By the time the halls finally shut up, the place sounded half-dead. The last echo of a distant laugh faded, swallowed by the thick stone.
Outside? An owl hooted somewhere past the campus walls, a low, mournful call that seemed to judge the dorm setup more harshly than Ace himself.
Inside? Room 393. Two beds, one cracked window, just enough space to breathe if you didn't mind bumping into your roommate every five minutes. A faint scent of old dust and newer, sharper arcane reagents clung to the air.
Ace tossed the last of his clothes into the wardrobe. Four shirts, maybe five if you counted the one that was halfway unraveling. His bag hit the floor with a soft thud. That was it. His life packed into two shelves and a pair of worn boots.
Across the room, Theron worked with surgical precision. Books lined up like soldiers, parchment stacked like whoever owned it might get executed for misalignment. The quiet hum of a low-level ward, almost imperceptible, shimmered faintly around his desk.
Theron barely looked up, face buried in a textbook thicker than Ace's entire future. The cover glowed faintly—dense, heavy with arcane equations and anatomical diagrams of spell-casting organisms that probably made sense if your IQ bled off the charts.
Ace flopped onto the mattress. The thing felt like someone stretched linen over rocks. No comfort. No softness. Par for the course. His manor back home, dusty and quiet, still felt softer than this.
The ceiling above him? Bland plaster. Beige. Lifeless. Standard rich-people institution decor, designed to be forgettably expensive.
His mind replayed the day like a broken reel: the black towers scraping the sky, the endless parade of smug nobles, Valerius's sneering challenge, Elara's poker-face smile, Professor Thorne eyeing him like he was a lab rat that might bite.
A hell of a welcome party.
This place? A whole different beast. Politics dripped off the walls here more than actual learning. Crests stitched on robes louder than spellwork. Nobles carving out territories in lecture halls like they owned the floorboards.
Ace stared at the ceiling. "I came here for magic. Real training. Actual power," he muttered to no one in particular, voice low. "Didn't sign up for a bloodline pissing contest."
Theron didn't look up. Just turned a page, silent as ever. Probably memorizing spell formulas while Ace contemplated throat-punching half the student body. Ace wondered if the guy even knew how to talk.
His eyes drifted shut, thoughts flickering, a faint gold shimmer crawling through his brain like static. That itch under his skin—the molecular hum of what he could do—the thing none of them saw coming.
Valerius? Arrogant, rich, predictable. Elara? Smart, watching. The professor? Already measuring him like a chess piece.
They all think it's the same game.
But Ace? He wasn't here to play it their way.
The slow smile curled across his face, sharp and quiet.
"Let's see how fast I can shut those mouths," he whispered, voice rough with exhaustion and something hungrier.
Not by flexing status. Not by waving a crest he barely qualified for.
He had the real weapon—the freakish, raw ability to rip himself apart at the molecular level and stitch it back together like a goddamn machine. Bones, skin, cells, even atoms if he pushed it. The control wasn't perfect yet, but getting there.
They wouldn't see him coming.
The nobles could choke on their titles. Their ancient houses and embroidered robes wouldn't mean jack when Ace broke the rules they worshipped.
But patience first. Always patience.
He'd train in silence. Master the chaos in his bloodstream. Slip through the Academy, under their noses, eyes wide open while they all tripped over each other proving bloodlines mattered.
The blanket scratched across his chest as he rolled onto his side. Thin, worn, not much between him and the cold creeping in from the walls.
The Academy outside the door was still humming, faint voices, spells buzzing faintly like static electricity seeping through the stone. Arcane energy coiled under everything, waiting to be tapped.
Tomorrow, Ace thought, eyelids heavy. That's when the real work starts.
First step? Survive.
Second step? Master the ability.
Third? Watch the entire system eat itself when they realize who they let in the front door.
He pulled the blanket higher, the faint grin never leaving his face as the room settled into quiet breathing and faint page-turns from Theron's side.
Ace's eyes drifted shut. His last conscious thought sharp, steady, hungry:
They'll never see me coming.
Ace Dragnell - Current Status
* Name: Ace Dragnell
* Noble Status: Low-Tier Noble
* Age: 16 (First Year Student)
* Strength: D
* Agility: D
* Endurance: C
* Intelligence: S
* Willpower: A
* Charisma: D
* Arcane Power: C
* Abilities:
* Unique Ability: Molecular Disassembly & Regeneration (Untrained - some basic control achieved)
* Description: The innate power to disassemble one's body to a molecular or even atomic level and reassemble it at will. Can regenerate from a single cell or atom. Can reassemble specific body parts, which will possess the same inherent power as the main body. This ability is currently raw and unrefined, its full potential unknown even to Ace, but he has begun to exercise rudimentary control over it.
* Elemental Affinities: Fire, Air, Lighting
* Skills:
* Basic Self-Defense (C)
* Survival (Wilderness - from his manor's remote location) (D)
* Weapon forging (B-)
* Reputation: Unknown / Low-Tier Noble (among students)
* Silver Crowns: 300
* Dorm Room: 393