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?"