...
The walls of dorm #7 tremble under the weight of Kaelen's fury.
Luxurious paintings hang lopsided, some torn where his nails have raked in frustration. A grand canopy bed, draped in dark silks, remains the only untouched piece of furniture, though the rest of the room has not been so fortunate. An overturned chair lies splintered near the wall. A shattered vase bleeds its contents across the obsidian floor. A mahogany desk is now marred by clawed fingers.
"This is absurd!"
Kaelen's voice tears through the room. His hands tremble—no, they shake with rage—as he seizes a silver goblet from the mahogany desk, fingers curling so tightly around it that the metal bends under his grip. He stares at the warped shape for a moment, disgusted, before hurling it with all his strength.
The goblet crashes against the wall, the sound ringing through the lavish chamber before it clatters to the floor and rolls to a stop.
But it's not enough. Not nearly enough.
"That pathetic human—Obinai—thinks he can just walk in and stand among us?!" His voice is a snarl now. His pacing quickens, bootsteps heavy against the polished obsidian tiles. "And that damned headmaster—favoring that trash over me?! Do they not know who I am? Do they not know what my family is worth?!"
His mind latches onto the last thought like a steel trap, and suddenly, it's not just the present humiliation gnawing at him...
What would Father think of this?
The question hits like a knife to the ribs, cold and sharp.
Would he sneer? Would he shake his head in disappointment?
Would he even acknowledge this disgrace as something worth his time?
Kaelen grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches. His father—Lord Eryndor—had never tolerated weakness. "Strength is our birthright," he'd say, "but only the worthy wield it."
And yet, here Kaelen stands—cast aside, humiliated, overlooked for a mere human.
A pathetic human.
I should have been the one chosen. I am the strongest. I am the most worthy.
Then why?
Why wasn't I enough?
His nails bite into his palms as his fists clench, his head pounding...
Then—soft as silk, smooth as a whisper—another voice slides into his mind.
"Why do you let this anger consume you, Kaelen?"
His entire body goes rigid.
The shadows in the corners of the room seem to stretch, lengthening unnaturally. A strange chill creeps over his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms despite the warmth of the candlelit chamber.
His eyes dart around. "Who's there?" His voice is quieter now.
The voice hums, almost amused. "Do you desire more, Kaelen? To be good enough for your father? To be more than just another failure in his eyes?"
Kaelen's breath hitches.
Failure.
"You say you are strong," the voice continues. "And yet, strength alone was not enough to earn you what was rightfully yours. Tell me, Kaelen…do you truly believe you are living up to your potential?"
His heart pounds against his ribs.
"I am stronger than all of them," he mutters, but it sounds weaker than before.
"Are you?" The voice chuckles softly, a sound that slithers down his spine. "Or are you merely another noble son who will never escape his father's shadow?"
Kaelen's lips part, but no words come.
The voice leans closer—though there is no body, no presence he can see, he feels it there, just behind him, whispering at his ear.
"I can help you become what you were meant to be."
Kaelen swallows hard. The room feels smaller, like the walls are pressing in.
"...How?" he asks.
"In time," the voice purrs. "But first… you must get Obinai alone."
Kaelen's brow furrows, his anger momentarily overshadowed by suspicion. "Why?"
The voice chuckles again, smooth and knowing. "All will be revealed soon, Kaelen. Be patient. Bide your time. Prepare."
The shadows retreat. The air feels lighter, the suffocating pressure lifting as if it had never been there. The warmth of the chamber returns.
Kaelen stands there, fists still clenched, his breathing uneven.
Then, slowly—almost unconsciously—a smirk curls at the corner of his lips.
"Obinai…" he murmurs, rolling the name on his tongue.
Yes.
He'll get him alone.
And then, he'll prove—once and for all—that he is not someone to be ignored.
...
The next two days pass in a blur, filled with many lost ventures, towering buildings, and Bram talking—a lot.
Obinai follows as Bram leads him through the academy grounds, his voice bouncing between excitement and mild frustration as he points out key locations.
"This is the main hall," Bram says, gesturing wildly at a grand, sprawling room with high ceilings and thick marble pillars. Golden chandeliers hang above, their intricate brasswork interwoven with exposed gears that click softly as they rotate, keeping the lights in constant motion. Pipes run along the upper walls, hidden just enough within the lavish architecture to blend in seamlessly. The floor is polished to an almost unnatural shine, reflecting the students moving in clusters, their uniforms shifting in the light. Some wear their attire with their collars stiff, ties perfectly knotted—mostly the nobles. Others, like Bram, already have their uniforms looking slightly disheveled—tie loosened, sleeves pushed up, a general aura of "I don't care" hanging around them.
Obinai glances around. He can hear the faint whir of mechanical parts embedded within the walls, keeping the place running.
"You'll have a lot of your general classes here," Bram continues, jerking a thumb toward a towering building across the courtyard. It's built from the same polished stone but reinforced with thick, riveted metal plating along the edges. Smoke drifts lazily from a pipe near the roof. "And over there—is combat training before the arena. You'll wanna memorize these paths. I swear, it'll save you so much time."
Obinai tilts his head. "Looks more like a factory than a training hall."
Bram snickers. "Pretty much. You'll get used to it."
Obinai's gaze shifts to the students passing by. A pair of noble kids—posture straight as a sword—shoot him a glance before whispering amongst themselves, no doubt sizing him up. One of them, a blonde with an upturned nose, sneers slightly before turning away, muttering something under his breath.
Bram catches it too. His expression shifts, irritation flickering across his face, but he just rolls his shoulders and shrugs it off. "Anyway," he says, shaking his head, "turns out we got the same history class together. Should be fun."
Obinai snorts. "Yeah, sure. I love history."
Bram rolls his eyes, leading them down another hall. "Well, you're in luck, 'cause I hear Professor Garvin loves to talk. Just nod every now and then, and you should be fine."
The tour continues, Bram throwing out shortcuts and warnings. "This courtyard's great for napping—I mean, studying—when the weather's nice. The food court there? Best snacks. Just don't order the fish. Ever." He pauses, lowering his voice. "And never go to the west wing after dark."
Obinai raises a brow. "Why?"
Bram hesitates. "Weird stuff happens. Lights flicker, doors slam on their own… some say a student disappeared there last year. I say? Not my problem. I don't mess with ghosts."
Obinai chuckles but files that information away.
By the time they hit the lunchroom at the end of the second day Obinai's mind is already a bit overwhelmed. The dining hall is alive with energy—long tables filled with students in black and silver uniforms, their voices clashing in an overwhelming symphony of conversation. The air is thick with the scent of hot food—freshly baked bread, seared meats, something spiced and sweet lingering in the background.
Bram is still talking, waving his hands around as he goes on about his class roster.
"So, we got some serious contenders this year. I'm excited, but also kinda nervous. There's this guy, Goran? Absolute monster. They say he crushed a training dummy with his bare hands—on accident."
Obinai half-listens, his gaze drifting across the room.
Near the center of the hall, a cluster of students sits at one of the more lavishly set tables.
Erion, grinning like he owns the place, laughs at something Seraphina says. She tosses her golden curls over her shoulder, her eyes alight with amusement. The other nobles nod along, their conversation light...
"I simply cannot believe the headmaster allows the grounded into the advanced classes," one of them says, swirling a goblet filled with some kind of deep red juice.
"Standards have dropped," Seraphina muses, voice airy. "It's tragic."
Another noble scoffs, adjusting the pristine cuff of his sleeve. "No discipline. No refinement. It's painful to watch."
Obinai is barely holding back an eye roll when his gaze locks onto another pair of eyes across the room.
Lyra.
She's seated a few tables away, mid-conversation, but the second she spots him, her expression shifts. Her brows knit together, and suspicion hardens her gaze.
Something about it pisses him off.
So, naturally, he flips her off.
Lyra's eyes widen in outrage, her back stiffening. She whips around, her entire posture screaming unbelievable.
Bram, who has been too busy inhaling his food to notice at first, catches the tail end of the interaction and chokes on his drink. He coughs, wheezing out a laugh. "Bro. You tryna get murdered?"
Obinai shrugs, dropping into a seat at a less crowded table. "She started it."
Bram slides into the seat across from him with a dramatic sigh. "Yeah, well, she's in my advanced ki combat class, so thanks for making my semester harder."
Obinai smirks. "Oh? She gonna take her rage out on you?"
Bram groans, running a hand through his messy hair. "Dude. She's intense. If she sees a flaw in your form, she will point it out. Loudly. And then proceed to kick your ass just to prove a point."
Obinai leans back. "Sounds fun."
Bram glares. "You're a menace."
They eat in comfortable silence for a moment before Obinai speaks up. "So, what's this martial theory class about?"
Bram perks up, stabbing a piece of meat with his fork. "Oh, that class is actually kinda cool. It's about old martial arts—like, really old stuff. How styles evolved, how people used 'em in wars and stuff. We even learn moves from different families, figure out what works best." He shoves the bite into his mouth, chewing before adding, "It's like history, but with more punching."
Obinai huffs a quiet laugh, leaning back in his seat. "You got a style you wanna learn?"
Bram's eyes practically light up. "Hell yeah." He leans forward, elbows on the table, grinning like he's about to share the best secret in the world. "There's this one—damn near legendary. Before the headmaster, there was this guy—no one really knows his real name—but people called him the Void Requiem."
Obinai raises a brow. "That's… ominous."
"Damn right it is," Bram says, tapping the table for emphasis. "This guy? He didn't just fight people. He traveled—to the realm below existence, where demons flow freely in the dark, and to the land where gods sit on their thrones, all smug and untouchable—just to show them he was stronger."
Obinai pauses mid-bite. "Wait. He fought gods and demons?"
Bram nods eagerly. "And won. At least, that's how the story goes. Some say he never really beat them, but they recognized his power and left him alone. Either way, his style? It's like… holding life and death in your hands at the same time. Not just using both—understanding them, balancing them, bending them to your will. Even the people who study that shit their whole lives can't wrap their heads around it." He shakes his head, almost in awe. "Most folks who try don't make it past the basics."
Obinai whistles low. "Damn… what's the style called?"
Bram leans in, lowering his voice. "They call it the Duskborn Omen."
The name settles over them. Obinai turns it over in his mind. Duskborn. The kind of name that carries a sense of inevitability—like whoever masters it isn't just strong. They're meant to be.
Bram sits back, stretching his arms behind his head, smug. "It's got transformations, too. Crazy ones. Different forms, different powers—like, there's one where the guy just stands there and the pressure alone makes weaker fighters pass out. But like I said—" He clicks his tongue. "Damn near impossible to master."
Obinai nods slowly, letting the idea sink in. "Yeah… but how do you think you'll master it?"
Bram snorts. "Shit, I dunno." He shrugs. "I just will. I mean, if there's any way to be the strongest, that's the way, right? So I'll figure it out."
Obinai watches him for a moment, then shakes his head with a small smirk. "You're kinda dumb, y'know that?"
Bram barks out a laugh. "Yeah, yeah, I get that a lot."
Obinai goes back to his food—a weird, spiky thing that looks like someone stuffed a sweet potato inside a dragonfruit. The outside is rough and uneven, but when he bites into it, the inside is this vibrant, glowing orange. It's sweet, like honey, but there's this tangy kick at the end. The texture's smooth, kinda creamy, but there's a slight crunch too, like biting into something fresh.
His eyebrows lift. "Yo, this is actually good."
Bram watches him, chewing on a plain piece of bread. "Yeah? What's it taste like?"
Obinai swallows, licking his fingers clean. "Like… honey and citrus, but with a crunch. Kinda like a tangy sweet potato."
Bram makes a face. "Man, why does your food always sound fancy as hell?"
Obinai just smirks. "Talent."
Bram rolls his eyes but grins. "Anyway, you know who's in your magic theory class?"
Obinai shakes his head, still eating. "Nah, not really."
Bram clicks his teeth and scans the room before subtly nodding toward a nearby table. "See that group over there?"
Obinai follows his gaze. Across the hall, a group of students sit together, deep in conversation. One girl in particular, auburn-haired and sharp-eyed, is listening to something but keeps flicking glances in their direction—quick, but not subtle enough.
Bram exhales through his nose. "Those guys? All mages. At least one of 'em, probably all of 'em, are gonna be in your class."
Obinai sighs, setting his food down. "Great. I'll have to deal with them too."
Bram nods, rubbing the back of his head. "Yeah… and you need to, like… chill in that class. Don't—" He stops mid-sentence, suddenly stiffening. "Ah, shit."
Obinai blinks. "What?"
Bram doesn't answer right away. He just motions with his chin. "Look."
Obinai turns his head and immediately catches the auburn-haired girl looking their way again. This time, when she notices them noticing, she turns back quickly, pretending to focus on something else.
Bram groans, rubbing his temples. "Dude. Yanela wouldn't be looking at us like that unless… jeez. You piss her off too?"
Obinai exhales sharply, tilting his head back. "Yeah… unfortunately."
Bram lets his head fall into his hands. "Man." He peeks at Obinai through his fingers. "What'd you say to her?"
Obinai shrugs. "Just that the guys around her must really like her."
Bram slowly drags his hands down his face, then shakes his head with a chuckle. "Oh, she's definitely in your magic theory class."
Obinai groans. "Figures."
Bram claps him on the shoulder. "Just one of them can make your whole school life hell, man. And you're already on her bad side? Yeah, you're screwed."
Obinai leans back, stretching. "We'll see."
Bram snorts. "Shit, we just might, at the rate you're going."
There's a beat of silence between them, then Bram lets out a long breath, looking at his hands. His usual grin falters just slightly.
"Man… running away from stuff like this would make my dream seem like a wish," he mutters.
Obinai glances at him, studying his expression. For once, Bram looks… serious. Not just in a way where he's trying to sound cool—but actually serious, like this is something that's been sitting in the back of his head for a while.
Obinai shifts slightly. "Why do you wanna be the strongest, anyway?"
Bram blinks, then laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Man, ain't that the million-gold question?" His grin returns, but this time, there's something behind it—something Obinai can't quite place.
And for once, Bram doesn't have an immediate answer.
Bram's expression darkens for a moment, his usual carefree mask slipping. His fingers twitch against the table, like he's gripping something invisible—something only he can see. His jaw shifts, clenching and unclenching, as if he's wrestling with the words before they even reach his tongue.
"The last real words I heard from someone important to me were about becoming the strongest." His voice is quieter now. "That's been my drive ever since."
Obinai tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. I thought he said he saw some strong guys… The inconsistency sticks with him, but he lets it slide for now. He shifts in his seat, leaning forward. "Who was it?"
Bram hesitates, his mouth opening slightly before closing again. His usual sharp grin flickers into something softer, something almost hesitant. Then, finally, he exhales a short breath and forces a lopsided smile, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"It was my mom," he says, his voice strangely light. "Before she… vanished."
Obinai straightens, suddenly more alert. Vanished? The word lingers in his mind, heavy. "What do you mean… vanished?"
Bram shrugs like he's talking about the weather, but the way he keeps his hands busy—tapping the table, rubbing his fingers together—gives him away. "No one knows, man. One day she was there, next she was gone. Like—poof." He waves a hand vaguely. "Thin air. No note. No fight. No nothin'."
Obinai frowns. "That's… that's awful, dude."
Bram lets out a short, dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah, well. She was the strongest person I knew. Always on my ass 'bout gettin' better. Said if I ain't the strongest, the world's just gonna walk all over me." He thumps a fist lightly against his chest. "So, y'know. Gotta listen to Mom."
Obinai watches him, noting the way his shoulders stay just a little too tense, how his grin doesn't quite fit right on his face. Without really thinking, Obinai reaches out and claps a hand on Bram's shoulder. "You're doing her proud, Bram. I can tell."
Bram blinks at him, as if caught off guard by the sincerity. Then, after a beat, he exhales, some of the tension in his posture unwinding. "Heh. Thanks, man. That's uh—yeah. Means a lot." He scratches the back of his head, his grin creeping back, this time a little softer. But before Obinai can press any further, Bram shakes his head and jerks a thumb at him. "Aight, enough 'bout me. What's got you movin'?"
Obinai hesitates, poking at his food. What is driving me? For a moment, the answer feels distant, just out of reach—then, like a flood, the memories crash in. Screams. The wet slosh of blood pooling on the floor. The sterile hum of machines whirring. His fingers curl slightly, his jaw tightening. He shivers before he even realizes it. Not here. Not now.
He forces himself to focus on the present, blinking away the ghosts in his mind. When he looks up, Bram is watching him, chewing absently but clearly waiting. Obinai exhales and wipes a light sheen of sweat from his forehead.
"I guess," he starts, his voice steady but quieter than before, "I want to prove to myself that I deserve to be alive. As weird as that sounds."
Bram wrinkles his nose. "Prove yer existence? The hell does that mean?"
Obinai clenches his jaw. I can't say it. I talk about Beelzebub. Vale said I'd be executed for that on the spot. He swallows, trying to piece together a safer version of the truth. "It started—"
Before he can finish, a shadow falls over the table. The sound of boots clicking against the floor halts just beside them.
Obinai's gaze shifts upward, meeting a pair of sharp, piercing yellow eyes. A tiefling girl stands before them, arms crossed, head slightly tilted like she's already bored. Her blue skin almost seems to glow under the lights, a stark contrast to the sleek black horns curling back elegantly from her forehead. Her long black hair cascades down her back, framing her sharp, angular features.
Bram, who had been mid-bite, groans loudly and drops his spoon into his bowl. "Oh, great," he mutters, rubbing his temples. "What do you want, Linea...?"