The message came at twilight, a soft pulse on Clayton's wristband just as he was about to lie down.
"Meet us at the East Spire Garden. 8:30 sharp. Come alone."
—Gold Fangs
He stared at the text for a second longer than necessary.
Us.
So it wasn't just a one-on-one meeting. The wording was careful—too careful. But not unexpected. After all, the Gold Fangs didn't operate casually. Every move was part of a larger play.
He glanced at the clock. 8:19.
Of course.
No time to overthink it. No time to plan.
Just enough time to decide whether to walk away or step into the arena.
Clayton stood, straightened his uniform, and took a breath. His fingers brushed the cards on his hip—his anchor. Then he walked out.
The East Spire Garden looked different at night.
Moonlight poured through gaps in the crystal dome above, splashing silver across the black-stone tiles. Floating flora pulsed with faint bioluminescence—orchid-like plants from distant continents that hummed with trace arcane energy.
It was beautiful, serene… and very much a stage.
They were already waiting.
Cynthia stood near a low obsidian bench, arms folded, her usual playful smile sharpened into something colder. Her robe was immaculate, her jewelry subtle but clearly expensive—pearls from Moonfall Bay, if Clayton remembered correctly.
I expected her here, as she was their main recruit this year
Next to her sat someone he didn't recognize.
A boy a year older, tall and lean, with hair the color of antique bronze and a crest-shaped brooch pinned neatly to his collar. Not student-standard. Custom-made. His eyes glowed faintly with gold-thread arcane lines—subtle, but unmistakably Adept.
"Clayton Antigonus," the Adept said, his voice smooth as lacquered wood. "Thank you for coming."
"Did I have a choice?" Clayton replied, walking forward. His tone was casual, but his eyes never left theirs.
Cynthia chuckled. "If you didn't, we'd be sending an invitation through disciplinary channels, not through me."
The Adept nodded toward the bench. "Sit."
Clayton didn't move.
"I prefer standing," he said.
The Adept's lips twitched, amused. "Fair. I'm Lucien Albrecht. Senior Gold Fang representative for this semester's recruitment cycle."
Recruitment. So this was a job interview in disguise.
"I've read your duel records," Lucien continued. "The Charles match was… unconventional. Risky. But smart."
"Didn't feel smart at the time," Clayton muttered.
"But it was. You positioned yourself as unpredictable. That's valuable. Especially in a faction like ours."
Cynthia added, "And you chose two Gold Fang electives. Smart choices, whether you admit it or not."
Clayton didn't answer immediately. His mind ticked through everything he knew. The Gold Fangs weren't just about influence. They trained analysts, politicians, and arcane strategists. Mastery of the game, both on and off the battlefield. But their ranks were filled with those who smiled while setting traps.
"I'm not looking to pledge," Clayton said at last. "Not yet."
Lucien's smile didn't fade. "We don't expect you to. But we do expect you to think ahead. That's what the Gold Fangs are. The ones who think ahead… and win quietly."
"Win what?"
Lucien's eyes gleamed. "Everything."
The moment hung there, heavy in the air.
Clayton exhaled. "What do you want from me?"
"Information. Observation. Presence. No public allegiance, just subtle alignment for now. Sit in our sessions. Train in our tactics. Learn our methods. We'll teach you how to shape the battlefield before you even set foot on it."
Cynthia added, "And in return, we keep an eye on your future. There are… factions in this academy that don't like wild cards. You'd be safer with us."
Safer.
Clayton almost laughed.
There was no such thing as safe here. Only temporary stability before the next storm.
But still… the offer wasn't nothing.
"I'll think about it," Clayton said.
Lucien rose to his feet. "That's all we ask."
He handed over a small obsidian token, etched with the fanged crest of the faction. "If you decide to join a closed training session, show this."
And with that, Lucien nodded and walked off into the garden shadows like a ghost fading into fog.
Cynthia lingered for a moment.
"You should know," she said, her voice softer now, "not everyone gets this invitation. We saw potential. Don't waste it chasing shadows."
She gave him a look—half challenge, half warning—and followed Lucien.
Clayton stayed in the garden for a while after they left.
He sat on the cool stone, letting the moonlight calm his thoughts. The token felt heavier than it looked.
The problem wasn't the offer.
It was what it meant.
Accepting help—training, protection—meant entering their orbit. Getting pulled deeper into a faction that never moved without strings.
But walking alone…
That was how people got picked off.
He drew a card from his deck. Not his unique one. Just a standard Tier-2 illusion card he'd grown used to lately. A distraction technique, weak in damage but good for setups.
He closed his eyes and activated it slowly.
An arcane pattern unfolded before him in the air—golden threads forming a symbol in three layers. He breathed in, syncing his own energy flow with the card's imprint, watching for any instability.
This was something he'd been meaning to test: whether he could improve his responsiveness by training precision over power.
Slowly, he cycled through more cards.
Movement. Barrier. Projection. Counter.
Every card had a rhythm.
Everyone had a cost.
Sweat beaded on his forehead by the time he was on his tenth card, not because of exhaustion, but because he was pushing himself to hold each imprint longer. To fully read their patterns, to harmonize better.
He needed to get ahead of the curve.
Because whatever game was being played at Vyrith's… it was only just beginning.
And he couldn't afford to fall behind.
Not anymore.