The gates of the Academy of Fangs shut behind Ash with a heavy clang, sealing him into a world that felt as alien as another realm. The marble courtyard stretched wide, its tiles engraved with runes that pulsed faintly with mana. Banners of crimson and gold hung from soaring spires, each stitched with the emblem of a fanged wolf—a predator that devoured without mercy.
Ash's throat tightened. This was no place for slum-born.
The Codex whispered in his mind, calm, steady.
Do not show hesitation. Every gaze here is a blade. If you flinch, you bleed.
Ash straightened, even as nobles clustered nearby cast sneers in his direction. Their robes shimmered with wealth—silks and velvets adorned with silver embroidery, rings flashing on slender fingers. A girl laughed behind her hand, her voice dripping poison.
"He'll faint before the ink even dries."
"Slum trash with a quill? What a farce," another boy muttered.
Ash forced himself to walk toward the great doors. His legs trembled, but he kept them steady.
Inside, the air was cool, heavy with the scent of parchment and candlewax. A vast hall stretched before him, lined with statues of past Archstrategoi and Archmages. Their stone eyes seemed to follow him, cold and judging. At the far end, long tables had been arranged, quills and parchment waiting for the candidates.
A professor in deep-blue robes gestured curtly. "Sit. The trial begins now."
Ash slid into a seat, the wood too smooth beneath his rough palms. He glanced at the parchment, heart sinking as the questions leapt out at him.
1.Describe the tactical errors of King Dorian in the Battle of Veyl Ridge.
2.Outline the mana circulation pathways required for a Second Circle barrier spell.
3.Calculate the optimal distribution of supplies for a marching column of five thousand soldiers over ten days.
His chest tightened. He couldn't answer these. He'd never even held a book in his life.
Then the Codex stirred, its voice sharp, guiding.
Breathe. Read carefully. These are not questions—they are battlefields. And you are not alone.
Ash focused on the first question. A haze of images filled his mind—battle lines forming, cavalry breaking against fortified ridges, supply wagons stranded in mud. The Codex whispered:
King Dorian advanced without scouting, leaving his flanks exposed. He failed to adapt when terrain shifted. Write this.
Ash's quill scratched across parchment.
The second question: mana pathways. Ash had no training, no spellcraft. But the Codex murmured:
Mana flows as water in channels. A barrier spell requires reinforcement at four nodes: north, south, east, west. Write of symmetry, stability.
Ash wrote, his words clumsy but precise.
The third question: supply distribution. Numbers swam before his eyes, yet the Codex guided him.
Divide provisions into thirds. Rotate distribution daily to prevent shortages. Factor terrain delays.
Ash's quill moved faster, confidence sharpening. Around him, noble-born students frowned, sweating over their own answers. Whispers rose as they noticed the slum rat writing with calm focus.
By the time the bell rang, Ash laid down his quill with steady hands.
The professor collected the papers, eyes narrowing as he skimmed Ash's answers. His brow furrowed deeper the further he read. At last, he snapped the parchment shut. "You. With me."
Ash followed, heart hammering.
---
The principal's chamber was vast, its domed ceiling painted with constellations of glowing runes. Behind a desk carved from black oak sat a man whose very presence made Ash's knees weak.
Archmage Thalos Greyveil, Principal of the Academy. His robe shimmered with faint threads of arcane light, his eyes pale and sharp as glass.
Lord Varian stood beside him, arms folded, gaze cool.
"This is the boy," the professor said stiffly, handing over the parchment.
Thalos read, his face unreadable. At last, he looked up. "A slum-born child answering with precision that rivals my second-years. Explain yourself."
Ash swallowed hard. "I… I only wrote what I saw, Principal."
"Lies," Thalos snapped. "You had help. No slum rat knows of Dorian's folly or mana circuits."
Varian's voice cut in, calm and deliberate. "Perhaps the boy has a gift. A… different way of seeing."
Thalos's gaze lingered on Ash, as though peeling him open. "Gift or trick, I will not dismiss results. But understand this, child—every eye will be upon you now. Fail once, and you will be torn apart."
Ash bowed his head. "Yes, Principal."
"Very well. He is admitted."
Ash's heart lurched.
Thalos leaned back. "But remember—this Academy devours the weak. Survive, and perhaps you will earn the right to stand among us. Dismissed."
---
Ash's days in the Academy began like a long, grinding war.
In theory lectures, nobles whispered insults behind his back. Rat. Filth. Pretender. Professors eyed him with thinly veiled disdain, their questions barbed with the intent to humiliate.
In spellcraft, he struggled. His mana sputtered and flared unpredictably, his incantations stuttering on his tongue. Laughter followed every failure.
Yet each night, the Codex whispered.
Every insult is a probe, a test of your morale. Endure. Every stumble in spellcraft is a reconnaissance of your limits. Record them. Adapt.
Ash learned quickly. He memorized the nobles' routines, predicted which professors would target him, sat where shadows hid him from sneering eyes. When mocked, he stayed silent. When pressed with questions, he gave short, precise answers—always just enough to deflect, never enough to reveal too much.
And slowly, grudgingly, some professors began to notice. "The boy observes," one muttered. "He listens."
But his fellow students noticed more. His calm in lectures. His unexpected correct answers. His refusal to be broken.
Whispers spread. Jealousy sharpened.
One evening, as Ash walked back to his quarters, he felt eyes burning into his back. A group of nobles watched him, their expressions cold, calculating. One in particular—tall, broad-shouldered, with the crest of House Feranor embroidered on his robe—smiled thinly.
The Codex murmured, low and certain.
He will strike soon. His pride cannot suffer your presence.
Ash clenched his fists. The air of the Academy was growing sharper, heavier. The test was over, but the true trial had only begun.