Clayton sat on the edge of his bed in the pale blue light of dawn, elbows resting on his knees, hands locked together. The room was silent, but his mind wasn't. Thoughts spun like cards in a shuffled deck—unpredictable, sharp-edged, and far too many.
Arcane Imprints.
The words still echoed like a curse. The way Professor Reese had described it—it wasn't just power that accumulated over time. It was something far more dangerous. Each duel, each intense use of arcane energy, carved impressions into your soul. Like claw marks on a wall. And the deeper those marks, the more likely they were to twist you. Permanently.
And I almost felt it yesterday, Clayton thought. That pull. That haze of instinct taking over. The moment I stopped thinking and just moved… it felt right. But it wasn't me. That's the terrifying part.
I knew there were some methods to control yourself in the novel only known by a few powerhouse factions like Augustus, Antigonus, Asford, etc. After I advance, I will need at least one to stabilize myself; maybe my soul is taking a toll on me.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, trying to exhale the unease away.
This isn't a game anymore. This isn't a story. It's a slow descent with no checkpoints.
But he couldn't afford to slow down now. He had exposed himself. The duel with Charles, the whispers that followed, even the way Asher smiled at him—it all meant one thing: the spotlight had turned. And it wasn't going away.
After a quick wash and slipping into his uniform, he left for the day's lectures. The hallways were already buzzing, but they seemed to part naturally around him. Not out of fear, not anymore—but anticipation. Everyone was waiting to see what he'd do next.
The first class was Applied Sigil Geometry. Complex, technical, and grounded in precise rules—Clayton found it oddly calming. The instructor, Professor Velwin, assigned the students to form dual-layer sigils that could collapse and reform under different energy pulses. Clayton's came out near perfect. His hands remembered more than they should have for someone "new."
At least something feels stable.
Then came Magical Ethics, and once again, the reality of this world hit him like a cold slap.
"Tell me," said Professor Myla, her voice sharp as the quill in her hand, "when a noble student destroys a village in a training accident, who's at fault? The student? The teacher? Or the system that raised them?"
No one dared answer.
Clayton didn't either, but his thoughts were already bitter.
No one. Because the system protects power, not people. It always has. Even in the novel, justice was an illusion dressed in pretty robes.
After lunch, he didn't return to his room. He wasn't done for the day—not even close.
He made his way through the western corridors, toward the specialized training halls. These weren't like the open grounds students used for basic drills. These rooms were meant for real development—and real risk.
The halls here were cold, lined with reinforced walls etched in containment runes and radiant wards. He reached his destination: Chamber 7C, a hexagonal training room built to challenge the limits of both mind and body.
He keyed in his ID crystal and entered.
Inside, the air was different. Thicker. Buzzing with restrained energy. The walls shimmered faintly with shifting patterns of silver and blue—a constant reminder of the runic system embedded deep in the room's structure.
Each wall could project simulated attackers. Each tile on the floor could tilt, rise, or collapse. The room didn't just train—it tested, broke, and rebuilt.
Clayton stepped into the center, wiped his palms on his robes, and took a breath.
"Simulation mode: Reflex and Endurance. Hostile arcane constructs. Random attack intervals. 30-minute limit. No breaks."
A soft tone replied, "Confirmed. Initiating in five seconds."
Time to see if yesterday was a fluke.
The room surged to life.
Arcs of searing energy lanced toward him from the walls. His instincts screamed, and he moved—dipping low under a burst, leaping over a spinning sigil trap, twisting his frame just enough to dodge a flash of crimson flame.
His body burned. Not from pain, but strain.
The weight of gravity spells pulled on his legs. A moment later, a bladed projection came at him low, and he reacted on raw muscle memory—his defensive card flashed to life, a glassy shield of kinetic force that cracked on impact.
He didn't speak, didn't curse.
He moved.
Minutes bled into each other. Sweat dripped from his jaw. His heartbeat became a drumbeat that matched the chaos around him.
And yet—he held on.
Control. Breathe. Don't give in to the thrill. It's not a fight. It's training. You're still you.
Finally, a soft chime marked the end of the session.
The attacks ceased. The lights dimmed. Clayton dropped to one knee, panting, his muscles trembling.
But he was smiling.
A tired, crooked grin. He wasn't smiling because it felt good—he was smiling because he survived it without losing himself.
That's one win. One step closer to walking the edge without falling.
As he exited the chamber, wiping sweat off with a cloth, a small pulse from his wristband made him glance down.
[Academy Announcement: Your elective selections will be assigned tomorrow.]. All students are to report to the Central Auditorium at 9:00 AM sharp.
Clayton raised an eyebrow, exhaling slowly.
So it begins.
Electives weren't just a curriculum choice. They were faction markers. Territory claims. Where students decided to lean—into battle, into knowledge, into shadows. And the people he would meet there would not be ordinary.
They would be in play.
"Great," he muttered. "As if the board wasn't crowded enough already."
He pushed open the training hall doors and stepped back into the academy's waning afternoon light.
Whatever comes next, I need to be ready. Not just strong. Not just clever. I need to be unbreakable.
Because in this world of arcane power, control wasn't just a skill.
It was the only thing that kept you sane.