who are you, Cilla?"
The sparring session was cut short as the arena doors were kicked open. It wasn't the proctors. It was a group of Hollowed—the first wave of the Gray Plague. They looked like students, but their skin was ash-gray and their eyes were leaking black smoke.
"What is that?" Jennie shrieked, her hand sparking with violet mana.
"Get behind me!" Noah shouted, shifting into his semi-lupine form.
The Hollowed moved with a sickening, twitching speed. One lunged at Grace, its fingers becoming shards of dark ice.
Priscilla didn't hesitate. The "Normal Scene" was over. She stepped in front of Grace, her hand glowing with a prismatic white light. She didn't strike the creature; she touched its forehead.
"Return to the 'Now'," Priscilla commanded.
A shockwave of pure spiritual energy erupted from her fingers. The Hollowed student didn't explode; the gray mist was literally forced out of his lungs. He collapsed, his skin returning to a healthy tan, breathing hard but alive.
"She... she just cured a Shadow-Form?" Ezra gasped.
"Don't just stand there!" Priscilla barked, her voice dropping into that lethal Sovereign rasp. "Noah, Ezra—flanks! Jennie, Xylia—form the Unity-Class barrier! They aren't monsters; they're sick! Use non-lethal strikes to the mana-conduits!"
For the next twenty minutes, the "Scholarship Trash" fought like a veteran legion. Led by Priscilla, they moved in a perfect psychological sync. They didn't just fight; they practiced Spiritual Healing through combat.
As the last Hollowed student was stabilized, the group stood in the center of the arena, panting and covered in soot. Noah looked at Priscilla, his eyes full of a new, dangerous realization.
"You didn't just fight them," Noah said, walking over to her. "You synchronized us. I felt your mind, Cilla. It was... it was like a sun."
"It was just the training, Noah," Priscilla lied, her heart racing.
"No," Liam said, stepping forward. "My brother was right about the Sovereign. He said she makes everyone around her feel like they're part of something bigger. That's exactly what you just did."
Jennie looked at the door, then back at Priscilla. "If the Academy finds out you can cure the Gray Plague, you'll be famous by morning. They'll put you on a pedestal right next to the Vane-Crests."
Priscilla looked at her friends—the people who had become her family in three short months. The "Famous" part was already happening. She could see it in the way the other students were watching her from the doorway.
"The secret is leaking," she thought, her knuckles still glowing with violet fire. "But if I have to be famous to save them, then let the world watch."