Marin stepped out of his room, fastening the last button on his academy-issued shirt. The morning air in the corridors was crisp, carrying the faint scent of polished stone and ink from the scribes' wing. He was still half-lost in thought about yesterday's fight when the sound of raised voices caught his attention.
It wasn't the usual chatter of students—it was louder, more excited, the kind of noise that builds when something unusual is happening.
He followed the sound down the hall until he reached one of the academy's main courtyards. Students and enforcers were gathered in groups, speaking in hurried whispers or calling across the open space.
"…is this really the first time the Author is addressing all of us together?" one voice asked.
"I heard there's a rookie he's obsessed with," another replied. "Supposedly this newcomer's got something special."
"Why would he go to such lengths for someone brand new? Does he even know who it is?"
Marin slowed his steps, curiosity prickling in his chest.
Then he heard a familiar voice. "You there—backstage. Now."
It was Elira Solen, leaning slightly against a support beam, her arms folded. Her tone was as dry as sandpaper.
Marin approached. "What's going on? Some kind of… foundation celebration?"
Elira snorted. "Foundation celebration? Please. No one even knows when the academy was founded. Or who the first enforcers were. History here is like a badly kept diary—missing pages, wine stains, and a few doodles in the margins."
"Then why all this?" Marin asked, glancing toward the crowd.
She eyed him for a moment. "Because, for reasons that escape me, the Author is taking an unusual interest in you. This entire production? It's for you. Why? No idea. Maybe you'll find out today. Or maybe you'll die wondering."
Before Marin could respond, the courtyard fell into sudden silence.
On the stage, the Author appeared with a faint shimmer of light, standing before an arc of students and enforcers. He smiled faintly and spread his arms.
"Today," he began, his voice carrying across the courtyard without the aid of magic, "let me present to you… the new face of our academy—Marin Caze."
Before Marin could blink, the Author snapped his fingers. The world seemed to twist, and Marin found himself standing on the stage beside him. The crowd murmured, heads turning toward him with curious, skeptical, and—he imagined—slightly jealous eyes.
"This young man," the Author continued, "possesses more plot armor than any enforcer we've ever had. And mark my words—he will soon be the strongest among you."
Gasps rippled through the audience.
"To support him fully, I hereby announce the formation of a new team, led by Marin Caze. Anyone who wishes to join may submit their names. Those shortlisted will receive… certain perks." The Author's eyes gleamed mischievously.
And then—
Everything stopped.
Not just the crowd—everything. Students froze mid-breath. Leaves hung still in the air. The breeze vanished. Even the sun's movement stalled. The entire planet had simply… paused.
Only the Author moved, lifting his head to address someone unseen.
"Dear gods," he called out, "if you're enjoying this world, please consider supporting it—not by sharing, but financially. You see, the enforcers' salaries come from my own pocket. Which, frankly, is very shallow. So please, deepen it."
A shape descended from above—the AUDIENCE, the Author's AI assistant. Her voice was flat, cold, and utterly without interest.
"The gods are very angry at you for begging in mid-broadcast," she said. "They wish to rip you into small pieces."
"Hahh," the Author muttered. The author thought I wonder how long will I be able to fund this world from my own pocket.
"Unfreeze the world," AUDIENCE said, ignoring him.
With a flick of his wrist, reality resumed. The wind stirred again, the crowd blinked and shifted, unaware that anything had happened.
The Author clapped his hands lightly. "Your nominations are welcome. Now, everyone, Please be back to your duties."
The crowd began to disperse, chattering in clusters. Marin was about to leave when the Author's voice called out again.
"Wait. You need to learn plot armor spells."
He gestured toward Elira. "You teach him. It will be useful for him."
Elira gave a look that could curdle milk but didn't argue. "Fine."
She led Marin to a quiet, empty class room in one of the older wings of the academy. The walls here bore faint cracks, the stone pale from years of use. Sunlight streamed through a high window, dust motes dancing in the beams.
From a nearby shelf, Elira pulled a board and a piece of chalk. She drew three intricate, almost artistic symbols—each one unique in style.
"Memorize these," she said flatly. "They're spells. Not ordinary spells—plot armor spells. You'll need them."
She tapped the first figure, a looping pattern with sharp edges. "This one is Summoning. It lets you call for backup—but only people you personally know. You can't just summon some famous warrior you've never met. No shortcuts."
Her chalk tapped the second, a spiraling design. "This one's Monologue. You cast it on someone to buy time. Once hit with it, they'll go into a long speech—about anything. Childhood memories, their philosophy, what they had for lunch. It's mostly used to stall while you think of a plan."
Then she tapped the third symbol, the most elaborate of them all. "This is Backstory. It's a one-time card. In the middle of battle, if you desperately need more plot armor, you cast this and reveal your backstory to the gods. The more tragic or inspiring, the more plot armor you get. But—" She raised a finger. "It can be used only once. Use it twice, and the gods get bored. They'll not only refuse to help, they might strip away plot armor you already have."
Marin frowned. "So…it's like, a gamble."
"Exactly. And one more thing—counters for all three spells exist. They're common. Easy to find on the dark web. If your opponent has one and it's stronger than your plot armor input, your spell fails. So when you cast—pour in as much plot armor as you can. Don't be stingy."
She handed him the board. "How to use them? Imagine the figure in your mind. Channel your plot armor into it. That's it."
Without waiting for him to reply, she turned and headed for the door.
"Wait, that's it? You're just—" Marin began.
Elira didn't even look back. "I've got better things to do than babysit you."
The door shut behind her.
Marin sat there for a while, staring at the chalk diagrams. Her attitude puzzled him. What had he done to make her act like this toward him? He couldn't think of a single thing.
Still, he studied the figures closely, tracing the lines with his eyes, trying to commit them to memory. He pulled out his mobile and took a photo, then copied them onto a scrap of paper from the front desk. Over and over, he sketched the shapes, closing his eyes now and then to try and picture them without looking.
The training room was silent, save for the scratch of his pencil. Somewhere in the distance, faint voices and the ring of practice swords echoed through the halls.