The Central Pavilion still buzzed with activity as Clayton stepped forward, the chaotic murmurs of voices pressing in from all sides. The scent of arcane ink, parchment, and residual heat from spent spells filled the air. This wasn't a school event—it was a war room in disguise.
He felt it immediately.
The second-years carried themselves differently. Stronger. Sharper. Eyes that didn't just look—they calculated. They were more than students now.
They were Adepts.
It clicked into place in his mind—the academy's arcane hierarchy. Novices started their journey here, learning to endure the burden of arcane imprint. But those who survived long enough, grew enough, and proved themselves advanced to the next stage: Adept.
And the difference wasn't subtle.
Adept students weren't just respected—they were dangerous.
Their arcane pool grew into 20 arcane points and they awaken 5 new cards, 2 of them being rare and rest be uncommon or common
Their access to more advanced cards, deeper layers of card crafting, and dueling privileges lets them test their limits further. Their bodies were stronger, their minds sharper, and their souls more tightly wrapped in layers of arcane energy.
Some bore the marks of that power—a faint silver glimmer under the eyes, arcane tattoos half-hidden under sleeves, even unusual physical traits. Side effects, maybe. Signs of progress... or corruption.
Advancing to Adept is no small feat; a large number of novices choose to remain novices due to the risk of losing control.
Clayton paused near a floating console labeled "Runic Synergy & Amplification." A second-year girl behind the stand flicked her gaze at him. Her left eye glowed faintly with artificial enhancement, and a silver badge of the Pioneer Tower shimmered on her cloak.
He moved on. He wasn't ready to commit.
Not yet.
"Still playing the cautious card, transfer?" came a familiar voice.
Lily.
She leaned against a booth with casual ease, her signature hood pulled over dark curls. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, that same sly grin she always wore when she knew something others didn't.
Clayton smirked. "Just admiring the predators in their natural habitat."
Lily scoffed. "Predators? These guys are practically twitching with arcane addiction. You can smell the desperation."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're unusually talkative today."
"I like this part," she said. "Electives are fun. It's when all the masks come off. Everyone's calculating, everyone's watching. This is the true Vyrith."
He followed her gaze to the senior booths. Behind every smile was a test. Every question was a trap. Clayton saw it now: this wasn't about learning—it was about alignment.
"And you?" he asked. "Which faction will you pretend not to belong to today?"
Lily grinned, then walked off without answering.
He knew better than to chase the answer.
Instead, Clayton focused.
He had to choose wisely.
His finger hovered over the interface. Courses scrolled past—Arcane Creature Binding, Mental Fortification, Advanced Tactical Duels, and more. Each elective tied back to something bigger: a style of combat, a worldview, a potential alliance. The tension in the air wasn't just competition. It was exposure.
His name, his choices—they would be watched.
And judged.
In the end, he selected three electives:
Tactical Card Adaptation—To refine his strategy and counter decks he didn't yet understand. It was offered by Gold fangs
Mental Fortification Through Arcane Patterning—To help resist imprint degradation and regain control, offered by Pioneer tower
Deck Analysis and Reconstruction—To dissect what he already had and improve it without relying on new cards, by Gold fangs
Black veil has very little chance of accepting me due to their complicated relationship with the Antigonus house. Rose pact and I have no common standing; after the duel with charles a part of the Iron ring hate me with passion. So, Pioneer tower and Gold fangs is the best place for me
The moment his selections locked, his wristband shimmered with confirmation glyphs.
Timetable will update by evening.
He stepped away from the main floor, toward a bench near the open courtyard, breathing easier now that the decisions were made.
Across the courtyard, the main party had gathered.
Asher was speaking politely to a senior instructor, face open and sincere—but his eyes never stopped watching the room. A chess player, Clayton thought. Always five moves ahead.
Eric stood near a faction stall, arms crossed, studying everyone. Silent, unreadable. But he wasn't passive—he was observing, calculating odds.
Sylvia had found a group of healers and alchemists in Rose Pact robes, nodding along as one explained the mechanics of Verdant Arcane Transfer. Her posture was relaxed, but her card hand was always at the ready. A diplomat… with claws.
Even Charles was here. No longer the dominant force he'd been before the duel, but not defeated either. He stood near an Iron Ring Adept, nodding as they discussed duel formations. Quiet—but rebuilding.
Cynthia was chatting with a bunch of people, being the center of attention as she always likes
They were all moving.
Adapting.
Choosing.
And then there was Clayton.
A transfer with a strange background, a duel win that left whispers in its wake, and a past that didn't exist in academy records. He stood at the edge of the storm, trying to piece together a future with nothing but fragments of fiction and instinct.
He exhaled slowly.
In his mind, he replayed Professor Reese's words from earlier that week:
"Arcane energy cannot be created or destroyed, only redirected or transformed. But every time you channel it, you leave behind traces—imprints. Too many, too quickly, and your mind starts to fracture."
And worse—he remembered the whispered rumors. The truths that weren't part of academy lectures. The secrets that only world-spanning powers like the Augustus family or the Hallmarks knew.
The unspoken ways to suppress or anchor a person's core emotion to prevent madness from taking root.
He didn't have access to those methods. Not yet. Maybe never.
All he had was his instinct… and a growing dread that the more he won, the more he'd be paying for it with pieces of himself.
The day dragged on.
More selections, more tests of will. Instructors took notes, seniors muttered quietly to one another, and invisible lines were drawn in the air—who to support, who to ignore, and who to sabotage.
And through it all, Clayton stayed still. Watched. Calculated.
By the time the sun began to lower, the booths started closing and students filtered out, excited or anxious, depending on the day they'd had.
As he walked back toward the dorms, wristband softly pulsing with updated schedules, he caught a final glimpse of the Adepts packing up.
Not teachers. Not friends.
But perhaps the clearest glimpse yet of what he was slowly becoming.
If he survived.