Chapter 25 — Lines That Should Not Be Crossed
The academy did not sleep.
It watched.
Stone corridors murmured with muted footsteps long after curfew, lantern-light gliding over ancient sigils carved into the walls—wards meant to suppress violence, to cage power, to remind every student that strength here was borrowed, regulated, and revocable.
Alex walked alone.
Not because he wanted to.
Because patterns had already formed.
The corridor leading back to Overflow Dormitory C branched three times. Normally, cadets clustered together at this hour—low-rankers especially. Tonight, those clusters fractured the instant Alex approached.
Not openly.
Not obviously.
Just enough.
A pair of commoners slowed until Alex passed, then stopped entirely. Another group took a longer route, laughing too loudly, forcing cheer where none existed.
Alex felt it settle over him like cold rain.
Isolation.
At the corner ahead, three figures leaned against the wall near a merit terminal. Their uniforms were immaculate. Their boots spotless. None bore noble crests, yet the way they stood—loose, unafraid—marked them clearly.
Galen's people.
Alex slowed.
One of them straightened. "Rim, right?"
Alex stopped. "Yes."
The cadet smiled. "You dropped something earlier."
"I don't think so."
The cadet tapped the merit terminal. Alex's ID flared briefly—then vanished.
"Looks like your points transferred," the cadet continued mildly. "Must've been a system error."
Alex met his eyes. "How many?"
The cadet chuckled. "All of them."
Silence stretched thin.
Then—
"Step away from him."
Leon's voice cut through the corridor like steel drawn from a sheath.
Alex didn't turn immediately. He already knew Leon would be there—knew the timing, the tension, the way Galen's group shifted their footing the moment Leon appeared.
One of the cadets scoffed. "Always hovering, Draxis."
Leon moved to Alex's side without hesitation. "Last warning."
The cadet shrugged. "Relax. We're just… redistributing."
Alex finally spoke. "Under whose authority?"
A pause.
Then footsteps approached from the far end of the hall.
Measured. Unhurried.
Galen Mor emerged from the shadows.
He didn't smile.
He didn't need to.
"Mine," Galen said.
Leon stiffened. "You can't—"
"I can," Galen interrupted calmly. "Merit points are influence. Influence is leadership. Leadership is responsibility."
He looked at Alex.
"You lack all three."
Alex studied him quietly. "Is this official policy?"
Galen tilted his head. "No."
Then he smiled faintly.
"It's precedent."
The tension thickened—but before Leon could move, academy ward-lights flared briefly overhead.
Curfew enforcement.
Galen stepped back. "We're done for tonight."
His gaze lingered on Alex. "Stay in your lane."
They left without another word.
Leon exhaled sharply. "They're not even hiding it anymore."
"No," Alex said. "They're normalizing it."
Morning drills came early.
The training field simmered with restrained hostility as cadets assembled by rank. Instructors moved between rows, their presence heavy, deliberate.
Alex stood in the lowest tier formation.
Again.
Today's session was tactical theory—movement, positioning, threat evaluation. Normally classroom-bound.
Instead, Captain Halvek ordered live simulation.
"Rifts do not wait for comfort," Halvek announced. "Neither should you."
Holographic terrain surged to life—cracked earth, collapsing platforms, distorted gravity zones.
"Cadets will rotate through scenarios based on command designation."
Eyes turned instinctively toward Galen.
He stood relaxed, already surrounded by nobles and military aristocrats alike.
"Mor," Halvek called. "You will coordinate first rotation."
"Yes, Captain."
Alex felt it—the subtle shift.
Galen wasn't just participating.
He was directing.
"Squad One, forward," Galen said smoothly. "Squad Two, flank left. Low-tier group—hold."
Hold.
Not defend.
Not observe.
Hold.
Alex remained where he was as others advanced. The scenario escalated—simulated rift beasts lunging, terrain shearing away.
Low-tier cadets began to sweat.
One stumbled.
No one helped.
Alex watched Galen closely.
Not his power.
His decisions.
Galen never issued a command that violated academy rules. Never directly endangered anyone.
But he redirected pressure.
Each rotation placed low-tier cadets in worse positions. Narrower margins. Thinner support.
When one commoner failed, Galen didn't mock him.
He replaced him.
Publicly.
"Cadet Voss," Galen said evenly. "You're slowing the unit."
Voss flushed. "I—"
"Step back."
The instructor said nothing.
By the fourth rotation, morale fractured.
Whispers spread.
"He's right."
"We are weak."
Alex felt the weight press down.
This wasn't bullying.
This was erosion.
During break, Alex overheard nobles speaking openly.
"Mor's method is efficient."
"He's stabilizing command early."
"Even commoners follow him now."
Across the field, Leon stood alone.
Two military aristocrats confronted him, voices low but sharp.
"You're aligning yourself poorly," one said.
Leon crossed his arms. "With who?"
"With failures."
Leon's jaw tightened. "Careful."
The other aristocrat smiled thinly. "You're already under review, Draxis."
That was new.
Alex stored it away.
The classroom session that followed was worse.
Instructor Rhelan, draped in silver-threaded robes, projected diagrams of Rift classifications.
"White Rifts," Rhelan explained, "are entry-level anomalies. Their danger lies not in power, but unpredictability."
Symbols rearranged.
"Rift Ability Grades determine engagement eligibility. F through C for first years."
A cadet raised her hand. "Instructor, why are some F-ranks even admitted?"
The room stilled.
Rhelan didn't look at Alex.
"Because survival potential is not always measurable at intake."
Galen chuckled softly.
Alex felt eyes burn into him.
The instructor continued. "Merit points dictate access to gear, food enhancements, and rift privileges."
Another hand. "What if someone… monopolizes merit?"
Rhelan paused.
"Then they become a pillar," he said carefully. "Or a problem."
Galen leaned back, satisfied.
At lunch, it happened again.
Alex's dormmate—Marek—reached the dispenser.
The screen flashed.
TRANSFER CONFIRMED.
Marek froze. "What?"
A hand clapped his shoulder.
"Congrats," a cadet said pleasantly. "You just donated."
Marek looked around, panicked.
Alex stood.
Leon was already moving.
"Enough," Leon snapped.
Galen's voice drifted from behind. "Sit down, Draxis."
Leon turned slowly.
"This isn't leadership," Leon said. "It's theft."
Galen met his gaze evenly. "It's order."
Silence stretched.
Then Galen smiled. "And order requires sacrifice."
That night, Leon didn't eat.
Neither did Marek.
Alex lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling.
The system stirred.
[Hidden Quest: Will of the Weak]
Status: Pressure Threshold Approaching
Condition: Catalyst Required
Alex exhaled.
Galen was building something.
A structure.
And structures collapsed hardest when struck at the foundation.
From across the room, Leon spoke quietly. "You're thinking too loudly."
Alex glanced at him. "About?"
Leon hesitated. "About surviving."
Alex smiled faintly. "No. About timing."
Outside, academy bells rang—marking the approach of the first White Rift deployment cycle.
Somewhere in the stone labyrinth of the academy, Galen Mor reviewed his growing influence.
And somewhere beneath it all, Alex began mapping every line Galen had crossed.
Not to challenge him.
Yet.
But to decide which one would break him first.