Between heartbeats, there existed a space.

Not a place - places require dimension, require up and down, here and there. This was something else. A fold in reality where thought became tangible and distance lost meaning.

Mist stretched in every direction. Not the mist of morning fog or ocean spray. This was mist as gentle mystery - silver-white and luminous, swirling in patterns that suggested depth without ever revealing what lay beyond. It parted and reformed in slow, breathing movements, creating the impression of vast space while maintaining an almost tender closeness. Infinite and somehow intimate.

In the exact center of this non-place, a figure sat.

She didn't sit upon anything. There was no chair, no cushion, no ground beneath her. Yet her posture suggested perfect repose, as if the void itself had arranged itself to support her.

Silver mask catching light that filtered through the haze. White robes blending seamlessly with the surrounding vapor. Hair like moonlight made solid, moving gently with currents that had no source.

Selina.

Divine Oracle. Priestess of the Moon Goddess.

In her lap rested a manuscript. Its pages glowed faintly, text shimmering as if the ink had been mixed with starlight. The way her hands cradled it - fingers curved with reverent care, palms supporting each edge - suggested she held something infinitely precious.

She had been here before. Would be here again. Time moved strangely in this space.

Her masked face tilted down toward the first page. Beneath the silver, lips curved into the faintest smile - serene, knowing, touched with something that might have been anticipation.

"How peculiar," Selina said, fingers tracing the manuscript's edge. "To witness one's own story from the outside. To see yourself as others see you - flat and bound, reduced to words on a page."

She paused, considering. Around her, the mist swirled gently, responding to her presence like a living thing recognizing its keeper.

"But then, all stories are peculiar when you truly examine them. They claim to capture truth, yet truth is far too vast for pages. Too complex for ink."

Her smile deepened. "Still. We work with what we have."

The title page before her shimmered, text reforming: Special Chapter: Even Divine Oracles Get to Read. Be Nice.

A soft laugh - like wind through silver chimes. "Be nice, it says. As if I have ever been otherwise."

She settled more comfortably into her impossible seat, the manuscript opening to reveal the first page. The white void seemed to lean closer, curious, attentive.

"Very well then." Her voice carried quiet pleasure. "Let us see what truths these pages hold."

"Let us see the Chosen One's journey—"

Her fingers turned the first page with reverent care.

"—through eyes that are not my own."

In that space between spaces, where thought became real and stories held weight beyond their words, Selina began to read…

"Hey trash."

Cel's hands stilled on his fork.

Kyros Solgrand stood at the end of their table, flanked by two other Sun Clan nobles. His fire-red hair caught the lamplight, amber eyes bright with something cruel.

"I couldn't help but notice." He gestured at their uniforms, at the crescent moon embroidered over the heart. "You're Moon Chosen."

Lior went rigid beside Cel. His fork clattered against his plate, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet that had fallen over nearby tables. His shoulders hunched inward as if trying to make himself smaller.

"Yes." Cel kept his voice neutral.

Kyros's smile widened. "How... unfortunate."

He moved closer, circling their table like a predator assessing prey. His companions remained at the end, blocking ways.

"The Moon Goddess." Kyros spoke loud enough that nearby conversations died, students turning to watch. "The weakest deity. The forgotten one. The goddess who can't even maintain a single Great Clan."

His hand landed on Cel's shoulder - fingers digging in.

"Must be hard, knowing you'll never amount to anything. That your blessing is worthless."

Lior's hands had curled into fists beneath the table. His breathing quickened.

Cel forced his muscles to relax. Forced his jaw to unclench.

"We serve who chose us," he said quietly.

"Do you?" Kyros leaned closer, breath hot against Cel's ear. "Or do you just accept your pathetic fate because you're too weak to demand better?"

The rage that had been simmering since Kyros appeared flared brighter. Cel's vision tunneled. His hands trembled with the effort of keeping them still.

He could break Kyros's nose. Right now. One strike, perfectly placed, and the smug bastard would be choking on his own blood.

But if a commoner struck a noble - even in self-defense - the punishment was severe. Imprisonment. Public humiliation. In some cases even execution. The Empire's laws protected nobility with brutal efficiency, and the Academy wouldn't shield him from those consequences.

The unspoken truth was obvious - nobles operated under different standards. Not just in sparring. In everything. They could strike commoners with minimal repercussions. But the reverse? That was a crime against the social order itself.

So Cel just sat there. Took it. Let Kyros's words wash over him like rain.

"Nothing to say?" Kyros squeezed harder, nails digging through fabric. "That's what I thought. Moon Chosen are always like that. Weak. Pathetic."

He released his grip and straightened, turning to address the watching students.

"Remember this, everyone. What do you call Chosen of the weakest goddess?" He paused, smile widening. "Trash. Nothing but blessed trash."

Laughter rippled through some of the tables. Not all - several looked uncomfortable. But enough that Kyros's smile grew.

He walked away, his companions following. Their laughter echoed across the dining hall.

Cel's hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against the table, fingers splayed wide.

Lior simply stared down at his plate, paralyzed by what just happened.

Eventually, he excused himself. Exhaustion lined his features, shoulders slumped with the weight of the day.

Cel remained. He finished his meal in silence. The dining hall's energy had shifted - conversations more subdued now, glances occasionally drifting toward his isolated corner.

He ate mechanically, tasting nothing. His mind replayed the confrontation over and over. Each word. Each laugh. The feeling of Kyros's fingers digging into his shoulder like he had every right to do so.

When his plate was empty, Cel stood and left.

Hours later, the training grounds lay silent beneath moonlight.

Cel crossed the threshold, boots crunching against packed earth. Empty weapon racks. Archery targets standing like sentinels. The space felt vast without other students filling it.

He shrugged off his upper uniform like always, letting it fall to the ground beside him. The night air was cold against his skin, but Lunar Vigor flooded through him under the moon's light.

He moved to the center and stopped. Breathed. Let the day's accumulated tension settle in his muscles like coiled springs.

Silent Moon materialized in his grip.

Then he moved.

The blade sang through air, cutting patterns driven by pure fury. He moved through the Chosen Legion forms he'd been practicing - each one executed with divine strength behind it, each one brutal in application.

Hours blurred together.

Cel kept going.

Until finally… the rage began to drain away. Not gone. Never truly gone. But manageable again. Locked back in whatever dark corner of his mind it usually inhabited.

The blade completed its arc. Cel's muscles burned, sweat cooling on his bare chest despite the chill—

Footsteps.

His body went rigid mid-stance. Silent Moon hung suspended in the air as he turned.

Lady Hestia Mortveil stood at the edge of the training grounds.

The moonlight caught her jet-black hair, making it gleam like polished obsidian. Her crimson eyes studied him with an intensity that made his breath catch.

For a heartbeat, neither moved.

Then her gaze dropped. Lower.

Suddenly, Cel became very aware of the cold against his skin. Heat flooded his face. He dismissed Silent Moon with a thought and lunged for his discarded uniform, fumbling with the fabric as he yanked it over his head.

"Lady Hestia." His voice came out rougher than intended. He straightened, adjusting his collar. "I apologize. I didn't realize the grounds were occupied."

A beat of silence.

"They weren't." Her tone was neutral, almost clinical. She walked past him toward the far side without another glance.

Cel just stood there, uncertain. Should he leave? Continue?

Hestia sank to the ground in a meditative pose. Her hands rested on her knees, palms upward. The night seemed to gather around her like a cloak, shadows deepening in her presence.

She was replenishing her Divine Essence. It made sense - the Death God's domain aligned with darkness, with the stillness of night. Divine Essence recovered fastest when immersed in the right environment. Ocean Chosen would seek water. Moon Chosen would need moonlight.

Not that it mattered to him. There was no need to replenish one's Divine Essence when you had none.

Cel re-summoned Silent Moon and returned to his forms.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the whisper of his blade through air and the distant sound of wind through empty weapon racks.

Like that, the days blurred into routine.

Sparring matches carved the class into a predictable hierarchy. Nobles on top. Commoners below.

"Blessed trash."

Kyros's voice cut across the courtyard. His hand shoved Lior's shoulder, sending him stumbling. Laughter from the other Sun Clan nobles.

Lior kept his eyes down. Cel's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Took it. Like always.

The confrontations came and went like weather - predictable, unavoidable. But something puzzled Cel about the nobles' behavior. In the tavern, the barkeeper had spoken of political factions regarding the throne’s succession. Yet here, they seemed unified. Cordial, even.

The reason for that was simple: Theron.

He moved through them all like sunlight through water - effortless, warm. The nobles gravitated toward him naturally. Perhaps they'd all received the same instructions to cultivate the All-Blessed's favor. To leverage that connection later when the succession fight began in earnest.

Sylvaine ensured the Life Clan maintained the closest position. Always at Theron's side, always visible, always reinforcing their clan's support.

Only Hestia remained apart.

She sat alone during meals, moved through training exercises in isolation. The other students kept their distance. Whether from the Death Clan's tainted reputation or simple wariness of Raven's sister, Cel couldn't say.

Night fell.

Cel arrived at the training grounds first, as usual. He'd barely summoned Silent Moon when footsteps announced Hestia's arrival.

She crossed to her meditation spot without acknowledgment. Settled into stillness.

Cel moved through his forms. The blade traced familiar patterns, his body flowing from one position to the next with increasing fluidity.

An hour passed. Then another.

When Cel paused to catch his breath, he glanced toward Hestia's meditation spot. Over the past weeks, she'd been inching nearer. Subtle. Gradual. Never speaking. Never explaining.

But close enough now that he could hear the faint rhythm of her breathing when the wind stilled.

Why?

The only connection between them was Raven. But she couldn't possibly know about his encounter with her brother. Couldn't know about his noble blood, his true identity.

All she could see was what everyone else saw - a commoner Moon Chosen with unusually developed muscles and no Divine Essence. He had explanations for both. Nothing remarkable.

Yet she'd shown interest from the very beginning. From that first day, her crimson eyes had tracked him with an intensity that suggested she saw something others missed.

‘It couldn't possibly be my looks, right?’

Cel's next strike faltered slightly. His eyes cut toward her meditating form - jet-black hair spilling over pale shoulders, crimson eyes closed in concentration, the faint outline of her slender frame perfectly still despite the cold.

He shook his head and returned to the forms, pushing the ridiculous thought away.

Silent Moon whispered through the air, cutting patterns that had become as natural as breathing.

The week wore on. Classes during the day, silent training at night. Hestia's presence became as constant as the moonlight itself - always there, always watching when she thought he wouldn't notice, always inching closer with each passing evening.

Whatever she wanted, she kept it to herself.

Morning light filtered through the dining hall's tall windows, painting the long tables in shades of gold and amber.

Students clustered near the entrance, voices rising in excited chatter. Cel pushed through the crowd until he could see what held their attention.

A board had been mounted on the wall during their off-day.

Names filled it in descending order, each accompanied by a number. The rankings.

Owen stepped forward with that same confident grin, stone-gray eyes bright with anticipation.

Instructor Calder's expression shifted - something that might have been approval. "Good. To the center, both of you."

Cel moved to the indicated spot, boots crunching against packed earth. Owen took position opposite him, rolling his shoulders with the ease of someone who'd done this countless times.

"Before we begin," Calder's voice carried across the training ground, "understand the rules. Killing is prohibited. Severe injury is prohibited. Authorities are prohibited."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"The match ends when one fighter yields or is rendered unable to continue. Manifest your artifacts."

Cel reached for the bond with Silent Moon.

Moonlight threaded through the air, weaving itself into solid form. The chokutō materialized in his grip - deep violet blade catching afternoon sun, the nine moon phases etched into its length. Four crescents ignited with white light immediately.

Across from him, Owen's artifact appeared in a cascade of stone dust, hardening into solid form.

A massive warhammer. The head alone was larger than Cel's torso, carved from what looked like solid granite. Runes glowed faintly along its surface, pulsing with barely contained power.

Owen lifted it one-handed, the weapon's weight apparently nothing to him. He spun it once - casual, showing off - before settling into a ready stance.

Cel's chokutō looked like a child's toy in comparison.

"Begin!"

Owen moved first.

The warhammer came down in a vertical strike that would have pulverized bone. Cel jerked sideways, narrowly evading the blow. The weapon's head crashed into earth where he'd been standing, sending up a spray of dirt.

Owen didn't pause. The hammer reversed direction immediately, sweeping horizontal at chest height.

Cel raised Silent Moon to block—

The impact rang through the training ground. But Cel's arms didn't buckle. His stance held firm, boots planted solidly despite the hammer's massive weight behind the blow.

Owen's eyes widened slightly.

Cel didn't capitalize on the moment. His counter-slash came too slow, too obvious. Owen deflected it easily and pressed forward again.

The warhammer moved with practiced precision. High. Low. Diagonal. Each strike flowing into the next, guided by years of training.

Cel's blade intercepted desperately. His footwork was all wrong - too wide, too uncertain. He stumbled over his own feet trying to create distance.

But when Owen's strikes connected with Silent Moon, Cel's guard never broke. His arms remained steady. His breathing didn't labor despite the relentless assault.

The nobles watched with growing interest. The commoners shifted uneasily, afraid of what could happen to them.

Owen feinted left, then brought the hammer down from the right.

Cel's body moved before his mind caught up - blade rising on pure instinct to intercept the strike head-on.

The impact drove his feet half an inch into packed earth. Nothing more.

Owen's breathing had grown heavier. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

Cel looked untouched. Unmoved.

They separated, circling.

The realization was obvious now - in raw strength and endurance, Cel held every advantage. His divinely forged body simply operated on a different level. Owen's strikes, powerful as they were, couldn't tire him. Couldn't break his guard through force alone.

But skill?

Owen attacked again, and Cel's response was textbook terrible. His timing off. His positioning wrong. His blade work clumsy enough that Owen could slip past his guard almost at will.

The warhammer's shaft caught Cel across the ribs - not the head, just a glancing blow with the weapon's body. But it was enough.

Cel stumbled, more from poor balance than the impact's force.

Owen pressed the advantage. A sweep at the legs that sent Cel down hard.

Silent Moon skittered across packed earth.

Owen's hammer stopped inches from Cel's chest. Waiting.

"Yield?"

Cel nodded once.

Instructor Calder's voice rang out. "Match to Owen Peakscale!"

A few nobles clapped. Most simply nodded, the outcome expected. The commoners watched quietly, the gap between Owen's skill and their own suddenly, painfully clear.

Owen dismissed his warhammer, the massive weapon crumbling back into stone dust that dissolved into nothing.

"That was disappointing."

The words were quiet. Meant only for Cel to hear.

Cel's eyebrow twitched upward.

'What did you expect?'

The thought flashed sharp and bitter through Cel's mind. But he said nothing. Just bowed once - proper deference - and moved to retrieve Silent Moon from where it had fallen.

"Lord Owen."

Both of them turned.

Sylvaine stood at the edge of the sparring area, light green eyes calm and assessing.

"Would you grant me a match?"

Owen's grin returned immediately. "I would be honored, lady Sylvaine."

They took positions in the center while Cel rejoined the watching students. Lior shifted to make room, his expression troubled.

"Are you alright?" he whispered.

"Yes."

The answer was true enough. No injuries. No pain. Just the bitter taste of a fight he'd chosen to lose.

Sylvaine and Owen manifested their artifacts simultaneously.

Leaves swirled around Sylvaine's hand, spinning faster until they solidified into steel. Her weapon materialized as an elegant blade - slender and curved with graceful lines. The steel gleamed silver-white, almost seeming to glow with inner light.

Owen's warhammer appeared again, just as massive as before.

"Begin!"

Owen charged immediately, hammer rising for a devastating overhead strike.

Sylvaine didn't retreat. Didn't try to create distance like Cel had.

She stepped forward.

Her blade deflected the hammer's head with minimal movement - just enough to redirect its momentum past her shoulder. Before Owen could recover, her weapon traced a line across his chest.

Not deep. Not injuring. Just touching.

Owen stumbled back, grin wide. A thin red line appeared on his uniform where the blade had passed.

Sylvaine pressed forward. Her weapon moved like an extension of her body - fluid, graceful, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next. Where Owen relied on overwhelming power, she wielded precision.

The hammer came around in a sweeping arc. She ducked beneath it, blade rising to force Owen's guard high, then swept low at his legs.

He jumped - barely avoiding the strike - and brought the hammer down while airborne.

Sylvaine rolled sideways. The weapon's head cratered the earth where she'd been standing.

Owen's grin had faded, replaced by focus.

He attacked again - faster now, more aggressive. The hammer became a blur of stone and force, each strike powerful enough to shatter bone.

But none of them landed.

Sylvaine's blade wove a defensive pattern that turned aside every blow. And between each deflection, her sword found gaps - touching shoulder, ribs, thigh. Never cutting deep. Just proving she could.

Finally, Owen overextended. Put too much force behind a horizontal sweep that left him momentarily off-balance.

Sylvaine's blade caught him across the shins with its flat side.

His legs buckled. He went down on one knee, hammer falling from his grip.

Her sword pressed against his throat. Gentle. Undeniable.

"Yield?"

Owen stared up at her for a long moment. Then laughed - genuine, delighted.

"I yield."

The blade withdrew. Sylvaine stepped back, offering her hand.

Owen took it, letting her pull him upright.

"Match to Lady Sylvaine Grovethorn!" Calder's voice carried approval.

Theron appeared at her side immediately, his expression bright with pride. "That was amazing! The way you redirected his hammer. I didn’t know you were that strong!"

Sylvaine's lips curved slightly. "Thank you."

They moved to the sidelines together, Theron still talking enthusiastically about specific moments from the match.

Instructor Calder consulted his roster. "Lior, you're up."

Lior went pale. He rose on shaking legs, manifesting his artifact - a simple knife that glowed faintly with silver light.

His opponent, a stocky boy who'd been moderately skilled during training, summoned a short sword.

The fight was... brief.

Lior's knife work was technically sound but hesitant. Every strike obvious. Every defense half-hearted.

The other boy pressed forward with confidence born from weeks of watching Lior fumble through combat drills. A feint, a lunge, and Lior's knife went flying.

"Yield," Lior said immediately, voice barely audible.

Instructor Calder's expression held disappointment. "Match concluded."

More fights followed. Commoners against commoners, testing newly learned skills against each other. Some showed promise. Others revealed how much work remained.

The sun sank lower, painting the training ground in orange light.

Finally, Calder raised his hand. "That's enough for today. Rankings will be posted after a month. Dismissed."

Students dispersed in clusters, nobles and commoners naturally separating. Conversations rose and fell - analyzing matches, discussing techniques, making plans.

Cel and Lior walked to the dining hall together. Lior kept his eyes down, shoulders tight with the weight of his public defeat. Cel said nothing. There was nothing to say.

The hall was already filling when they entered. Nobles occupied the tables near the windows, their uniforms bright against the fading daylight. Commoners clustered toward the back, voices subdued.

Cel moved to the familiar isolated corner where they usually sat.

The servers moved through the dining hall with practiced efficiency, but their pattern was predictable. Nobles first - plates laden with roasted meats, fresh bread still steaming, vegetables glazed with butter and herbs. The food arrived while it was still hot, presented with careful attention.

Then the other commoners. Their portions respectable, if less generous. The servers worked quickly through the middle tables, refilling water pitchers and clearing empty dishes.

Finally, they reached Cel and Lior's corner.

They ate in silence for several minutes. Around them, the dining hall buzzed with energy - students reliving the day's matches, predicting rankings.

Then a voice cut through the noise.

Familiar. Unwelcome.

"Hey trash."

"Would you mind giving me your seat?"

The girl Hestia had addressed went pale. Her hands scrambled to gather her belongings - quill, parchment, the small bag she'd brought - all of it swept up in graceless haste.

"Of course, my lady. My apologies—I didn't mean—"

She fled up the stairs toward the higher rows, nearly tripping in her haste. The boy who'd been sitting beside her followed without being asked, abandoning the bench entirely.

Hestia settled into the vacated seat without acknowledgment. As if it belonged to her from the beginning.

Cel glanced back over his shoulder.

She sat with perfect posture, hands folded in her lap, crimson eyes fixed straight ahead at nothing in particular.

He turned back around.

Instructor Saren had gone rigid at the podium, her jaw tight. For a moment, she seemed to struggle with whether to address what had just happened.

Then she cleared her throat and consulted her scroll again.

"Lady Cordelia Tidecall of House Tidecall, Ocean Clan. Chosen of the Ocean Goddess and Heir to House Tidecall."

The name settled in Cel's chest with familiar weight.

Tidecall. His mother's birth house. The leading family of the Ocean Clan.

His cousin.

The door opened.

A girl entered with the kind of grace that came from a lifetime of formal training. Light blue hair fell in waves past her shoulders, and her gray-blue eyes swept the room with calm assessment. The Ocean Goddess's mark adorned her uniform: three rising blades flanked by wave-like curves.

She moved to the podium, offered a brief bow that managed to be both respectful and composed, then descended to claim her seat in the front row.

Cel watched her settle into position, his expression carefully neutral.

Even though they were related, he'd never met Cordelia. His father had kept him isolated from most gatherings. Why parade a disappointment when you had a prodigy like Darian to show off?

Still. She was family. Someone who might connect dots if he revealed too much.

‘I'll need to avoid her.’

"Lord Percival Tempest of House Tempest, Storm Clan. Chosen of the Storm Goddess and Heir to House Tempest."

Another heir. House Tempest had claimed leadership after two rival houses destroyed each other in a brutal conflict for control.

The boy who entered carried himself with the particular wariness of someone who'd learned early that power was never secure. Silver-white hair. Emerald eyes that scanned the room like he was calculating threats.

Percival descended to his seat without ceremony.

The introductions continued. More nobles. More uniforms that cost more than most commoners earned in a year. Some carried themselves with arrogance. Others with carefully neutral politeness. All of them claimed the front three rows without question.

"Kyros Solgrand of House Solgrand, Sun Clan. Chosen of the Sun God."

Cel's hands curled into fists beneath the desk, knknuckles going white.

Solgrand. The house carried weight within the Sun Clan, and Kyros had never hesitated to throw it around.

The memory surfaced sharp and clear - being shoved into the ground while Kyros laughed. "Careful, Celvian. Wouldn't want you to embarrass House Solmar more than you already do."

Every petty cruelty had been delivered with that same casual amusement. As if tormenting the untalented son of a Noble House was just another form of entertainment.

Cel's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

The boy who entered looked exactly as Cel remembered. Fire-red hair. Amber eyes that held casual cruelty. The Sun God's mark blazed across his uniform - a radiant sun with pointed rays.

Everything in Cel screamed to move. To stand. To cross the room and drive his fist through that smug face until the bones shattered.

But he stayed frozen in his seat, breath coming careful and controlled.

Kyros's gaze swept the tiered rows as he walked to the podium. For just a moment, it passed over Cel without recognition.

The urge to violence drained away, replaced by something colder. Sharper.

‘You don't know me anymore.’

The thought carried savage satisfaction.

‘You never will. Not until it's too late.’

Then Kyros claimed his seat, and Instructor Saren closed her scroll.

"All of you now represent this Academy together. I expect cooperation. Respect. And adherence to the standards we've established."

Her tone suggested she expected none of those things.

"Today's lesson focuses on proper introduction etiquette. You've all studied this - commoners in your evening classes, nobles through your private tutors. Now you'll practice."

She gestured broadly at the assembled students.

"Form pairs. One will play the role of a noble, the other a commoner."

Movement erupted immediately - students rising, searching for partners. The nobles remained seated, waiting to be approached.

Lior turned to Cel. "Should we—"

A shadow fell across their desk.

Hestia stood in the aisle beside them, crimson eyes fixed on Cel.

"Shall we pair together?"

The request landed with the weight of a command dressed in courtesy. Every nearby student went still, conversations dying mid-word.

Cel's mind raced.

A commoner had no right to refuse a noble's request. Not with so many eyes watching. Doing so would be an insult - grounds for punishment, possibly expulsion.

And she knew that.

"It would be a pleasure, lady Hestia."

The words tasted like ash, but he stood and gestured for her to lead.

Lior watched them go with wide eyes, uncertain what to do.

Hestia moved to an empty corner of the classroom, away from the clusters of practicing students. Cel followed, acutely aware of the attention tracking them.

When they stopped, she turned to face him fully.

"I'll play the commoner first," she said. "You'll be the noble."

Cel blinked. That was... backwards. Nobles practiced being nobles, commoners practiced deference. Reversing it served no obvious purpose.

But he nodded. "Understood."

They positioned themselves - standing at the proper distance, postures straight.

Hestia's expression shifted subtly. The perfect composure cracked just enough to show uncertainty. Nervousness. Her shoulders drew inward slightly, her gaze lowered.

A perfect imitation of a commoner meeting nobility.

She bowed - deeper than necessary, holding the position a beat too long.

"My lord," she said, her voice carrying just the right tremor of anxiety. "It is an honor to meet you. I am Hestia, a humble servant of the Death God."

The performance was flawless. Too flawless.

Cel played along, falling back on old training.

"Rise. Your devotion is noted."

She straightened, maintaining that false uncertainty with perfect discipline.

They went through the full ritual - questions about lineage, polite acknowledgment, the careful dance of social hierarchy.

"We'll reverse positions," she said when they finished.

Now Cel bowed - commoner to noble. The motions came automatically, drilled into him during the etiquette classes.

"My lady," he said. "It is an honor. I am Celvian, a humble servant of the Moon Goddess."

Hestia's crimson eyes studied him throughout the introduction. Not his words or his posture - she watched his eyes. As if searching for something beneath the surface.

"You may rise."

He straightened.

"Your goddess is... uncommon." Her tone carried no judgment. Just observation. "Do you find difficulty in that?"

"The Moon Goddess chose me," Cel said carefully. "I serve her will."

"A diplomatic answer." Something that might have been approval flickered across her features. "Tell me, Celvian - are you devoted to her?"

The question landed with unexpected weight.

"Yes, my lady," Cel said. "Completely."

It wasn't a lie. The Moon Goddess had given him everything when he had nothing. A second chance. Power. Purpose.

"I see." Hestia's crimson eyes held his for a long moment, as if measuring the truth of his words.

Silence stretched between them.

"You may return to your seat," Hestia said finally.

Cel bowed once more and turned away.

As he climbed back to where Lior waited, he felt those crimson eyes tracking his movement. Watching. Assessing.

What did she want?

He didn't have an answer by the time afternoon training began. The sun beat down on the training grounds as students assembled in loose formation. Instructor Calder stood at the center, arms crossed, his scarred face unreadable.

Cel had barely settled into position when the instructor's gaze found him.

"Celvian."

The name carried across the yard like a blade. Every head turned.

"You missed morning conditioning."

"Yes, Instructor." No excuse. No explanation.

Calder's jaw tightened. "We'll address that in a moment. But first—I have an announcement."

He gestured broadly at the assembled students.

"Starting today, we're implementing a ranking system for combat training. Any student may challenge another to a sparring match. Winners climb the ladder. Losers fall."

Murmurs rippled through the group. Noble students straightened, interest sparking in their eyes.

"Your final rank affects recruitment opportunities after graduation," Calder continued. "The Chosen Legion scouts these rankings. So do the Mercenary Guild and even the Great Clans. A high rank opens doors. A low rank..." He let the implication hang.

Cel's thoughts churned.

After graduation. Where would he go?

The Chosen Legion was the obvious choice. His mother served there now - which made it perfect. She'd be within reach when the time came.

Or the Sun Clan. Return to the place that had cast him out. Find Darian. Find his father. Make them pay.

The thought burned cold and sharp.

But walking back into Sun Clan territory carried risks. His white hair and resurrected body had transformed him beyond recognition. Still, someone might eventually form the connection.

Unless he went elsewhere first. Built strength in another clan. Disappear into obscurity while he grew strong enough to return and destroy them all properly.

"Celvian."

Calder's voice snapped him back to attention.

Heat crawled up his neck as every eye fixed on him. He'd been caught not paying attention. Again.

"Since you missed this morning's session and seem determined to waste my time this afternoon as well," Calder's tone could have frozen water, "you'll demonstrate our new system. First match. Right now."

The words landed like stones. Around him, students shifted - commoners looking nervous, nobles carefully neutral.

Cel's jaw tightened, but he stepped forward.

"Who wants to face him?"

Silence answered.

The commoner students avoided eye contact, clearly unwilling to risk injury against someone who'd demonstrated unusual strength during training. The nobles simply looked bored, as if fighting a commoner wasn't worth their time.

Seconds stretched.

Then movement from the noble group.

A hand rose.

Owen Peakscale stepped forward, that same grin splitting his face.

"I'll fight him."

Sensation returned slowly.

Cool ground beneath him. The scent of flowers.

Cel's eyes opened.

A face hovered above him. Silver mask catching light. Rose-colored lips curved in a gentle smile.

Selina.

“Chosen One, I'm pleased you found joy. Though I wonder if you'll remember doing so.”

His thoughts scattered. Where—? Soul. His soul. Lying on the ground with her bent over him.

Heat flooded his face.

He jerked upright—

Selina moved faster, lifting herself up in one fluid motion, sparing them the indignity of a headbutt.

"Chosen One." Her tone carried gentle reproach as she straightened. "Getting drunk to the point of unconsciousness is... excessive. Perhaps some moderation would serve you better."

"I didn't mean to—" The words tangled on his tongue. "It just happened."

"I'm certain it did." Amusement colored her voice now. "But you have responsibilities. The Academy awaits. You should hurry."

The scolding should have stung. Should have made him defensive.

Instead, warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with alcohol. Her concern felt... nice. Like someone actually cared whether he showed up or not.

“Yes.”

Selina's smile deepened. "Go now, Chosen One."

Cel nodded and closed his eyes, reaching for the boundary.

Cold stone pressed against his cheek.

He blinked, vision swimming into focus. Unfamiliar ceiling. Unfamiliar walls. Bodies sprawled around him in various states of sleep - some snoring, others curled in uncomfortable positions.

‘Where...?’

Memory refused to surface. The tavern. Drinking contest. Breaking a table. Then... nothing.

His body felt fine, though. No headache. No nausea. Just the faint awareness that he'd pushed his divine constitution further than ever before.

"Well, look who's awake!"

Cel turned his head.

Two men sat near a window, both familiar faces from the Golden Hart. Regulars he'd seen dozens of times but never really spoken to.

"That was one hell of a night!" The older one grinned, his weathered face creasing with genuine warmth. "Never seen anything like it."

"You put on quite a show," the younger added. He looked barely older than Cel, with the easy manner of someone who spent more time in taverns than anywhere productive.

"But you need to be more careful." The older man's expression sobered. "Throwing around that you're a noble like that is dangerous."

Cel's stomach dropped.

"What?"

"When that big guy demanded a rematch, you said—well, never mind exactly what you said. Point is, if someone reports that to the wrong people, you could end up in serious trouble. Prison. Or worse, if some noble takes offense."

The words landed like stones in still water.

He'd revealed himself. While drunk. To an entire tavern full of people.

'Idiot.' The thought came sharp and vicious. 'What the hell was I thinking?'

He'd survived torture, death, the Hollow Realms - only to destroy himself with alcohol and a loose tongue.

‘Find out who you are.’ Selina’s advice surfaced.

Was this it? A drunkard who lost control and revealed secrets he should have kept?

The thought turned sour as Cel pushed himself upright, scanning the unfamiliar room.

"Where am I?"

"Marcus's place." The younger man gestured vaguely. "He lives above his shop, lets people crash here sometimes after nights like that. You were in no state to walk anywhere."

Cel stood, testing his balance. Steady enough.

"Thank you. I need to—"

"Academy, right?" The older man nodded knowingly. "Better hurry. Sun's been up for a while now."

'Shit.'

Cel bolted for the door.

The streets blurred past as he ran. Early morning crowds parted with startled exclamations. His boots pounded against cobblestones in rhythm with his racing thoughts.

How much had he said? How many people had heard? Would anyone actually report him?

The Academy gates appeared ahead. He didn't slow, just kept running through corridors until he reached the classroom.

The door stood closed.

Cel pulled it open as quietly as possible and slipped inside.

Every head turned.

Instructor Saren stood at the podium, her expression shifting from mid-lecture to cold disapproval in an instant. The silence that followed his entrance felt heavy enough to crush.

"How kind of you to join us, Celvian." Her voice could have frozen water. "Take your seat."

Cel moved quickly up the tiered rows, acutely aware of dozens of eyes tracking his progress. He dropped onto the bench beside Lior, who'd saved him the aisle spot.

"Where were you?" Lior whispered, genuine concern in his voice. "You're never late."

The words died as Lior's nose wrinkled. His eyes widened.

"Don’t tell me—is that alcohol?"

Before Cel could respond, Instructor Saren's voice cut through the murmur that had started spreading.

"Now that we're all present," her tone made it clear exactly who she meant, "it's time to welcome our noble students."

The classroom went silent.

"They will be introduced individually. You will show proper respect. Is that understood?"

Murmurs of agreement rippled through class.

Instructor Saren consulted a scroll in her hands.

"Theron. Blessed by all seven deities. Accompanied by Lady Sylvaine Grovethorn of House Grovethorn, Life Clan. Chosen of the Life Goddess and Heir to House Grovethorn."

The door opened.

Two figures entered together. The first was a young man whose academy uniform immediately set him apart from every commoner in the room. Where the commoner students wore simple brown, his uniform was elegant white silk tailored perfectly to his frame, with fine embroidery along the collar and cuffs, polished boots, and a formal cape draped over one shoulder. But it wasn't the expensive fabric that made every head turn - it was what adorned his chest.

All seven divine marks arranged in a perfect circle across his uniform.

A radiant sun with pointed rays. A tree with upward-reaching branches encircled by a protective wreath. A layered mountain peak within a diamond frame. Three rising blades flanked by wave-like curves. A perfect circle within concentric rings, radiating sharp blades. A skeletal hand with scythe blades and bone-like shards. And a crescent moon cradling a circle, with sharp star-like points radiating outward.

All seven. Together.

Whispers erupted immediately.

"Is that really—"

"All seven marks—"

"The All-Blessed—"

Cel's mind raced. The bartender's words surfaced - a kid blessed by all seven deities. An illegitimate child of the Emperor, if the rumors held any truth. Abandoned by the royal family but claimed by the Life Clan instead.

The young man's features carried an earnest quality - brown eyes that seemed to take in everything with genuine interest, hair of the same color slightly disheveled despite obvious attempts to tame it.

The girl beside him wore the Life Goddess's mark alone - a tree encircled by a protective wreath, positioned prominently over her heart. Light green hair fell in a neat braid over one shoulder, and her eyes - the same verdant shade - swept the room with quiet assessment.

She walked half a step behind him. Close enough to be protective. Far enough to let him lead.

A public declaration.

The Life Clan had positioned themselves as the All-Blessed's patrons - just like the bartender had told him.

Recognition struck Cel like cold water.

He had met them before. At the market square. Months ago. The earnest young man who'd believed merchants sold genuine hero relics. And the girl who'd patiently corrected his naivety about a cloak's supposed divine properties.

They moved to the podium together. Theron bowed - too deep, too formal for the setting.

"Thank you for this opportunity to learn alongside my fellow Chosen."

The words rang with genuine sincerity rather than empty formality.

Sylvaine's eyes swept the tiered rows. For just a moment, her gaze caught on Cel - sharp green eyes narrowing slightly before moving on.

Cel frowned. Had she recognized him too?

Then they descended to claim their seats in the front row. She settled beside Theron with practiced grace, her posture suggesting years of formal training.

“Lord Owen Peakscale of House Peakscale, Mountain Clan. Chosen of the Mountain God and Heir to House Peakscale.”

House Peakscale - the Mountain Clan's leading House and the Empress's birth family. One of the most powerful families in the Empire.

The door opened again.

A broad-shouldered boy entered, his uniform bearing the Mountain God's mark - a bold peak rendered in strong lines. Stone-gray eyes scanned the tiered rows immediately.

When those eyes found Cel, a grin split his face.

'What?' Cel stiffened. He didn't know this person. Why the hell was the Mountain Clan heir looking at him like they were old friends?

Owen raised a hand in casual greeting as he walked to the podium. No formal bow - just a nod to Instructor Saren before he claimed his seat.

Several commoner students whispered, clearly wondering what that acknowledgment meant. Lior leaned closer. "Do you know him?"

"No," Cel muttered. But Owen apparently thought otherwise.

“Lady Hestia Mortveil of House Mortveil, Death Clan. Chosen of the Death God.”

The temperature seemed to drop.

Black hair fell straight and perfect to her waist, framing a face of porcelain beauty. Crimson eyes swept the room with cold assessment, and when her gaze passed over students, several shrank back instinctively. The Death God's mark - a skeletal hand with scythe blades and bone-like shards - sat prominently on her uniform.

She moved to the podium with measured steps, each movement carrying deliberate grace. No bow. No acknowledgment. Just perfect stillness as she stood there for exactly the required time.

‘Mortveil.’

Cel's pulse quickened.

Raven's sister then.

The whispers from before his captivity surfaced - House Mortveil's reputation for raising prodigies was well-earned. The Prince of Death, praised for his skill. His sister, renowned for her intelligence.

But Raven had become a Cursed. Had killed the Sun Clan's greatest prodigy. Had shattered everything.

Hestia began descending the steps toward her assigned seat.

Then she stopped.

Her crimson eyes narrowed slightly, scanning the tiered rows with sudden intensity.

"Is something the matter, Lady Mortveil?" Instructor Saren's tone carried carefully neutral inquiry.

"Forgive me." Hestia's voice came soft but clear. "It’s nothing."

She moved to the front row where her seat waited. Then walked straight past it.

Her boots clicked against stone as she ascended the stairs. Those crimson eyes tracked across faces with methodical precision.

Students pressed back to give her space.

She reached Cel's row…

And stopped directly in front of him.

Her crimson eyes locked onto his glacial blue ones. No expression. No emotion. Just absolute, unwavering assessment.

Seconds stretched.

Lior had gone rigid beside him. Around them, every student held their breath.

Then Hestia moved past him, ascending to the row behind.

"Would you mind giving me your seat?"