A deafening roar crashed into me, a physical wave of sound composed of ten thousand cheering voices, the triumphant blare of brass horns, and the crackle of raw energy. The air was thick and warm, smelling heavily of ozone, candied nuts, and something like burnt sugar.
My eyes struggled to adjust. I was sitting on a plush, velvet-cushioned bench in the nosebleed section of a circus tent so vast its ceiling was lost in a swirling nebula of shimmering fabrics. Below, in a ring of pure white sand, a spectacle of glorious chaos unfolded. Acrobats in glittering silver leotards leapt between the backs of six-legged, horse-like creatures whose manes were woven from living starlight. Around the perimeter were an unusual number of Jesters giving out snacks and refreshments.
I sat frozen, my mind reeling. This was a dream.
And then, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, the world stopped.
The roar of the crowd vanished into a silence so absolute it felt like a physical pressure against my eardrums. The acrobats froze mid-leap, suspended in defiance of gravity. A spectral spectator next to me, mouth wide in a silent cheer, had a piece of shimmering confetti hanging motionless an inch from his nose.
Down in the centre ring, the Ringmaster straightened up. He was dressed in a fancy tailcoat the colour of midnight, a gleaming black top hat perched on his head. He dusted off his hands and scanned the endless rows of spectators, his eyes sweeping past thousands of frozen faces until they landed, with unnerving precision, directly on me.
He sighed, looking annoyed. He vaulted over the edge of the ring and began the long climb into the stands.
The divine spectacle dissolved into mundane absurdity. Faced with a wall of impassable, frozen bodies, the man had to squeeze through like a latecomer at a cinema.
"Pardon me, sir," Ludo muttered, shimmying sideways between two frozen spectres. "Coming through. Mind the top hat ma'am."
He tripped slightly on a frozen foot and shot the offending patron a dirty look. "Watch it, buddy."
Finally, huffing slightly, the Ringmaster arrived at my row. He stopped, straightened his coat, and offered a tight, professional smile.
"Is this seat taken?"
I stared at him blankly. I knew exactly who he was—the God of Games, the guy who was apparently sponsoring us—but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
"Sorry, that seat is actually taken," I said, doing my best impression of a confused peasant. "My wife just left for the bathroom... I'm sure she will be back any second. Thank you, and good day to you, good sir."
Ludo rolled his eyes as he sat down next to me, crossing his legs. "Oh, stop it. You're not that good an actor, Murphy. And I don't have time for the 'Who are you?' routine. I tried to get the Paladin, but he's locked the door. Apparently, he doesn't sleep anymore. He's just in there now, humming and meditating twenty-four seven. It's quite rude, you know."
"I said good day!"
Ludo just stared at me for a few seconds.
"He's building our core," I said, dropping the act.
"Well, it's annoying, and I don't care for it, I really don't", Ludo grumbled, picking a piece of lint off his lapel. "So I'm stuck with the sidekick. How are you, by the way, Murphy? Enjoying the ride so far?"
"Not too bad…" I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "If you ignore the fact that you shoved us into a dead orphan in a back alley with absolutely nothing. No money. No background. No mana. That's a hell of a starting hand for your supposed 'Champion'."
Ludo shrugged. "It's a draft, kid. Economics. Every Champion has a cost. If I brought Ronan back as a Prince with a Gold Core and a magic sword, the 'cosmic price' would have been astronomical. I'd have blown my whole budget on the vessel."
He gestured to me. "So, I picked the cheapest unit on the board. A dead orphan with no connections and zero prospects? Clearance sale. Practically free."
"Thanks," I said dryly. "You really know how to make a girl feel special."
"You are welcome, Murphy!" Ludo countered, his eyes gleaming. "Because the vessel cost zero... I had plenty of budget left to buy the expensive Add-Ons."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The Inventory. That's not standard issue, Murphy. That is a Legendary-tier cheat. I can't take credit for the clones, but let's just say I had a hunch that if I chose Ronan as my champion, he would be getting another upgrade. I gave you a terrible starting position so I could slip two Aces up your sleeve. I min-maxed you. You're welcome, by the way."
I sat with that for a moment. It made a twisted sort of sense that I could respect.
"Okay," I said. "So we're a budget build with expensive accessories. But why am I here? Why is Ronan in my head?"
"I didn't put you together, Murphy. You were already there. Ronan knows the score. Ask him."
A cold spike of dread hit me in the chest, sharper than any blade. I ignored it. I shoved it down deep into the vault where I kept all the bad memories.
"He doesn't know," I said, my voice steady.
Ludo laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh. It was the laugh of a man watching someone try to solve a puzzle with a piece missing.
"Oh, Murphy," Ludo cooed, tilting his head. "You're smart. You're the survivor after all. You see the angles. But on this?"
He leaned closer, invading my personal space.
"You haven't asked him," Ludo whispered as he studied my face. "Even though you know he's keeping something juicy from you."
"Because we've been too busy jumping through all your fucking hoops", I snapped, looking away.
"Bullshit," Ludo hissed. "You don't ask because you're terrified of the answer. You're like the husband who finds a second phone in his wife's purse and convinces himself she just got a new work line. You don't ask, because if you ask, the lie falls apart. And if the lie falls apart... You have to face the fact that he might just be manipulating you."
My hands clenched into fists on my knees. The denial rose up like a shield wall—thick, heavy, and impenetrable.
Just then, a sound cut through the silence. A clean, crisp guitar riff, plucked with finger-style precision, started to resonate through the frozen circus tent. It was distinctive, jazzy, and deceptively simple.
Dire Straits. Sultans of Swing.
Ludo groaned, checking his pocket watch, which was running backwards. "Of course. The Paladin's wake-up playlist. He has such... Dad Rock taste."
I listened to the guitar for a moment, letting the rhythm settle my nerves.
"You know the story behind this song?" I asked quietly.
Ludo raised an eyebrow. "Enlighten me."
"Mark Knopfler walked into a pub in South London one rainy night," I said, looking down at the frozen acrobats. "The place was almost empty. Just a few drunks in the corner. But on stage, there was this Dixieland jazz band. They were playing their hearts out. They were tight, they were skilled, and they were giving it everything they had."
The music swelled, the bass line kicking in.
"They finished the set to a room that didn't care," I continued. "And the lead singer just stepped up to the mic and said, 'Goodnight and thank you. We are the Sultans of Swing.'"
I turned to look at Ludo.
"They weren't Sultans of anything," I said. "They were nobodies in a dive bar. But they played like Kings because that's who they were. They did the work when no one was watching."
I tapped my chest.
"Ronan is in there right now. Meditating. Polishing a core that isn't even his. He's playing to an empty room, Ludo. He's doing the heavy lifting while I rest, keeping the engine running, making us stronger. If he has secrets? If he remembers things, he isn't saying? Then he has a reason."
I met the God's gaze, my voice firm.
"I don't ask about the second phone because I trust the one holding it. He's the Sultan. And until the set is over, I'm not going to interrupt the music."
Ludo stared at me for a long moment. The mockery faded from his eyes, replaced by a flicker of grudging respect.
"That's poetic," Ludo admitted softly. "Delusional, but poetic. Just be careful, Murphy. Even the best bands eventually break up."
"Wait," I said, urgency creeping into my voice. "You came here for a reason. What is it?"
Ludo's playfulness vanished. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a hard edge.
"You need to move faster. You're playing the long game, building a base, hoarding gold. That's smart, but you don't have the luxury of time. Something is coming, Murphy. Something hungry. The Matron warned you, didn't she?"
"Yea, her cryptic fucking message was received. We are on the lookout for some insects," I said, now getting really annoyed by the whole situation.
"The Hunger," Ludo corrected. "It's already here. You need to get stronger, and you need to do it yesterday. Stop playing it safe with the Clones. Push the limits."
"The Inquisition is hunting us."
"Very true. If you start throwing clones around where people can see them, he will connect the dots. I'll see what I can do to help with that. In the meantime, keep your head down and the clones hidden. But use them. Abuse them. Break the game, Murphy. That's why you're here, after all."
The music swelled to a crescendo. The frozen circus began to vibrate violently.
"Time's up," Ludo said, standing up. "Try not to die. I have a lot of money riding on the underdog. And for the love of the Game, try to be more entertaining. The slime farming was clever, but extremely dull."
He snapped his fingers.
The circus shattered into a million shards of light.
I gasped, waking up in the cold, grey light of the House Argent dormitory. My heart was pounding in time with the intricate guitar solo blasting in my skull.
We are the Sultans... We are the Sultans of Swing...
'Rise and shine, Murphy!' Ronan's voice boomed in my head, the music fading but the energy remaining. 'Can you feel it? The rhythm? The precision?'
I sat up, rubbing my face. The dream was fading, but Ludo's warning stuck to me like tar. Something hungry is coming.
'I feel it,' I grogged. 'You're loud.'
'I am triumphant!' Ronan cheered. 'We crossed the threshold an hour ago. Check the furnace, Murphy! The Core isn't flickering anymore. It's stable. It's dense. We are officially Solid Blue.'
I checked inward. He was right. The blue fire in my chest wasn't a candle anymore; it was a furnace. The connection to the Inventory felt wider, stronger.
'Solid Blue,' I whispered. 'This means we can make more clones.'
'Exactly!' Ronan said.
I swung my legs out of bed, the cold stone floor grounding me. I thought about telling him about Ludo. I paused. Ronan was vibrating with excitement. It wasn't the right time. So I pushed the memory of the circus down deep and took a deep breath. The new Solid Blue Core hummed in my chest. It felt heavy, viscous, and powerful—like a reservoir behind a dam waiting to be opened.
'Alright,' I said, standing in the centre of the room and focusing on the Art. 'Let's see if we can break the game.'
I closed my eyes, running the internal diagnostic. The mana didn't slosh around anymore; it felt heavy, viscous, and potent. But theory was one thing. I needed numbers.
I stood in the centre of the room and reached for the Art. I braced myself for the usual hollow thud in my chest—the thirty per cent "tax" that usually hit when I carved out a piece of my core.
I pulled. The air shimmered. A Murphy-Clone knit itself into existence at the foot of the bed.
I waited for the drain. It didn't come. Well, it did, but it wasn't a gouge; it was a sip.
'Ronan...' I whispered, checking my internal gauge. 'Look at the tank.'
'Fifteen per cent,' Ronan confirmed, his voice hushed with awe. 'The compression of the Solid Core has doubled our efficiency. The construct costs half as much fuel to maintain.'
I did the math instantly. 'Fifteen per cent. That means...'
I didn't finish the sentence. I just kept casting.
Clone Two. Zap. Clone Three. Zap. Clone Four. Zap.
My small dorm room was suddenly very crowded. Four copies of me stared back, waiting for orders. I checked the tank again.
'We're only at sixty per cent usage,' I realised, a manic grin spreading across my face. 'We still have plenty of gas. Keep going.'
Clone Five. Zap. Clone Six. Zap.
Six clones. A full squad. The room was now standing-room only. My mana reserves were sitting at ninety per cent usage, leaving me with a safe ten per cent buffer in the Original Body.
'Six,' Ronan said. 'That is a significant force multiplier.'
'Why stop there?' I asked, drunk on the power. 'The tank isn't empty. We have ten per cent left. If I squeeze the reserve...'
'Murphy, no,' Ronan warned. 'The Consciousness Split...'
'Just one more,' I pushed. 'Let's see if we can hit the lucky number seven.'
I reached for the dregs of my mana. I pushed the will into the Art, trying to thread my mind into a seventh vessel.
CRACK.
It wasn't a sound. It was a psychic whiplash. It felt like I had tried to plug a toaster into a socket that was already running a welding machine. The circuit breaker in my soul screamed.
A blinding white spark detonated in the centre of the room, scorching the stone floor.
"GAH!" I clutched my head, dropping to my knees. The six existing clones flickered violently, their forms destabilising into water for a terrifying second before snapping back to solid.
'Feedback loop!' Ronan shouted. 'The core density can't support the seventh thread! The architecture is rejecting the split!'
I gasped, wiping a trickle of blood from my nose. The headache was instantaneous and brutal, throbbing behind my eyes.
'Okay,' I wheezed, looking up at my army of six. 'Six. Six is the hard cap. Good to know.'
'We nearly collapsed the entire array,' Ronan chastised, though he sounded more excited than angry. 'But... six. Do you realise what this means, Murphy?'
I climbed back onto the bed, looking at the squad.
'It changes the entire economy of the Echo Engine,' I said, rubbing my temples. 'We don't have to rotate anymore. We can run a dedicated power plant.'
I grabbed a piece of charcoal and sketched the new formation on the back of my fine notice.
'Three Ronan-Clones stay here,' I muttered, drawing three circles on the bed. 'They meditate twenty-four hours a day. That's a triple-intake turbine constantly filling the tank. That leaves three slots open for active duty.'
'Three Murphy-Clones,' Ronan added. 'Field agents. And since the Power Plant is constantly topping us off, the active clones won't have to worry about running dry. We've solved the fuel crisis.'
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. The mechanics were perfect. The finances, however, were a disaster.
'Great,' I muttered. 'We have infinite mana. And we are one thousand gold crowns in debt.'
'We could sneak a hunting party into the Wilds,' Ronan suggested, his mental voice sharpening with martial interest. 'Three Ronan-Clones. Fully armed. We skip the sewers and go for the big game. Moss-Bears. Dire-Wolves. If we kill a beast, you can inventory the carcass instantly. We remove the cores and sell them. We could farm fifty gold in a week.'
'Assuming none of the clones die, which we both know is very likely with a three-man melee squad. We would still lose half a day of travel time when a new clone needs to return to the hunting party.'
'We'll technically, they could summon their own replacement, but it would take half a day of meditation to get them back up to full strength.' Ronan interrupted.
'My point is, it will waste time we don't have; regardless, farming isn't the biggest problem. Selling is,' I countered, tapping the desk. 'We're trapped on campus. To sell Beast Cores, we'd have to sneak into the city. We can't sell to the Guild anymore. The black market will fleece us or sell us out to the Inquisition the second we drop a bag of high-grade loot. A lot of risk, and if anything goes wrong, we don't make the weekly payment.'
'How about a courier service?' I mused, throwing out another idea. 'We send clones to the next cities over. Instant transmission of messages via the soul link. We could be the fastest postman in the Empire.'
'Trust issue,' Ronan countered immediately. 'Nobody hands a sealed letter or a bag of gold to a nobody in a mask. Reputation takes months to build. We have six days until the Bursar breaks our legs.'
'Day labour? Construction? Spread the clones out over the city?'
'For copper pieces? We'd need to build a cathedral in a week to make the payment. We need high-margin work.'
I stood up and paced the small cell. We needed a closed loop. Something high-volume, low-trust, and strictly cash-in-hand. Something we could do right here, under the noses of the administration, without ever leaving the grounds.
I stopped near the corner of the room, staring at the pile of dirty, grease-stained orange jumpsuits from yesterday's punishment detail.
A memory surfaced. The Stonekettle Inn. The innkeeper's jaw hit the floor when I cleaned a mountain of dirty linens in ten minutes to pay for our suite.
I had treated it like a parlour trick then. A one-off bribe. But looking at the clones standing in the room... maybe I had been thinking too small.
'Ronan,' I asked, picking up a grime-caked sleeve. 'How do the rich kids here get their clothes laundered? I assume Lysander Thorne doesn't scrub his own silk underwear in a bucket.'
'Hardly,' Ronan scoffed. 'The Academy has a laundry facility in the lower levels. They use Aerated Hydro-Spinners—large barrels enchanted with agitation runes. They tumble the clothes with water stones and soap, then dry them over thermal vents.'
'Is it fast?'
'It is... thorough,' Ronan corrected delicately. ' But the agitation runes are blunt instruments. They are notorious for shredding delicate lace and fading velvet over time. And the wait list is days long unless you pay a premium for a dedicated machine.'
I grinned, the plan locking into place. 'So, the current tech is slow, rough on the merchandise, and expensive.'
I opened a small portal on my palm and brushed it against the jumpsuit sleeve. Zip. The grease vanished instantly. The fabric wasn't just clean; it was pristine, with no wear and tear.
'You want to... run a laundry service?' Ronan asked.
'A premium, same-day delivery service for high-end garments. We charge double for the speed and the guarantee that we won't mangle their expensive silks.'
I grabbed the charcoal again, sketching out the logistics on the back of the notice.
'Here's the play,' I said, sketching rapidly. 'The three Ronan-Clones stay here and meditate. That's our Generator. But I can't be the one running the laundry. If I'm out there washing socks, a teacher marks me absent, and the alibi falls apart. I need to be visible in class, looking bored and magically incompetent, while the business runs itself.'
'So the Clones run the delivery?' Ronan asked.
'Exactly. Three Murphy-Clones on the street. They collect the bags, find a quiet corner—a broom closet, an alley, behind a statue—and they do the cleaning themselves. Since they share our soul, they have access to the Inventory. They dip the clothes in the void, zip them clean, and run them back. Same-day service.'
Ronan was silent for a long moment. I could feel him trying to find a tactical flaw to mask his embarrassment at the nature of the work.
'It is... economically sound,' he admitted with a heavy mental sigh. 'The margin on delicate garment care is substantial. But the security flaw remains. If people see three identical Murphys running around campus carrying laundry bags, they will ask questions. Questions lead to the Inquisition.'
'Right,' I said, tapping the desk. 'Disguises. We need to obscure the face and the form.'
For some reason, I thought back to the dream with Ludo. The freezing circus. Clowns maybe? No... that would stand out. Now that I thought about it, there were jesters everywhere selling refreshments.
A slow grin spread across my face.
'Ludo wants a show,' I muttered. 'Let's give him one. We brand it. We aren't Murphy Sunstrider doing chores. We are... "The Jester's Private Laundry Society."'
'The Jester?' Ronan asked, sceptical.
'It's perfect. A Jester wears a mask. A Jester wears a hood with bells. No one looks at a Jester's face; they look at the costume. It's total anonymity hiding in plain sight.'
'But the cost,' Ronan countered. 'Getting a bunch of custom theatrical outfits made? Could we even afford that?
'No, I suspect we might need to find a loan shark. We just need enough to buy one outfit,' I said, tapping the charcoal against the paper.
'One? But you said three runners.'
'Think about the mechanics of the Art, Ronan. When we cast a clone, it's a snapshot of the caster in that exact moment—clothes and all. So, we buy a Jester suit. I summon Clone Alpha. Clone Alpha puts on the suit. Then, Clone Alpha summons Clones Beta and Gamma.'
Ronan paused, processing the logic.
'Because Alpha is wearing the suit when he casts...' Ronan murmured, realising the exploit. 'Beta and Gamma will manifest wearing mana-construct copies of the suit. We replicate the disguise along with the body.'
'Exactly,' I said. 'Digital piracy applied to fashion. One physical asset, infinite copies. We run a three-man operation for the price of one pair of tights.'
Ronan let out a sound that was half-groan, half-laugh. 'You are turning a Divine Art into a photocopier for clown suits. The Matron would weep.'
'The Matron isn't paying our debt,' I reminded him. 'We need to scout a drop-point—somewhere private where the Jesters can phase the laundry without being seen. But for now, the plan is set.'
I shelved the logistics. The debt was looming, but we had a strategy. Now I just had to survive the day without getting expelled.
'First, we get through class,' I said, grabbing my satchel. 'Then, we go shopping for bells.'
I checked my schedule. Lecture Hall B: Runic Theory. Professor Thaddeus Vex.
As I rounded the corner toward the hall, the massive oak doors swung open. The advanced class—Second Years, mostly—was streaming out. They moved with the easy confidence of people who had already survived the cull.
And at the front of the pack, walking like he owned the very air he breathed, was Lysander Thorne.
He looked immaculate. His white-and-gold House Aurelius robes were tailored to perfection, not a crease in sight. He didn't carry his books; a small, floating disc of hard-light followed him, carrying his slate and quill.
Flanking him, practically tripping over his own robes to keep pace, was a pinched-faced man with a monocle that seemed purely decorative.
'That must be Thaddeus,' Ronan identified.
"Your paper on Aetheric Refraction was transcendent, Lord Thorne," Vex was saying, his voice an oily wheedle. "Truly. The way you deconstructed the Prism Paradox... simply inspired. I intend to submit it to the Imperial Archives as a reference text."
Lysander didn't even look at him. He kept walking, his gaze fixed on the middle distance.
"See that you do, Thaddeus," Lysander said, dropping the honorific entirely. "And ensure the grading curve reflects the gap between my work and the... rabble."
"Of course, my Lord. Naturally."
Lysander stopped. He had spotted me.
He didn't sneer. He didn't frown. He just looked at me with a mild, detached curiosity, like a man spotting a smudge of dirt on a pristine window. He looked me up and down, taking in my cheap grey robes and scuffed boots, then dismissed me entirely, turning back to his path.
Thaddeus, realising his master had paused, turned to see what had caused the delay. His eyes landed on me.
The transformation was instant. The fawning, obsequious smile vanished, replaced by a sneer of such intense dislike it was almost impressive.
"Sunstrider," Thaddeus spat, shooing me away with a flick of his hand. "Try not to lower the ambient intelligence of the room today. I have a headache."
'What a charming little man,' I thought, adjusting my bag.
'He is a toad,' Ronan corrected. 'A toad who dreams of being a snake. Ignore him. Let's go learn about magic.'
I stepped past the Professor and into the hall, ready for my first official lesson in the arcane arts. Or, as it turned out, my first lesson in heresy.
I spotted a dark, empty corner at the very back of the lecture hall—my natural habitat. I slid into the seat, pulled my hood up slightly, and prepared to disappear.
It lasted exactly ten seconds.
"Squad meeting!"
I looked up to see Grace dumping a bag full of clanking metal parts onto the desk next to me. She adjusted her welding goggles and sat down.
"I didn't agree to a squad," I muttered.
"We're the misfits, Murphy," Finn whispered, sliding into the seat on my other side. He looked terrified, his eyes darting around the room as if expecting an ambush. "If we separate, the wolves eat us. We have to stick together."
A shadow fell over the desk. Kael stood there. The seven-foot giant didn't say a word; he just sat down in the row behind us, taking up two seats and effectively creating a wall of muscle between me and the rest of the class.
"See?" Grace grinned, pulling a screwdriver out of her pocket. "Kael blocks the line of sight. Now we can sleep."
Before I could argue, the doors slammed shut. Professor Vex marched to the podium, his robes billowing with self-importance.
"Runic Script," Thaddeus announced, his voice nasally and sharp. "It is not an art. It is not a science. It is a Theology."
He tapped the chalkboard with a long wand. A complex rune flared to life—a sweeping curve with a jagged hook at the top.
"The Runes are the static language of the Gods," Thaddeus intoned. "They are perfect. They are eternal. We do not question them; we memorise them. Today, we study the 'Ignis' rune, gifted to the First Emperor by the Sun God himself."
'That's not right,' Ronan said, his voice confused in my head.
'What's wrong with it?' I asked, eyeing the drawing.
'The history,' Ronan muttered. 'He's teaching it as religious scripture. It's not, it's science, and I've litterally seen that rune etched onto some unique siege engines of the Iron Legion. It wasn't a gift from a god. It was a military combustion seal. We used it to launch fire-pots.'
'Guy probably has tenure or something. Which means he can teach it the way he wants, I guess...' I was saying when Thaddeus interrupted my thoughts.
"Vespera Winter-Moon," Thaddeus called out, his eyes scanning the room for a victim.
My apparent nemesis stood up near the front. She looked bored.
"Explain the origin of the 'Aegis' deflection curve," Thaddeus commanded.
Vespera didn't hesitate. "It is derived from the Elven 'Willow-Weave' patterns of the Second Age, designed to disperse kinetic energy rather than block it."
Thaddeus sneered. "Incorrect. Typical Elven arrogance, trying to claim ownership of divine geometry. The text clearly states it was inspired by the Emperor's shield during the Battle of the Red Pass. Sit down, girl and stop repeating nonsense you hear from your parents."
Vespera sat, her jaw set tight. She knew she was right, but she couldn't fight the dogma.
Thaddeus smirked, enjoying his petty victory. He turned back to the board. "Now, observe the hook on the Ignis rune. This flourish represents the Emperor's mercy, capping the fire's rage..."
'Mercy?' Ronan scoffed. 'That's ridiculous. It's a heat sink. The Fire-Knights used to carve that hook onto their gauntlets so the combustion rune didn't cook their own hands off. It vents the excess heat.'
I looked at the drawing on the board. I didn't know anything about Fire-Knights, but I knew plumbing.
I looked at the jagged hook. It was an open channel leading away from the main power loop.
'It's like a radiator cap,' I thought. 'Or a pressure relief valve on a boiler. If you seal a pressurised system without a vent, the pipe bursts.'
"Actually, Professor," I spoke up from the back.
Thaddeus froze. He turned slowly, peering into the gloom. "Sunstrider. Do you have a question, or are you just making noise?"
"If that hook represents mercy and caps the fire," I said, leaning back in my chair, "where does the excess heat go?"
Thaddeus blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You said it caps the rage," I said, gesturing to the board. "But heat expands. If you cap a pressure line without a vent, the system overloads. That hook isn't decorative; it's an open valve. It's like a vent to stop the user from blowing their hand off."
I shrugged. "Seems like basic mechanics, not mercy."
The room went dead silent. Grace stopped fiddling with her screwdriver, looking at the board with new interest. She tilted her head, tracing the line. She nodded.
Thaddeus turned a shade of purple I hadn't thought humanly possible. He looked at the rune. He looked at me. He couldn't argue with the physics of heat expansion, but he could argue with my tone.
"Restitution Detail!" Thaddeus screeched. "For... disrupting the sanctity of the lesson with vulgar mechanical comparisons! You will report to "Restitution Detail" for an extra week, Sunstrider!"
The bell rang, saving him from further embarrassment.
"Class dismissed!" Vex shouted, storming out.
I gathered my bag. Finn looked like he was about to pass out.
"Why did you provoke him?" Finn hissed. "He fails people for sport, you know!"
"He was wrong and an asshole. I don't like asshole." I said simply.
As we filed out, the crowd parted. Vespera Winter-Moon was waiting by the door. She didn't look angry anymore. She looked at me, caught my eye, and gave a single, sharp nod.
'See?' Ronan said smugly. 'Game recognises game.'
I cringed at Ronan, who was trying his best to sound cool.
"Come on," I said to my terrified squad. "Let's go check out the cafeteria."