The mirror did not lie, but Alaric Thorne often found himself questioning if it told the whole truth.
He stood in the center of his dressing room, arms outstretched as two mechanical golems adjusted the high-collared, midnight-blue tunic of the Aethelgard Academy. The fabric was reinforced with weave-steel, designed to withstand the mana-pressure of an S-Rank Gate, yet it fit Alaric with the effortless grace of a formal ballroom suit.
At eighteen, Alaric carried himself with a composure that unnerved his elders. His hair was a striking, cool silver—a trait of the Thorne bloodline—swept back to reveal a face of sharp, aristocratic angles. But it was his eyes that drew the most attention: a deep, crystalline violet that seemed to be constantly calculating, processing, and discarding information at a rate no human should be capable of.
"Master Alaric," a golem droned, its metallic voice echoing. "Your heartbeat has remained at exactly sixty beats per minute for the last three hours. Shall I summon a physician to check for emotional suppression?"
Alaric smiled, a warm, disarming expression that softened his sharp features instantly. "No need, Unit 4. I'm simply looking forward to the curriculum. It's a beautiful day for a beginning, don't you think?"
He didn't need to reach for his suitcase. With a microscopic twitch of his mind, the heavy leather trunk rose from the floor, floating in a perfect, vibration-less stasis behind him.
[Rank: SS] [Ability: Telekinesis]
The invisible field of his power was an extension of his nervous system. Within a fifty-meter radius, Alaric Thorne was god. He could feel the dust motes dancing in the air; he could feel the slight structural fatigue in the golems' joints. To most, Telekinesis was a blunt instrument—a way to throw rocks or crush shields. To Alaric, with an IQ of 174, it was a tool of infinite precision.
He walked toward the balcony, his suitcase following like a loyal dog. Below, the sprawling capital of the Oros Empire hummed with a nervous energy. For three hundred years, the Gates had been a fact of life—tears in the fabric of reality that vomited monsters and mana-crystals in equal measure. The world had adapted, turning survival into a system of Ranks and Classes.
Alaric looked at the faint, shimmering translucent screen in his peripheral vision.
[Name: Alaric Thorne]
[Class: Scholar-Prodigy]
[Level: 1]
[Trait: Hyper-Intellect / Perfect Equilibrium]
He wasn't just a combatant; he was a thinker. He saw the world not as a series of events, but as a complex architecture of cause and effect. He stepped into the carriage, unaware that miles away, in the heart of the Academy, the gears of fate were grinding against the memories of a man who had already seen him burn the world.
The Aethelgard Gates
The Academy's entrance was a spectacle of white marble and gold-leaf, but Alaric's attention was on the people. As he stepped out of the carriage, the crowd of students parted instinctively. His reputation preceded him—the Duke's son, the "Golden Prodigy" who had cleared a C-Rank Gate solo at age fourteen.
Alaric didn't just walk; he glided through the social landscape. He caught the eyes of nervous commoner students and gave them a small, encouraging nod. He stopped to help a girl who had dropped her intake forms, his telekinesis gently lifting the papers and fanning them out so she could grab them easily.
"Careful," he said, his voice a rich, soothing baritone. "The wind in the courtyard can be quite spirited today."
The girl stuttered a thank you, her face turning bright red. Alaric's charisma was a natural force, a blend of genuine kindness and an innate understanding of social cues. He knew exactly how to stand to seem approachable yet authoritative.
He continued toward the main registration hall, his mind already mapping the faces of his future classmates. He was looking for potential—for the leaders, the strategists, and the powerhouses he would need to help him reform the Empire's stagnant Gate-defense policies.
That was when he felt the anomaly.
It wasn't a mana spike. It was a biological one. Within his telekinetic field—which he kept perpetually active like a sonar—he felt a heart rate jump from 70 to 130 in less than a second.
Alaric slowed his pace, his violet eyes subtly scanning the crowd. He pinpointed the source: a tall, rugged boy with a heavy claymore strapped to his back. The boy was dressed in the colors of the Northern border-lords—serviceable, durable, and worn.
This was Caspian.
To Alaric, Caspian was a stranger. To his 174 IQ, however, Caspian was a fascinating data point. The boy was standing perfectly still, his body locked in a 'fight-or-flight' response so intense it was a miracle he wasn't shaking. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, but he wasn't drawing it. He was gripping it so hard his knuckles had turned white-blue.
Observation: Male, 18-19. Class: Likely Warrior or Knight. Status: High-level adrenaline surge. Focus: Me.
Alaric didn't feel threatened; he felt curious. He decided to engage. A good leader doesn't ignore a potential fire; he addresses it with water.
"Good morning," Alaric said, pivoting toward Caspian with a friendly, relaxed stride.
As he approached, the air around Caspian seemed to turn cold. The boy didn't flinch, but his eyes... they were the eyes of a man who had spent forty years in a trench. There was a depth of exhaustion and a simmering, controlled rage in them that didn't belong on the face of an eighteen-year-old freshman.
"I don't believe we've been introduced," Alaric said, stopping at a respectful distance. He intentionally kept his hands visible and his posture open. "I'm Alaric Thorne. You seem to be carrying a great deal of tension for an orientation day. Is the Northern travel fatigue setting in?"
Caspian didn't speak for a long moment. He was staring at Alaric's throat. Specifically, the spot where, in another life, a different version of Caspian had tried—and failed—to drive a spear.
Caspian forced his breathing to slow. He knew the rules. He knew the law. Alaric Thorne was the beloved son of a Duke and the Empire's golden child. If Caspian attacked him now, he would be executed before the sun set, and the world would lose its only hope of preventing the Great Collapse.
Rule one, Caspian told himself, his voice a scream inside his own head. Do not let him know. Do not let the Architect see you.
"Caspian," the boy finally managed to rasp. His voice was dry, like grinding stones. "Just... Caspian. No fatigue. Just the weight of the sword."
Alaric smiled, and for a split second, Caspian felt a pang of genuine horror. It was a perfect smile. It was the same smile Alaric had worn when he stood over the ruins of the Northern Wall and told Caspian that 'sacrifices were the currency of progress.'
"A heavy burden for a heavy blade," Alaric said smoothly. "But you have a remarkably stable mana-signature. With the right training, I suspect you'll be one of the top-ranked combatants in our year. If you ever need a sparring partner who can push your limits without breaking them, do let me know. I find that Telekinesis provides a... unique challenge for swordsmen."
Caspian's hand twitched on his hilt. He's doing it already. He's recruiting. He's building his circle.
"I'll keep that in mind, Lord Thorne," Caspian said, the 'Lord' tasting like ash in his mouth. He gave a stiff, formal bow—the kind required by law between a border-noble and a Duke's heir. It was perfectly executed, giving Alaric no reason to take offense.
"Please, just Alaric," the silver-haired boy demurred. "We're classmates now. Hierarchy should be for the battlefield, not the hallway."
Alaric watched Caspian walk away. He didn't miss the way the boy's shoulders remained locked, or the way he avoided looking at anyone else.
Conclusion, Alaric thought, his mind racing through possibilities. Subject 'Caspian' possesses a deep-seated animosity toward me or my family. However, his discipline is immense. He chose to follow protocol despite a clear desire for violence. He is either a very well-trained assassin, or he is suffering from a specific trauma involving someone who looks like me.
Alaric pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook—his 'Social Architecture' log—and made a brief note in a cipher no one else could read.
Caspian: High potential. High volatility. Needs observation. If he can be steered, he will be an asset. If not, he will be a fascinating obstacle to overcome.
As Alaric turned to continue toward the registration desk, he noticed his own System interface flicker.
[Notice: You have encountered a 'Variable'.]
[The Architect's Path is adjusting...]
Alaric paused, his thumb tracing the edge of the notebook. "A variable?" he whispered to himself. "How intriguing. I thought the math of this world was settled."
He stepped into the hall, his charismatic mask firmly in place, ready to greet the rest of his future victims—unaware that they were all, in their own silent ways, preparing for a war he hadn't even thought to start yet.