The morning breeze held a crispness that hinted at coming storms. Cael Ardyn moved through the stone corridors of Astraea Academy, robes fluttering behind him, his boots echoing on the polished obsidian floors. The walls were lined with engraved runes and centuries-old tapestries—glories of past wars, faces of long-dead heroes.
He ignored them.
He'd dreamed of a face last night. A girl's face. One he couldn't name, couldn't place, couldn't remember.
That was the cost. The system had taken another memory.
And his ability to care had gone with it.
The classroom was held in a round tower, high above the central keep of the Academy. Inside, an enormous circular war table took up the center, carved from ancient driftstone. Illusion wards glowed softly, and a dozen chairs surrounded the table, filled with students from elite noble lines and scholarship-born outliers alike.
Professor Maerlin, gray-bearded and sharp-eyed, stood at the head of the room. With a wave of his staff, glowing ethereal soldiers began to animate atop the map—miniature troops of knights, mages, archers, and siege beasts, glowing with soft blue light. The map shifted, showing valleys, rivers, forts.
"A practical lesson today," Maerlin intoned. "Each of you will command a faction. You will forge alliances, command armies, and—inevitably—betray them. Just like the real world."
He swept a gaze around the table. "Cael Ardyn. You will command the Stonepine Legion."
Cael gave a curt nod.
"Lord Riven Darrox, you will command the Scarlet Hounds."
A smirk formed on the noble's face as he leaned back, arms crossed. Riven was broad-shouldered, golden-haired, his family's crimson sigil stitched into his collar. The room tensed at the match-up.
"Of course, Cael thought. They'd pair me with him."
Everyone knew Riven. He was the son of Duke Darrox, wealthy, arrogant, and used to getting his way. He played war games like he played politics—loudly and with just enough skill to get by.
The round began. Maerlin waved his staff again, and the illusion pieces began to shimmer and move.
Riven opened with bluster—charging his cavalry directly down the center of the field, trying to intimidate.
Cael responded with a silence that chilled the room.
He let the noble push forward, drawing his forces in. Then he cut off his supply lines with a well-timed maneuver from summoned ranger scouts. When Riven tried to fall back, Cael collapsed a mountain pass behind him with illusionary earthquake mages—forcing him into a bottleneck. His flank forces, made to look weak, turned out to be reinforced with phantom constructs.
It was a trap. And Riven walked right into it.
The final blow came with a tactical feint—Cael baited a fake retreat, then surged his battlemages forward in a pincer that broke Riven's command line. The Scarlet Hounds were annihilated on the map in a cloud of shimmering blue particles.
Maerlin slammed the base of his staff against the stone.
"Victory: Stonepine Legion. Commander Ardyn, decisive win."
For a beat, there was silence.
Then murmurs. Then a few impressed gasps.
Cael sat still, offering only a small nod.
Riven's jaw twitched. He stood suddenly, knocking over his chair.
"That was rigged."
Maerlin's brows lifted. "The illusion magic is impartial. You lost."
"You stacked the scenario against me!" Riven snarled, eyes locking on Cael. "Or maybe you're just a snake who hides behind tricks."
Cael stood slowly. He didn't raise his voice. "You lost because you underestimated the board. You attacked like a child throwing stones and expected the world to part for your name."
Some laughed.
That was the last straw.
Riven's hand shot out. "I challenge you to a duel, Ardyn. By Academy rite and noble tradition."
The room went deathly still.
Even Maerlin frowned. "Lord Darrox, that is uncalled for. Strategy class is not grounds for—"
"It is when reputation is on the line," Riven growled. "I will not be mocked."
All eyes turned to Cael.
He knew what this was. Not a duel. A message. Nobles like Riven didn't forgive embarrassment. And their families didn't forget blood.
Cael met his gaze. "Accepted."
That Evening
Cael shut the dorm door behind him with surgical precision. The moment it clicked, he summoned the system.
System prompt blinked into view—unexpected.
[Rewrite Quota Reached. System Cooldown: 72 Hours.][Recent Heavy Usage Detected. Emotional Drain Threshold Crossed.][Warning: Forcible Override Risks System Overload and Neural Damage.]
Cael's expression remained blank, but his jaw tightened.
"Seventy-two hours… I'm locked out?"
The system pulsed again, mechanical and unfeeling:
[You are advised to rest. Efficiency improves with emotional clarity.]
"Rest?" Cael muttered, voice flat. "That's a luxury for people who aren't being hunted in daylight."
He stood still in the center of his dorm room, hands clenched at his sides. His thoughts raced, faster than any incantation could track. The room felt smaller, the air heavier.
No backup. No failsafe.No rewrites.
He stared at the pulsing message.
"So this is what it's like to be mortal again."
Word spread like wildfire. By noon, the entire academy buzzed with whispers and shifting loyalties.
"Cael can't win without his tricks."
"I heard he uses enchantments layered in his gloves."
"House Darrox has already petitioned for higher observation—three evaluators will be at the duel."
He passed them in the halls. Students who once looked at him with a mix of admiration and caution now watched with something colder. Like scavengers circling a bleeding animal.
Even instructors weren't subtle.
Magister Tovin muttered something as Cael passed—something about "arrogance catching up." A few others merely turned away.
The duel wasn't just a feud anymore.
It was a statement.
Victory meant legitimacy, a step toward influence in the academy's power structure. Failure… meant rumors would calcify into truth. It would brand him as a fraud.
And behind all that… the thought that clawed at him:
"Was this planned?"
"Was the system's shutdown— convenient?"
"Or deliberate?"