It was Valdis’ first time in such a gathering. Anonymity pressed down on the room like a second set of walls. Two dozen students, maybe more, stood scattered beneath the rotting rafters of the abandoned church. Their hoods and masks made them shapeless, voiceless things—just shadows given human posture.

  The place reeked of dust and mildew. Long-shattered stained glass let in fractured bits of moonlight, casting jagged patterns across stone floors cracked with age. Once, this place had been sacred to something. Now it was only a hollow shell of its former self.

  He had almost ignored the letter. It had been slipped into his dorm—no, his storage room—like some cheap prank. Come and join us, if you don’t agree with the golden badge holder.

  He’d almost laughed. But curiosity gnawed at him harder than reason.

  Now, here he stood, cloak drawn tight.

  A figure stepped forward, claiming the center of the hollow sanctuary. A mask of carved bone hid his face, its teeth etched into a permanent grin. His voice rang thin and sharp, echoing far too much in the cavernous ruin.

  “If you are here, it means one thing,” the masked boy declared. “You do not agree with the academy’s decision to hand out the golden badges. Not one, but two first-year commoners.”

  The words struck like kindling on dry grass. Murmurs flared, resentful, hungry.

  Valdis tightened his fists. Everyone knew the truth behind those badges—symbols of futures already carved, of power recognized before it even bloomed. Those who received them would be remembered. Immortalized.

  And he… he would not. Not with those two standing in the light. Not when he was only another faceless noble, destined to be forgotten in their shadow.

  His chest burned with quiet, stifled rage.

  The bone mask tilted, scanning the crowd. “So, join us. We will break them.”

  The voice grew harder, pressing the words into stone. “There are only two. A pair of commoners rising where they don’t belong? That is a threat to all of us. To our future.”

  A low growl of assent rippled through the crowd, masked faces nodding, some fists lifting.

  Valdis found himself nodding too. Not because he fully believed… but because the thought of being swallowed, erased, eclipsed—was worse than anything else.

  He would not be forgotten.

  Not while they stood in his way.

  ….

  Flowel hadn’t climbed the organization’s ladder by strength alone. Power mattered, of course—he had it, and he had proven it countless times. But raw strength was common. He’d met plenty stronger than himself. Most of them were dead.

  Why? Because they thought strength was enough.

  Everyone had a weakness. Everyone. And the stronger they became, the sharper that weakness cut. Most never realized it, blind in their arrogance. They charged forward, fists raised, blades swinging. Flowel? He waited. He studied. Then he slipped in at the angle they hadn’t even known to guard.

  The Head still eluded him. The man—or thing—that sat at the top of the organization, the one they all obeyed. Flowel didn’t know his weakness yet. But it was there. It had to be. One day, he’d find it. And when he did…

  I just need to meet him once.

  He smiled, thin and sharp. When he did, the Head wouldn’t be the Head anymore. A new head would be born. None other than him.

  For now, though, there were other cracks to pry open. Students or not, the method was the same. Test them. Find the weakness. Break them.

  He extended his hand, strings of mana tugging at something unseen. A figure stirred in the shadows behind him: his weakest [Puppet]. A fighter construct, little more than a shell animated by his will. Stronger than Balt had ever been, though not by much. More than enough for the first test.

  His scouting [Puppet] had tracked the trio for hours, but Flowel dismissed it now, cutting the drain on his reserves. He didn’t need to know their footsteps anymore; he needed them where he wanted them.

  The fighter [Puppet] shimmered, its body dissolving as he whispered the command: [Phase]. The skill unraveled its form into strings of pure mana. Like mist, it drifted unseen, weaving through walls, slipping ghostlike across streets. Perfect for setting the board.

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  He remotely followed the tether, surveying routes until he found one that pleased him: a narrow alley, hemmed in by stone, soaked in shadows.

  Yes. That would do.

  He dropped the command. The [Puppet] condensed, bones of light hardening into something almost human. It twitched, leather-skinned, one hand clawed and bestial, the other unsettlingly human. A few townsfolk glanced at it, curious. Then it turned its head. Just that. A tiny motion.

  They scattered.

  Good.

  Fear had always been the best curtain.

  He leaned back, watching and feeling through the strings as the air grew colder, the sky darkening toward evening. White mist puffed from the mouths of passersby, thinning as fewer dared the street.

  And then—there.

  The trio. His prey.

  Right on time.

  Flowel’s smile tightened as his mana strings shivered. The [Puppet] stood motionless in the alley, a scarecrow waiting for birds. The trio approached, their footsteps muffled by the winter air, breath rising in pale plumes.

  Boris saw it first. His mind dismissed it in an instant, as if refusing to give it meaning. Good, Flowel thought. The careless one. Easy to draw away, easy to break.

  Suri lingered. He could feel her hesitation through the mana strings—not at him, but at the [Puppet]. She tilted her head, studying.

  And Kana… ah, Kana. The red-eyed girl. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. She simply slowed, watching. No mockery. No dismissal. Just a quiet calculation.

  Flowel’s grin widened. That is the one. The one worth testing.

  The [Puppet] stirred as they drew close, joints creaking in deliberate mimicry of life. Its head turned, twisting too far, and he savored the ripple it caused. Suri stiffened. Boris swore under his breath. Kana’s gaze never left it.

  Yes. Perfect.

  Let them see it. Let them guess. Let them wonder what walks before them.

  He didn’t need the [Puppet] to win. Not yet. All he needed was to see who struck first. Who hesitated. Who led, and who followed.

  Every reaction was a crack in the wall. And cracks were all he needed.

  …

  Kana’s instincts screamed a warning. [High Awareness] flared like a spark in her mind the instant the scarecrow twitched.

  It lunged.

  A sword materialized in its right hand, steel shaping from nothing, and the strike came down with speed that didn’t belong to straw or rags.

  Kana barely caught the blow, her dagger locking against the conjured blade with a ring of steel that echoed too loudly in the narrow alley. Her wrist jarred with the impact. Whatever this was, it hit with the weight of a trained fighter.

  Her lips peeled back in a grimace. “Not normal.”

  She didn’t hesitate—her dagger spun into the familiar rhythm of the Bane Dagger Art, faster than her own breath. Her strike lanced for its twisted head, a blur of practiced violence.

  But her blade met nothing. It slid through like slicing mist.

  Kana staggered a half step. “Weird.”

  The scarecrow twisted, its jerky movements too sharp, too deliberate. The human eye staring out from its crooked face tracked her every motion.

  She struck again, invoking [Dagger Assault]. Her hands blurred into streaks of steel, dagger strokes overlapping in a storm of cuts meant to overwhelm even armored foes.

  The scarecrow didn’t parry. Didn’t dodge. Each strike went through it like air.

  Kana hissed between her teeth. “It’s like your illusion. Can’t hit it.”

  “Really?” Suri’s voice was quiet, but her eyes were sharp as glass. She edged closer, her fingers brushing the air as if testing invisible threads.

  Boris shifted back, muscles taut, scanning the shadows. His fists clenched as though ready to break bone, but his focus wasn’t on the scarecrow—it was everywhere else. “If there’s one, there’s more.”

  The scarecrow jerked again, its twisted body spasming unnaturally, like a puppet on tangled strings. It slashed Kana's chest in a blur. She pivoted sideways, barely slipping the strike, her dagger flashing upward for a counter. Again, her blade passed harmlessly through.

  Her heart thumped against her ribs. Whatever this thing was, it wasn’t meant to be beaten by steel.

  “Try again,” Suri said, her tone oddly calm.

  Kana gave a sharp nod. She darted forward, driving her dagger into the scarecrow’s chest. Her blade passed through…

  And Suri’s hand snapped open.

  A pulse of raw mana burst outward, slamming into the scarecrow like an invisible wave.

  The scarecrow convulsed violently. Its limbs whipped backward as though pulled by unseen wires. Then—

  Boom.

  It blew apart in a burst of lightless force, smoke unraveling into the cold alley air. No flesh, no rags, no wood. Just absence.

  Kana froze, blade still raised. “That wasn’t me.”

  Suri lowered her hand, her expression unreadable. “Its body was pure mana, almost at least. Whoever controls it… they’re feeding it from afar.”

  Her tone flattened, a chill beneath the calm. “I forced my mana inside. Tore apart the weave.”

  Boris approached at last, steps slow and heavy, eyes never leaving the shadows. “So… not a prank.”

  His voice dropped, “Someone’s watching us. Someone dangerous.”