Two days later, Martin Kaiser awoke to the same quiet hum of wards and the scent of faint alchemical residue that clung to his sheets. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, reached for a flask of mana tonic on his bedside table, and sipped without thinking. The potion was bitter, laced with his custom modifications—an energy stimulant mixed with microdose resistance-training toxins. Routine.
He dressed in his standard ensemble: a dark, fitted suit with silver trim and his usual narrow black tie. No insignia. No crest. Just clean and sharp, like a dagger pretending to be dinnerware. His hair was slightly tousled, his sleeves rolled just enough to suggest he might either hex someone or explain spell theory over tea.
Then the noise hit him.
Martin stepped out of his room, only to nearly get trampled by a wave of running students—nearly all of them girls—racing across the marble corridor in shrieking packs.
"What the hell is happening?" Martin muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Is this a fish market? Did someone release a sale on enchanted jewelry?"
He stuck out a hand and grabbed a girl by the back of her cloak.
She let out a startled yelp and stumbled to a halt. "Wh-what!?"
Martin didn't blink. "Why are you all running like spell-starved lunatics?"
The girl turned to him, breathless, cheeks flushed. "D-don't you know?!"
"If I did," he said dryly, "I wouldn't be asking, would I?"
"The Gilded Blade! He's arrived today!"
Martin frowned. "You're serious. All this chaos… for a man?"
"He's not just a man," she insisted, as if offended. "He's Fenice Phoenix. He's young, devastatingly handsome, writes poetry that makes people cry, ranked in the world's top hundred duelists, and—" she took a dramatic breath—"he's single."
Martin stared at her.
Then, without a word, he flicked his hand. A gentle air spell launched the girl backward in a graceful arc, like a leaf caught in wind.
"Thank you!!!" she shouted mid-flight, with frightening sincerity.
Martin exhaled, already regretting being awake.
"Are all the girls here like this?" he muttered. "They invite independent prodigies to raise the standard, and they still lose their minds over glittering swordsmen?"
He looked to the sky, sighed again, and tapped his heels.
A gust of compressed wind formed beneath his shoes, lifting him gently off the ground. Within seconds, he took flight—rising above the chaos like an annoyed storm cloud.
From above, he saw it clearly.
At the heart of the crowd stood the star of the dueling circuits: Fenice Phoenix. The silver-haired heartthrob looked like he'd stepped out of a romance serial—tall, lean, and poised like a painting. His eyes were bright, piercing blue like polished mana crystals. His golden-trimmed uniform shimmered even in overcast light. A two-handed curved sword hung at his hip, deceptively elegant, resting in a scabbard that had been kissed by enchantments.
He moved with grace, his every motion calculated, kind, and practiced for maximum admiration. When a girl stumbled and fell near him, he caught her gently, lifted her like a fallen blossom, dusted her off, and returned her hat with a smile.
The crowd roared in delight.
"Ridiculous," Martin muttered aloud.
And yet… undeniable. The man had charisma as polished as his sword.
Martin flew toward the upper plaza and landed smoothly on a bench under one of the many floating lanterns. From here, he had a perfect vantage point of the swirling fanfare below. Faculty were desperately trying to corral the chaos, casting calming auras and shouting over the din with limited success.
Even Belisarius, the normally unshakable Head of Combat Oversight, looked like he was one bad rhyme away from resigning.
"Damn," Martin muttered. "Even Belisarius is struggling."
A voice floated in beside him. "It's a given. The man is beautiful."
Martin turned his head slightly. A woman in a sleek, asymmetrical coat hovered beside him, descending slowly on an anti-gravity platform laced with crimson thread.
"Miss Bellarine," Martin said. "How may I help you?"
"Oh? Are you stalking me now?" Bellarine teased.
Martin pointed to her chest. "You have a nameplate. Glow-in-the-dark, no less. Bit hard to miss. Also, shouldn't you be down there helping manage the breakdown of public order?"
Bellarine waved a hand. "Don't be ridiculous. Those girls look like they'd bite anyone who got between them and their poetry prince."
Martin made a noncommittal sound. He returned his gaze to Fenice, who now knelt to hand a fallen quill back to a trembling student like he was bestowing a sacred relic.
"Patron saint of tragic romanticism," Martin said bitterly.
Bellarine raised an eyebrow. "Jealous?"
"I feel like vomiting sparkles," he replied. "The man's existence feels like a naïve, privileged daydream wrapped in designer robes and dramatic lighting."
She laughed. "You're just upset he's too shiny to curse without public backlash."
Martin didn't deny it. "Maybe if I drew a pentagram in calligraphy and laced it with scented ink, the crowd would applaud instead."
Bellarine chuckled. "Oh, don't worry, Martin. You'll probably cross paths soon enough. Varncrest loves throwing titans into arenas. And who knows? Maybe the poetry will win you over."
Martin gave her a withering glare. "Please don't. That would be a headache I can't solve with alchemy."
She stood from the bench, her feet now touching the stone tiles. "Just don't set the school on fire. Or if you do, aim for the art gallery. The installations this season are terrible."
With a wink, Bellarine turned and walked away, disappearing into the edge of the crowd with her usual languid confidence.
Martin leaned back, letting the wind toy with his coat, eyes still locked on the man below. Fenice Phoenix was now reciting something. A poem, most likely. The crowd was quiet, breathless, captivated.
Then, through the noise, Martin noticed something else—a figure approaching Fenice not with fan-like reverence, but with sharp purpose. Their aura was muted, their presence veiled just enough to slide under the radar.
Martin's fingers twitched. He sat upright.
"Now, what do we have here?"
Even in the shadow of showmanship, someone else was playing their own game.
And Martin, as always, hated when people played without telling him the rules.