It had been two weeks since their departure, and the landscape of the Empire was shifting from the jagged cliffs of the mining region to the rolling, fertile plains of the interior. Despite the luxury of the carriage, Lucien was still in pain. It was a constant, gnawing presence, a reminder of the price he’d paid.

  Is this my permanent state now? he wondered gloomily.

  He looked across the carriage at Seraphine, who was reading a small prayer book. "I’ve heard the stories," Lucien rasped. "The Church of the Eternal Dawn, masters of the spiritual light. They say you can heal a man with a touch. Why don't you throw some of that light my way? I’m tired of feeling so broken."

  Seraphine closed her book and looked at him with a trace of pity. "We can’t," she said flatly. "That type of miracle is a legend, something from a distant past. If it ever existed at all, the knowledge is long lost. People likely confuse historical records of medical advancement with the 'healing' of the soul through the Goddess’s love."

  "Mleh," Lucien grunted, slumping back into the velvet cushions with a pained wince. "So much for divine intervention."

  "Now, it’s my turn for a question," Seraphine said, her voice shifting into a more serious tone. "You’ve been rather glib during this trip, avoiding any real answers. You keep mentioning someone in your sleep. A 'Teacher.' Tell me about him."

  Lucien went quiet, his gaze drifting to the window. The trees blurred past, but his mind was miles away, or perhaps, lifetimes away.

  "Well," Lucien said, shrugging his shoulders carefully. "If I had to sum him up in one word, it would be 'insane.'"

  "Insane?" Seraphine leaned forward, her interest piqued.

  "Utterly. The man has no concept of what 'normal' looks like. He lives on a different wavelength than the rest of us."

  Lucien chuckled, though it felt more like a dry cough. "He’s the type of man who would hold a full-blown argument with himself in the middle of a quiet room," Lucien continued, his voice dropping as he recalled the sheer absurdity of those moments. "He’ll debate five different points of view at once, completely losing himself in the logic of each one. He even makes distinct voices for each viewpoint—one gruff and tactical, another shrill and cautious, maybe a third that’s just pure, unadulterated aggression."

  "And you trusted this... lunatic?" she asked, her brow furrowing.

  Lucien shook his head, a small, pained smile tugging at his lips. "If you saw him from across a field, you’d think he was presiding over a council of invisible generals. He’ll yell at the air, he will grovel, and then pivot to a completely new attitude. It’s madness, truly. But the terrifying part? By the time he’s done arguing with himself, he’s found a solution that no sane person would ever dream of—and it usually works."

  "Is he dangerous, then?" Seraphine asked, her hand instinctively twitching toward where her rapier would be.

  "He was a battle maniac and a warrior through and through," Lucien continued, his gaze lost in the passing scenery. "But he put importance on life more than anything else. If a life can be spared, then spare it. If a life can change for the better, then give it a helping hand. He was always the first to dive into trouble in order to save some helpless soul. He was a true hero. Honestly, if he could just stand still without arguing with himself or doing something incredibly stupid, he’d be one of those perfect heroes you read about in a fairy tale."

  "He was a true hero," Lucien repeated, his voice trailing off as the past pulled him under.

  In his mind’s eye, the carriage walls vanished, replaced by the damp, stinking dark of a slave pit. He remembered the sound of the iron gate being ripped from its hinges as if it were made of parchment. His teacher had stepped through the dust like a god, radiant and laughing, cutting chains with a casual flick of a blade.

  Lucien had been ecstatic. For roughly twenty minutes, he had idolized the man as a literal savior—a beacon of hope sent from the heavens to deliver the downtrodden.

  Then, the "hero" had opened his mouth.

  "I’m looking for a new companion!" the man had shouted to the huddle of bewildered, half-starved captives. "I need someone with guts! If you want to follow me, you’ve got to prove you won't piss yourself when things get out of hand. Who wants to fight?"

  Lucien, desperate for a change and blinded by his twenty-minute crush on heroism, had been the first to volunteer. He had fought through the exhaustion and the pain, managed to win, and earned his place by the madman’s side.

  "I thought I was being invited to a grand adventure," Lucien muttered to the carriage ceiling, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips. "But from that day on, my life was nothing but training hell. Every morning was a new way to almost die, and every mission was a 'suicide run' that he treated like a picnic. He’d throw me into the jaws of a crimson mauler and tell me to 'study its dental work' while he argued with himself about whether we should have brought more snacks."

  Yet, somehow, against all odds, they had succeeded. They had survived things that should have killed any party. Lady Luck must have loved his teacher.

  "You look like you're remembering a nightmare," Seraphine noted, watching the way Lucien’s jaw tightened.

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  "I’m remembering the man who taught me that 'impossible' is just a word for people who haven't been yelled at by a lunatic long enough," Lucien replied.

  He shifted his weight, and the familiar spike of pain returned, grounding him in the present. He was fourteen now, and the training hell of his past life was a distant, ghostly echo. But the instincts—the absolute refusal to stay down—were still etched into his marrow.

  The carriage jolted over a stone, and Lucien’s face twisted in pain again. He looked at Sebas. "Seriously, find me that wine. I’m fourteen now. I’ve earned a drink for doing so much."

  Sebas chuckled softly, a glint of genuine affection in his eyes. To any outsider, Lucien was an eccentric prodigy, a child with the soul of a weary veteran. But Sebas knew the truth. He was the only one who knew about the regression, a secret that filled the butler with a quiet, fierce pride. He had seen Lucien pull miracles out of thin air and stand down a 10th Vein horror.

  To Lucien, the "Teacher" was the hero. But to Sebas, the true hero was the boy currently scowling at the carriage floor—the one who claimed to hate trouble but consistently dove into the fire to finish things with a bang.

  "Once we get back to the academy, what should I do, Young Master?" Sebas asked.

  "Leave home," Lucien said flatly.

  Sebas froze. His heart plummeted. "Sir?" The word was a plea, cracked with hurt. Was this the end of his service? Was he being discarded now that the miracle was over? "I can do more, Young Master. I can—"

  "You can't do anything for me there," Lucien interrupted, his brow furrowed in calculation. "I’m going to be spending the next year fulfilling my bet with the Old Man. I'll be buried in the training grounds. There's no room for a butler in the academy."

  Sebas blinked, the panic receding as he realized Lucien was talking about logistics, not loyalty. "Ah... the bet, a year?"

  "Yeah. I’ve got a year. Plenty of time to rebuild this broken body and—"

  "Then I believe you only have six months, sir," Sebas said, pulling a small leather-bound ledger from his coat. He flipped through the pages with terrifying precision. "Including travel time, the sabbatical officially ends in seven months."

  Lucien bolted upright, a strangled cry of "Gah!" escaping his lips as his spine protested the sudden movement. "What? Are you sure?"

  Sebas pointed to the ink-stained dates. "Yes, sir. Seven months total. You've been asleep for three of them, and we've been traveling for weeks."

  "Fuck!" Lucien yelled, the word echoing off the carriage walls.

  Seraphine jumped in surprise. "What’s going on? Is there an ambush?"

  Lucien didn't answer her. He leaned out the window, his voice a desperate roar. "Hurry!" he yelled at the driver. "Maximize speed! Cut the rest to the absolute minimum! This is an emergency!"

  The carriage accelerated, the wheels spinning dangerously fast against the gravel road. Six months. He had six months to activate his origin vein. He was confident in doing it in a year, but half a year? Now he was sweating, especially with the item he had in mind, not to speak of the fact that he couldn't be expelled because he had to keep an eye on Ray Melborne.

  What a drag, Lucien thought, his eyes burning with a new, frantic light. A massive, time-sensitive drag.

  Garret Melborne adjusted the dark iron spaulders of his uniform, the metal clinking with a hollow, mocking sound in the quiet afternoon air. As the eldest son of House Melborne, he should have been at the front lines. His father was currently waging a brutal campaign on the borders of Thornmarch—a conflict that was bleeding their resources and staining their name in red. Garret was old enough to lead a battalion and strong enough to hold a line, yet here he was: the "discreet" son, stationed as a glorified gate inspector at the Empire’s wall.

  A gatekeeper while Ray is the heir, Garret thought bitterly. His younger brother was already the guaranteed successor, having lucked into an engagement with a Duke’s daughter. Meanwhile, Garret was left checking merchant permits and sniffing for smuggled ale.

  The distant, frantic rumble of wheels broke his brooding. A carriage was approaching at a reckless speed, its horses lathered in white foam. This wasn't a merchant’s wagon; the polished mahogany and reinforced suspension were built for high nobility.

  "Halt!" Garret commanded, stepping into the center of the road and raising a gloved hand. He signaled his men to brace. "Slow your pace! This is a restricted entry point!"

  The carriage screeched to a halt, the driver straining to keep the panicked beasts under control. Garret walked forward, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his face a mask of professional boredom.

  "Identify yourselves," Garret barked, reaching the door. "This is the Imperial perimeter. State your business and—"

  The door snapped open with a sharp crack.

  Garret’s rehearsed speech died in his throat. His eyes landed on a woman in a travel cloak, but even with her hood up, her piercing emerald eyes and the unmistakable aura of authority were a dead giveaway.

  "Madam?" Garret stammered, his posture instantly snapping into a stiff military salute. The air around her was regal, heavy with the kind of power that didn't need a title to be felt.

  "At ease, Officer," Seraphine said, her voice sounding exhausted.

  Garret’s gaze shifted to the rest of the cabin. Next to her sat a boy who looked like he’d been chewed up and spat out by a war zone. He was deathly pale, drenched in cold sweat, and looked barely able to hold his own head up. Yet, even in this state, the boy's eyes held a terrifying, sharp intelligence. Beside him sat a butler who looked remarkably composed despite the mud-caked wheels of the carriage.

  "Lucien D’Roselle?" Garret asked, recognizing the name of the top-ranked student who had vanished on a "sabbatical" just as the term started.

  "Less talking, more inspecting, Melborne," Lucien wheezed, clutching his side as the carriage groaned under his weight.

  Garret raised an eyebrow. The boy recognized him? Before he could ask how, the woman pulled out an identification sigil. It was a high symbol of the Kingdom of Solenna. Garret’s heart skipped a beat; that was an identification of the highest order.

  "Let them through!" Garret shouted to his men, his mind reeling. He wanted to ask a thousand questions, but at the end of the day, he was just a lowly gatekeeper.

  As the carriage surged forward, disappearing into the winding roads of the Academy grounds, Garret stood alone in the settling dust. He kicked at the dirt, the familiar bitterness rushing back to fill the silence.