**
The sun above Arcanum Academy looked almost too dramatic, too staged — like it knew something scandalous was about to happen and wanted the lighting just right. A soft wind rustled the training field's grass, as dozens of students gathered for a duel no one had expected would happen: **Lucien Drex vs. Virella Nocteyn.**
"Are you serious right now?" Renn's voice cracked with panic as he jogged up to Lucien, who was lounging under a parasol with a cup of juice, reading a suspiciously outdated cookbook titled *101 Explosive Potions You Should Never Actually Brew.*
Lucien looked up lazily. "Hmm?"
"Virella challenged you to a duel! *Virella*! As in *Virella Nocteyn*! House of Libra! Their family ranks in the top ten magical clans across the continent!"
"Yes, yes," Lucien yawned. "Tragic about their overly sharp chin genetics."
"Lucien, I'm being serious! He's top 20 in Years 1 to 3. This isn't a prank duel. This is a you-could-die duel."
"Renn, my dear roommate, people die all the time. Mostly in dumber ways than this. Did you know someone once exploded from trying to duel a Reflector Mage while chewing Mentaspice gum?"
"…What does that have to do with anything?!"
Lucien stood, brushing dust off his black uniform. "Relax. I already set three traps around the arena. Not for him, of course — for emergencies. I'm not here to win, just to ruin someone's day."
---
Across the arena, **Virella Nocteyn** stood with arms folded, cape fluttering dramatically. His House Libra emblem gleamed on his collar like a badge of righteousness. But his eyes — they were anything but righteous.
When Lucien stepped onto the field, whispers exploded like wildfire.
"Wait, he showed up?!"
"I thought he never attends duels!"
"Lucien Drex? That guy who always skips class and naps behind the Mirror Wing?"
Virella smirked. "Well, well, well. You're not the cowardly alley cat I expected."
Lucien sighed. "Oh no, I am. I'm just here to mock the furniture."
"You destroyed my perfect moment," Virella said, voice thick with venom. "Saraphina and I were meant to be. We grew up together. We trained together. She was mine."
Lucien looked down at his nails. "This story sounds long. And disappointingly soap-opera-ish."
"I was going to propose to her. And then *you* happened! Ever since your little stunt in the Labyrinth, she's been obsessed with you — tracking your movements, skipping House meetings to find you. You ruined everything."
Lucien raised a hand. "I forfeit."
The entire arena paused.
Virella blinked. "What?"
"I said I forfeit. You can have the emotional monologue win."
"You— You can't do that! You came here!"
"You seemed like you needed closure. I'm here for emotional support, not physical combat."
Virella's hands began to glow blue. His aura flared like a rising storm. He slid one foot back, hands forming a casting stance. "No! You don't get to just walk away from this!"
Lucien squinted. "You casting 'Libra's Chain'? Your hand formation's sloppy. You'll twist the recoil."
Just as Virella raised his hand to strike—
"**STOP!**" roared **Professor Alther**, stepping onto the field, his coat flaring like a curtain.
"He forfeited. Any further attack will count as aggression against an unarmed student!"
Virella's spell dissipated with a frustrated crackle.
"You think you're clever," he spat. "You think you survived the Labyrinth because of *you*? You were lucky to have those other three: Saraphina, Caelum, and Ira! Without them, you'd be dead! You're not strong. You're just the class mascot!" and yet you think I'm not a worthy opponent?
Lucien tilted his head thoughtfully.
"When did I say you weren't a worthy opponent?" he asked. "Don't tell me you have ear problems. That must be hard. How do you listen in class? Do they pass notes in braille?"
The arena fell silent.
Lucien turned on his heel. "Enjoy your public breakdown, Virella. I'm off to not care about this."
He left the field whistling.
Back in the audience stands, Seraphina Vale watched quietly. Her expression unreadable. Her fingers curled tighter around the hilt of her practice wand.
Beside her, Renn whispered, "That was… wow. He didn't even fight."
Seraphina didn't answer. She was too busy watching Lucien's back as he walked away — the boy who could outplay a duel without ever lifting a wand.
In the center of the arena, Virella stood frozen, trembling with rage and heartbreak.
"Drex… you'll regret this."
He didn't know it yet, but Lucien had just triggered **Trap One**.
And two remained.
A cold-lit conference chamber deep below the staff quarters. Candlelight flickers over shelves of sealed files — untouched for decades.
Headmistress Elenora:
"Do you remember Project Blackbind… the final branch of Obsidian?"
Professor Alther:
(Pauses. Doesn't meet her eyes.)
"Selective memory is a useful defense, Elenora. Even you taught me that."
Elenora:
"I'm not here for riddles, Alther. Did you move the final files?"
Alther:
(Leaning forward slowly.)
"You mean the ones you ordered sealed… the ones tied to Subject Null?"
(Beat)
"No. I burned the decoys. The real ones — I wouldn't dare move. Not while he's still active."
Elenora:
"You think he remembers?"
Alther:
"He doesn't need to. Instinct is stronger than memory."
(Sips tea with trembling fingers.)
"You're not scared of Lucien Drex. You're scared the Project never ended."
(Silence)
"And you're right."
> Fade out as Elenora's expression hardens. She doesn't deny it.
> Scene Location: Lucien's bed. He dozed off mid-snack. Snowflakes fall outside. But in his dream…
Lucien walks barefoot down a narrow, metallic corridor.
The walls are scratched. Markings everywhere — but one catches his eye.
A familiar code phrase, half-erased:
"Contain the Architect. Do not speak his name."
Then — a broken sigil burns into the air. Not drawn, but scraped, like a desperate last attempt to warn.
Suddenly he hears a voice.
Child's Voice (his own?):
"You said if I solved the cube, you'd let us leave."
He turns.
There's a mirror on the floor, and in it — he sees himself younger, blood on his fingertips, etching the sigil into the wall.
The sigil glitches.
Everything burns white.
> Lucien wakes with a short breath. He looks down at his hand. A faint trace of ink — black and warm.
Lucien (to himself):
"…That wasn't a dream. That was a failsafe."