In a ruined cathedral drifting through fractured space, Operative Nine knelt before a projected sigil.
The attack plan hovered in the air—complex, multi-layered, precise.
And deliberately flawed.
Nine's fingers twitched.
"…Someone altered the phase arrays," he muttered.
A voice replied from the shadows.
"You noticed."
Nine turned sharply.
A woman stepped forward, masked in pale ceramic etched with veins of red.
"Councilor Kyriel," Nine said slowly. "You shouldn't be here."
"And yet," she replied calmly, "here I am."
She gestured to the projection.
"Phase One deployment routes were changed. The Harrowed Legion will arrive twelve seconds later than scheduled. The sabotage teams are under-equipped."
Nine's eyes narrowed. "That wasn't in the Council's orders."
Kyriel's gaze hardened behind her mask.
"No," she agreed. "It wasn't."
A long silence followed.
Then Nine laughed quietly.
"…So even the Veilborn rot from the inside."
Kyriel leaned closer. "Choose carefully, Operative. Follow the plan blindly, and you die alongside everyone else when this escalates beyond control."
Nine's voice dropped. "And if I expose you?"
Kyriel didn't hesitate.
"Then the Shadowmaster kills me," she said. "And then he kills you for knowing."
Another silence.
Finally, Nine deactivated part of the projection.
"…I'll delay Phase Two," he said. "Five minutes. No more."
Kyriel nodded once.
"Sometimes," she said, "five minutes is the difference between extinction and survival."
She vanished.
Nine stared at the remaining plan, jaw tight.
"…What kind of monster are they preparing for?" he whispered.
...
Sora sat at his desk, chin resting in his palm.
He hadn't moved for over an hour.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
His perception extended outward—not aggressively, not searching—but passively, like a net cast into the future.
Threads shimmered.
Most were dull.
Some were bright.
A few were… tangled.
"…Ah," he murmured. "That's unpleasant."
He leaned back in his chair.
Multiple hostile trajectories converging on the academy.
Hidden intent.
Layered misdirection.
A plan designed to cripple, not conquer.
"Well," he thought, eyes half-lidded, "that's rude."
He glanced at the far corner of the room—toward the sealed incubation chamber hidden behind layered concealment arrays.
The Qilin egg pulsed faintly.
He had brough it with him when he went back home yesterday. Esme was shocked.
He was back already. It hadn't been that long. But it was also something to be expected from the young prince.
The egg was still dormant.
Still sleeping.
"Don't worry," Sora said softly. "I'll handle it."
He stood, stretching slightly.
"Probably."
...
The assassin had planned this for days.
Every patrol route.
Every ward fluctuation.
Every breath of the Floating Academy's defences.
He moved through the air like a rumour, cloaked in layered concealment techniques that bent light, sound, and intent itself. His presence barely existed—an absence rather than a thing.
He was a killer trusted with eliminating catastrophe-tier targets.
And tonight, his objective was simple:
Observe Prince Sora.
If possible, cripple him.
If not—retreat.
He couldn't believe that was all he had been asked to do.
It was...simple.
Too simple.
Surely they meant kill? Right?
He phased through the outer wall of the dormitory tower, slipping past a blind spot created by a delayed ward recalibration—courtesy of internal sabotage.
Perfect.
He landed silently on the balcony of Sora's quarters, senses flaring outward.
The assassin frowned beneath his mask.
"…This already feels wrong."
Still, he advanced.
Sora was walking back from the kitchenette, a cup of something steaming in his hand.
Tea. Probably.
He was thinking about nothing in particular.
Actually, that wasn't true.
He was mildly annoyed that his class schedule had two lectures before noon tomorrow.
A tragedy.
He was beginning to understand the daily problems of a student.
He stepped onto the balcony, intending to enjoy the night air.
And walked directly into the assassin's killing zone.
The Nightveil operative froze.
This was… unexpected.
The prince had no visible guards. No active barriers. No defensive artifacts.
Just a boy in academy robes, sipping tea.
The assassin narrowed his eyes.
Trap?
No—his senses found no deception arrays. No ambush constructs.
Just… Sora.
"…Strange," the assassin thought.
He raised a single finger.
A thin filament of compressed void-mana extended—silent, invisible, capable of severing spiritual connections without leaving a mark.
A perfect opening strike.
He released it.
Clink!
The faint sound was far louder than it should have been, especially since the atmosphere was quiet.
The filament struck Sora's teacup.
And shattered.
Not deflected.
Not resisted.
Shattered.
As though it had hit something infinitely more real than itself.
The assassin's eyes widened.
"What—?"
Sora blinked and looked down at his cup.
"…Huh."
The tea sloshed, but didn't spill.
He frowned slightly.
"That would've been annoying."
The assassin retreated half a step instinctively.
Impossible!
That filament could sever a Transcendent's mana channels!
Sora turned his head.
Not sharply.
Not alarmed.
Just… curious.
"Oh," he said mildly. "You're there."
The assassin's heart skipped.
He hadn't revealed himself.
He hadn't moved.
He hadn't leaked intent.
"How—"
Sora tilted his head.
"…You're kind of loud."
The Nightveil operative's mind screamed danger.
He launched backward, drawing twin daggers etched with soul-corrosion runes.
"Prince Sora," he said, voice distorted, "do not interfere. This will only—"
Sora stepped forward.
Once.
The assassin's vision blurred.
Space folded.
Not violently.
Casually.
Like reality had simply decided the distance between them was inconvenient.
Suddenly—
The assassin was on the floor.
Pinned.
Face-down.
One of Sora's fingers rested lightly between his shoulder blades.
Not pressing.
Not exerting force.
Just… there.
The assassin couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe properly.
Couldn't even circulate mana.
His entire existence felt politely told to stop.
"What are you doing?" the assassin rasped, panic bleeding into his voice.
Sora blinked.
"…Standing?"
He frowned, looking genuinely puzzled.
"Oh. Right. You attacked me."
A pause.
"…Why?"
The assassin tried to move.
Failed.
Tried to trigger a suicide seal.
Nothing happened.
Sora hummed softly.
"Oh, don't bother. I paused that."
The assassin went cold.
"You—what?"
Sora leaned down slightly, peering at him like an insect he wasn't sure was dangerous.
"Your seal," Sora explained. "It's clever. Very dramatic. But it relies on a recursive soul-trigger loop that assumes causality behaves normally."
He tapped the assassin's back lightly.
"It doesn't. Around me."
Silence.
Then the assassin laughed—hollow, terrified.
"…What are you?"
Sora thought about it.
"Student," he said. "First year."
The assassin choked.
"No—what kind of existence ignores void severance, spatial collapse, and causality locks?"
Sora shrugged.
"I don't ignore them," he said mildly. "I just… don't agree."
The pressure lifted.
Just slightly.
Enough for the assassin to gasp.
Sora stepped back.
"Look," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, "I don't really care who sent you. Or why."
He glanced toward the academy skyline.
"But people are being really rude lately."
He snapped his fingers.
The assassin vanished.
Simply… removed.
Somewhere far away—deep within an abandoned Veilborn fallback pocket—Operative Nine would later find a Nightveil-class assassin embedded halfway into a wall, alive, powerless, and screaming incoherently about a boy who bent reality by accident.
Sora picked up his teacup.
It was still warm.
"Good," he muttered. "Didn't spill."
He looked at the spot where the assassin had been.
"…I should probably tell someone," he thought.
Then he sighed.
"…That sounds like work."
He went back inside, closed the balcony doors, and sat down on the couch.
Inside the sealed chamber beyond layers of wards—
The Qilin egg pulsed once.
Sora glanced toward it.
"…Oh," he said softly.
"That timing is terrible." Despite his words, he was actually excited, a rare smile appeared on his face.
It was hatching...