Vorian was stripping the draft for parts. He was selling his pick of the First Years to buy Vault currency for himself. And by the end of the third round, the full weight of the "Vex Blockade" was glaringly obvious.

  Every time a Commander looked our way, their eyes would flick to the shadows where Professor Vex stood with his clipboard. They would see the threat of the grade deduction, and they would look away. We were the strongest unit in the room, and we were completely invisible.

  "We cannot even join the Strike Squads," Finn whispered, his voice sounding small and hollow as the third round of the auction concluded. "We are First Years. We will be scrubbing pots while that dick Lysander is earning glory."

  "Look at the corner," I said, my voice cutting through his panic.

  "What?" Vespera asked, wiping a tear from her cheek with a velvet-gloved hand. "He is just selling his slots, Murphy. He is a disgrace."

  "He is selling the picks," I corrected, watching the grey, bloated figure in the darkest corner of the High Seats. "He isn't selling the seats. He still has to fill them eventually. He is collecting Merit points for something. Something specific."

  The Herald raised his staff. "A brief recess for the Commanders to confer! The final round will commence in ten minutes!"

  The music swelled. The Commanders stood to mingle, forming tight, exclusive circles of golden armour and expensive silk.

  Except for one.

  "There is an opening in the command structure," I said, adjusting my cuffs. "And it is time we secured our deployment."

  "Murphy, no," Grace said, reaching out to snatch my sleeve. "You cannot negotiate with that… corpse."

  "I did not take you for one who judges value by appearance," I replied, my voice dropping into the cold, flat register of a man who had commanded armies a century before she was born.

  I gently removed her hand from my arm, my grip firm.

  "I am taking charge."

  I turned and ascended the stairs to the upper level.

  The transition was immediate. The noise of the Imperial vanity below faded, replaced by an oppressive, heavy silence. The other Commanders were clustered near the bright mana-lights, preening like peacocks. But the far corner was a No Man's Land. A twenty-foot radius of empty, shadowed space separated the ball from the final table.

  As I crossed the threshold, the smell hit me.

  It was the cloying, sickly scent of funeral flowers used to mask a body that had been left in the sun too long. It was the smell of a field hospital after a week of rain. But the table itself was spotless.

  I didn't flinch. I didn't cover my nose. I kept my breathing shallow and walked straight into the gloom.

  Commander Vorian was massive—slumped and bloated, his frame hidden beneath heavy, layered robes of tattered grey wool. His skin was the colour of wet dough, shiny and tight, as if the internal pressure was at a critical limit. Thick, crude stitches of black wire held his neck and wrists together.

  He wasn't drinking wine. He wasn't eating. He was staring at the iron table with an intensity that bordered on madness, using a small silver tool to scrape a microscopic speck of dust from the wood grain.

  A young server, no older than fourteen, approached the table with a trembling hand to refill a water pitcher. The boy was terrified, his eyes fixed on the maggots dropping from Vorian's sleeve. He stumbled, and a single drop of water splashed onto the rim of Vorian’s glass.

  Vorian froze.

  "Stop," Vorian rasped.

  The boy dropped the pitcher, bracing for a blow. "I-I am sorry, Commander! I didn't—"

  "Breathe, child," Vorian wheezed, his voice bubbling but calm.

  Vorian picked up the glass. He held it up to the light, inspecting the droplet.

  "Take this away," Vorian instructed, his tone firm. "Bring me a fresh one. It must be washed in boiling water. Dried with a lint-free linen cloth. Do not touch the glass with your bare skin. Do you understand?"

  "Y-yes, my Lord."

  "Go."

  The boy scrambled away. Vorian immediately pulled a pristine, white silk handkerchief from a hidden pocket inside his tattered robes. He began to meticulously scrub the spot on the table where the pitcher had rested, wiping away invisible dust until the iron gleamed.

  I watched him, fascinated. The man was a walking corpse, literally rotting in his seat, yet he treated a water spot like a biohazard.

  Vorian finished his ritual and folded the silk cloth with precise, geometric corners. Only then did he acknowledge me. His milky eyes drifted over my uniform, lingering on the spotless white fabric.

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  "Pristine," Vorian murmured, a note of genuine appreciation in his wet voice. "That tunic. Not a speck of dust. Finally, something in this garden that doesn't look like it was dragged through a sewer."

  I nodded in acknowledgment and moved to pull out the iron chair opposite him.

  "Do not," Vorian commanded, his hand snapping out to stop me.

  I froze, my hand inches from the backrest.

  "If you sit, you will leave particulates," Vorian said, eyeing the chair protectively. "I will have to spend fifteen minutes sanitizing the leather after you leave. State your business standing."

  I withdrew my hand and clasped my hands behind my back.

  "You have a vacancy in your command," I stated, my voice projecting absolute authority.

  "I have no need of baggage," he grumbled without looking up. "Team members are a liability. They trip traps. They scream when my art comes out to feed. I am more efficient alone."

  "Five soldiers. One transaction," I said, leaning closer, invading his personal airspace. "You select my squad in the final round and absorb the twenty percent academic deduction Vex placed on us. We handle our own logistics. We eliminate what you designate as a target. And when the Mist Valley expedition concludes, you keep every single Merit Point my squad earns to add to your hoard."

  "All the points?" Vorian wheezed, his jaw letting out a dry sound like leather stretching. "I am the Commander, First Year. I keep the points regardless of who I draft. It is my absolute right. Why should I surrender a Primus artefact to you?"

  "Because without my squad, you will not win the Vanguard Primus," I replied cleanly. "You are sitting on a tactical reserve of a few thousand Merit Points, and you just auctioned three slots to hoard even more. It is glaringly obvious you are saving for something specific in the Grand Vault. Something expensive. You do not care about the Titan's Coil, the Void-Pearl, or the Ciphers. You want the ten-thousand point payout."

  I leaned in closer.

  "Draft the cattle downstairs, and Titus Thorne or Isolde Tyrell will crush you in the Mist Valley. Draft us, and we will slaughter everything in our path, guaranteeing you the highest score. You get your ten thousand points to buy whatever miracle you are saving for. I get the Ciphers. It is a win-win situation."

  Vorian let out a slow, wet breath. He closed the silver case with a sharp CLICK.

  "A pretty speech," Vorian grumbled. "But you have a reputation, Sunstrider. You hide behind tricks and traps. Vex flagged you as a debt trap. I need a squad that can survive the meat-grinder, not just talk about it."

  He turned back to his cleaning ritual, dismissing me.

  I didn't leave.

  "You want to verify the quality of the asset?" I asked, leaning forward. "Then let us test the merchandise. I challenge you to a duel. Combat readiness verification. Here. Now. Prove to yourself that we are strong enough to win you your prize."

  A slow, horrific grin spread across his face, stretching the black wire holding his cheeks together until the skin went taut.

  "To yield?" Vorian gurgled. "My children do not recognise the concept of a pause. If we fight, it is a Death Match. There is a reason no one has ever agreed to fight me a second time. The flesh heals, but the memory of being devoured... that stays with you. Are you willing to be eaten alive for a simple signature?"

  "I am."

  "Then hear the terms," Vorian wheezed, his milky eyes gleaming with sudden, predatory interest. "If you win, you prove your worth. I draft your squad, and when we win, you get your little artefact while I keep the points. But if you lose... I want your resignation. I want you struck from the Academy register tonight. Out of the Spire."

  I didn't blink. I understood the tactical play immediately.

  "A high price for a signature. Why does a Commander of your standing care if I stay in the Academy?"

  "Politics," Vorian rasped, picking up his silver scraping tool again. "Vex loathes you. The Thorne boy wants your head on a platter. If I am the one who removes you, I am no longer the Academy’s leper. I became the man who restored order. My standing improves. The nobles might finally look at me with favour rather than disgust."

  "A logical play," I said, extending my right hand to seal the pact. "The terms are set. We fight for the contract."

  Vorian looked at my hand. He didn't take it. He recoiled slightly, pulling his tattered robes tighter around his bloated frame.

  "I do not touch the livestock, little bird," Vorian rumbled, a flicker of genuine revulsion crossing his face. "Keep your heat and your sweat to yourself. We have a deal. Now, get out of my air."

  I didn't grimace at the rejection. I simply lowered my hand, adjusted my pristine white collar, turned my back on the monster, and walked to the edge of the balcony to face the garden.

  I descended the stairs with a measured, rhythmic pace. The crowd in the Pit parted instantly. They scrambled back, knocking over silver goblets and tripping over ornamental hedges to clear a wide path to the Rift Gate. No one wanted to be downwind of where Vorian was about to walk.

  The onlookers remained entirely ignorant of the true stakes. The Vanguard Slate hovering above the garden remained blank. They only saw the predatory glint in the pariah’s eye as he lumbered down the stairs behind me, sensing the imminent violence.

  Up on the balcony, Professor Vex stood completely rigid. His face was a mask of apoplectic fury. He gripped his clipboard so hard his knuckles turned white. He understood the manoeuvre perfectly. I had bypassed his bureaucratic cage with a direct, unsanctioned challenge, and his precious grading curve held absolutely no power over a Death Match.

  My squad was waiting at the bottom of the steps. Finn looked a delicate shade of green. He stared at the massive, rotting figure descending behind me, his eyes wide and watery.

  Grace stepped closer, her eyes narrowed as she scanned my face, searching for the boy she knew.

  "What has happened to you?" she whispered, her voice tight with worry. "Since the scrap yard... since we fought the Prime... you have changed, Murphy."

  I stopped. I looked at her, my expression as immovable as a tombstone. They were terrified teenagers playing dress-up, suddenly confronted with the cold reality of the battlefield they had blundered into.

  I met her gaze. I didn't smile, but I gave her a slow, steady nod—a silent promise that the situation was under control. Trust me.

  "When we are faced with dishonourable tactics, the only currency left to us is violence," I said, my voice low and absolute. "And I am going to spend it. As for my change... I have decided to take a fresh approach to our problems. I am done walking around the obstacles in our path. From now on, I will remove them."

  Grace went still, her eyes searching mine. "You sound completely different."

  Behind me, a heavy, wet thud echoed from the top of the stairs. Vorian had risen. He shambled downward, a mountain of damp grey wool and distended skin. His heavy robes dragged over the stone steps, leaving a faint trail of moisture. As he moved, the crude black wire stitches on his neck pulled tight and tore.

  RIP. SQUELCH.

  The First Years nearest to the stairs screamed and scrambled back. A handful of white, segmented maggots tumbled from his sleeve and writhed on the pristine marble. Vorian ignored the gasps of disgust. He fixed his milky, dead eyes on me.

  "Make it interesting, little bird," he rasped, his wet voice amplified by the acoustics of the garden.

  I reached the platform of the Rift Gate. The energy barrier hummed, a violet curtain separating the garden from the pocket dimension inside. I drew my sword. The steel hissed against the sheath, a long, straight blade that rang clear and sharp in the silence.

  I stepped into the Rift.

  And the world dissolved.