Wulf waited outside the same golem lab as before—Room 349, in the Hero of Dinnhold building. It was empty. At least, there were no other students inside. But he’d tested the door, and sure enough, it was unlocked. Ready for him.

  Ready for Irmond’s signal.

  It was early in the evening, and though most classes were over, there were plenty of other labs in the building. Students walked past, paying him no mind as they chatted amongst themselves.

  He wore his new coat, unbuttoned for easy access to his most important potions. In one side of his jacket, he carried his flask of almost-finished tincture, and in the other half, he carried his two Middle-Coal potions, as well as a bunch of purely poison potions (though mild) and a few corrosive potions. Not corrosive enough to melt someone’s skin off, but corrosive enough to be an irritant.

  He swayed back and forth, shifting his balance. He’d been on the front lines of battles. He’d piloted an Oronith into a massive horde of demons. And yet still, his heart raced. This felt a little different this time.

  Last time, he’d been ready to give his life—in battle, of course. But this time, he wasn’t ready to lose what he had now. Even if it wasn’t his life that he was giving up.

  Minutes dragged on. Had the Fletchers just caught Irmond? Maybe they just beat him until he apologized for an offence he didn’t give. Or maybe they’d just given up.

  But then finally, hurried bootsteps pounded on the marble floors down the hallway. Students exclaimed, and though Wulf couldn’t see any of the commotion yet, it was coming this way. As planned.

  He pushed open the door to the lab room and walked inside, then approached the seven-foot golem he’d been practicing with in his labs.

  Once inside, there was no reason to be inconspicuous. He ran to the golem, dumped his almost-formed potion over its head and shoulders, incorporating its inorganic materials, dust, and solids into his potion. He consumed a weak nausea potion, easily resisting its effects, then used the aura to complete the golem potion. It shifted to a bright orange colour, and with its strength, glowed bright enough to light the small lab room.

  The golem registered as a potion, and immediately, he triggered [Arm of the Alchemist], taking control of it. Outside, the footsteps grew louder and louder.

  He willed the golem to open. His manipulation of potions had been well-practiced, and it came much easier—with much less wasted mana on inconsequential movements.

  He stepped inside the golem, ramming his legs and arms into the slots and grabbing the grips at the ends of its sleeves. He closed up his golem around himself, then piloted it over to the door of the lab.

  And just in time. Irmond was running down the hall, and a troop of nearly ten Fletchers followed close on his heels. They all wore their pins proudly, but their chests heaved, and their faces were red. Irmond must’ve led them on quite the chase.

  He’d done well. Now, it was time for Wulf to make good on his promises.

  As soon as Irmond passed the door, Wulf stepped out, golem and all. He hadn’t enclosed the helmet around his face yet.

  Reaching out, he caught the first Fletcher across the chest with a rock-covered arm. The boy coughed and sputtered, but Wulf threw him to the ground. Not hard enough to hurt him, but long enough to knock the air out of his lungs.

  The rest of the Fletchers skittered to a halt on the polished floors. Papers on a campus advertisement board fluttered, the candles in the wall sconces flickered, and the Fletchers just stared.

  “Last chance,” Wulf said. “Back off, and leave him alone.” He glanced back at Irmond. “Go. Get out of here.”

  Students jumped to the edges of the hallway, and crowds gathered on all sides, curious enough to watch what was about to go down.

  The Fletchers at the front of the group exchanged glances. He recognized a couple. Ferbig and his friends were there, and Harrel was farther back—but he wasn’t in a golem. The skyhorn woman pulled off her overshirt, revealing a sleeveless tunic and brass bangles all the way up her arms. They were all Middle-Woods, except for the boy at the very back.

  Umoch. It had to be him. He was a young human boy with black hair and tanned skin, well-built, and almost as tall as Wulf. A Middle-Coal badge hung above his Fletcher sigil, nearly overshadowing the guild logo. He wore it more proudly than anything else.

  “So you’re Umoch, then?” Wulf asked, tilting his chin up. “Impressive, for a first year.”

  “Isn’t he cocky?” Umoch chuckled. “Well, indeed, ‘tis I, Umoch.” He spread his arms sarcastically. “You’re the one causing us troubles?”

  “You’re the one pretending you’re a little underworld gang boss?” Wulf willed his golem to tighten its fists.

  “I take it you haven’t come to apologize.” Umoch held out his hand, palm facing upward, and conjured a simple sphere of black dust and shadow. A tiny bolt of lightning crackled through it. He was a Mage. He’d prepared a spell Skill, and was just waiting to cast it.

  Wulf clicked his tongue. “Ah, now, that won’t do.” He pointed a rock-covered finger out at the crowd behind them and the crowd in front, now filling the halls completely. Most were first years.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “You wouldn’t want them to see that the Fletchers were so weak their leader had to rough up a no-name outsider, would you?” Wulf continued. “Or are the Fletchers truly that weak?”

  By now, Irmond had disappeared into the crowd, and Wulf could get this started whenever.

  In fact, better sooner than later, because the faculty was going to show up, and they’d put a stop to this before Wulf could reach a satisfying outcome.

  Umoch snorted. “Lee Pott, Ter, Seith? Make him regret opening his mouth. You might have a golem, but there’s only one of you.”

  “There we go.” Wulf stepped back and took a fighting stance, then willed the stone visor of his golem to close shut. “You guys don’t have to do as he says, you know.”

  As expected, none of the Fletchers backed down. The three he’d indicated stepped forward. A boy with fox ears poking out the top of his head, a slightly overweight human boy, and the skyhorn woman. All three of them were Middle-Woods.

  Whether they knew that Wulf was a middle wood or not didn’t matter. He just needed [Arm of the Alchemist] to hold long enough to turn the odds in his favour.

  The boy with fox ears charged. He was a Pilot, and he activated a Skill. Drawing gravel up out of his pocket, he formed a gauntlet of stone around his hand, then punched at Wulf’s gut. He’d crack Wulf’s armour if that hit.

  At the same time, the human boy drew a pair of darts from his pocket. A Ranger, probably. He threw one dart.

  Wulf directed his golem to the side, avoiding the first dart, then consciously catching the Pilot’s gauntleted hand. Wulf crushed until the Skill broke, sending gravel flying, then, holding the boy by the wrist, cast him into the wall.

  The Ranger threw a second dart at him, and must’ve enhanced it with a Skill, because it flew with enough speed to shatter Wulf’s golem’s shoulder pauldron and send him staggering backward.

  The crowd gasped and leapt away from the dart, keeping themselves out of harm’s way for the most part, but stone shards and gravel still pummelled the crowd. There’d be a few cuts.

  Wulf recovered quickly, shifting his stance, then charged forward. With a single punch, he launched the Ranger into the wall.

  It left only the skyhorn girl, who’d been hanging back slightly—and probably wisely. There wasn’t much room in the hallway, and she’d gotten a decent glimpse of what he could do.

  But now that her compatriots were lying prone on opposite sides of the hallway, an expression of concern crossed her face. She poured mana into the bangles all along her arms (had she gotten more since Wulf had last seen her?) and runes lit up all along them. Tendrils of mana reached out between each bangle, shimmering blue with their intensity, and a copper blade unfolded from the lowermost bangles, giving each arm a foot-length sword.

  “Ah,” Wulf said. “An artificer. Don’t suppose you’ll repair my golem?”

  She probably didn’t even hear him. The stone helmet muffled his voice.

  Charging forward, she slammed her blades into his golem, slicing at the damaged shoulder and trying to cleave his skin.

  She was actually trying to hurt him.

  Then again, all the Fletchers had. He seemed to be the only one pulling his punches.

  He raised his arm and used the stone gauntlet to block all the strikes, but his mana was running low. He had about a quarter of his storage core left, and the effort he put in—and the movement to block her strikes—was depleting his mana even faster.

  If he didn’t end this soon, he was going to be mince, and no one would care.

  It was a good thing she was only a nineteen-year-old artificer who’d crafted her weapons recently, then. She left her lower half open. Wulf kicked her shin, sending her staggering back, then gripped her wrist and twisted until she tilted to the side. She slashed at him with his other arm, but he caught her other wrist as well. Even if she was athletic, that didn’t matter in the face of Wulf’s golem.

  But with that catch, he’d spent the last of his free available mana. He jumped out of his deactivating golem, pulling himself out of the golem’s body, then immediately, punched the skyhorn girl in the chest. She coughed, stunned, buying him time.

  He threw open his coat and drew out his strength potion, then gulped it down in a single swig. Power flooded through his veins. He slammed his fists down on her still-trapped wrist blade, snapping them off one at a time. Then, slipping under her arms, he gripped the back of her head and pushed her forehead into the golem’s chest.

  She slumped down, immediately unconscious, but still breathing. She’d have a nasty welt in the middle of her forehead when she woke up, though.

  Wulf turned to face the rest of the Fletchers. His bracer and enchanted paper flickered, and ink scrawled into a message, alerting him that he’d received a new Mark, but he ignored it for the time being.

  The crowd was silent. They stared at him, mouths wide, blinking.

  Umoch only sneered.

  “Now, now,” Wulf said. “Those were your champions? You’ll have to do better. Or, better yet, let Irmond be. Leave him alone.”

  “I’ll leave him alone, dog,” Umoch snarled. “I’ll be focusing on you.”

  “Well, that’s not very fair, is it?” Wulf stayed in a fighting stance. “You’re sure you don’t want to settle this now?”

  It was a bluff. He didn’t have enough time left on his strength potion, and he didn’t have any mana left, but they didn’t know that.

  “A Coal doesn’t spare Woods his effort,” Umoch said. “It would be improper. But let’s see…you have a month. You can apologize to me, prostrate yourself before the guild, and make amends between now and then, or you can suffer the consequences.” He narrowed his eyes. “I can kill you, dog, and no one would care. I wouldn’t suffer any consequences.”

  That went for any time during the month, too. But Wulf had witnesses. If he disappeared, everyone would assume Umoch had come to kill him, and though Umoch might not get in legal trouble, he’d look bad.

  Still, Wulf didn’t like that arrangement very much. Another time limit, another duel?

  “How about something different,” Wulf said. He’d planned this for a few days, now, and it seemed like the best solution. “At the end of the term, if you’re a higher rank than me, I’ll drop out. But if I’m a higher rank than you, you have to drop out. Swear it on the Field, right now.”

  Umoch laughed, then glanced around. He’d been beaten, was on the backfoot, and now had a new arrangement being thrown in his face. Moreover, he’d just been bested. If he wanted to save any face, he’d accept, to show that he was strong enough to win on the enemy’s terms. “You think you can outpace me? Very well, dog, you have a deal! You won’t advance faster. You have to know that!”

  Wulf shrugged. “Swear it on the Field.” They’d discussed Field pacts a few classes ago; there was no way he didn’t know how to now.

  “Fine.” Umoch crossed his arms. “I swear on the Field that I will drop out of the Academy by the end of the semester if you’re a higher rank than me.”

  Wulf grinned. “And I swear the same.”