The academy did not begin with spectacle.
There was no grand speech delivered from a floating platform, no thunderous declaration of destiny or greatness. Instead, the newly admitted students were guided through a sequence of corridors and lecture halls with methodical efficiency, as if the institution itself were uninterested in ceremony.
Lucien appreciated that.
Spectacle wasted time. Systems that relied on it often did so to conceal inefficiencies elsewhere.
The mixed-theory division occupied a wing that felt older than the rest of the academy. The stone here was darker, the carvings more abstract. Where other halls displayed murals of legendary battles or triumphant archmages, these walls were etched with symbols that seemed unfinished, interrupted midway through their construction.
Mistakes, perhaps.
Or abandoned hypotheses.
Lucien was escorted into a wide lecture room with tiered seating that curved gently toward a circular platform at the center. Roughly forty students filtered in behind him. They sat where they pleased, some clustering together, others deliberately spacing themselves apart.
Lucien chose a seat near the middle. Not too prominent. Not too hidden.
Observation requires perspective.
The room was filled with low conversation.
"I heard this division is where they dump the failures," someone whispered not far from him.
"That's not true," another replied. "It's where they put people they can't categorize."
"That's worse."
Lucien listened without reacting. Most voices carried variations of the same emotion: uncertainty. Even those who spoke with confidence did so a little too loudly, as if trying to convince themselves.
At precisely the ninth bell, the door at the side of the room opened.
The conversations died almost instantly.
The man who entered was not imposing in the conventional sense. He was of average height, lean to the point of seeming fragile, dressed in plain academy robes without embellishment. His hair was gray, though his face bore few wrinkles, and his eyes were sharp in a way that suggested constant evaluation rather than authority.
He did not raise his voice.
"Sit," he said.
The word was not loud. It did not need to be. It carried weight through precision alone.
Those still standing sat immediately.
The man stepped onto the circular platform and turned slowly, letting his gaze pass over every student. When his eyes reached Lucien, they lingered for half a second longer than necessary.
Lucien noted it.
"I am Instructor Halverin," the man said. "I oversee foundational theory for this division."
A pause.
"Before we begin, understand this. You are not here because you are special. You are here because the academy has not decided what to do with you."
A few students shifted uncomfortably.
Halverin continued, "Some of you will prove yourselves worthy of reassignment. Others will be removed from the academy entirely. A small number may remain here longer than expected."
He clasped his hands behind his back.
"This division exists to filter anomalies."
Lucien felt a faint tightening in his chest.
Halverin's gaze sharpened. "If that word unsettles you, good. Anomalies disrupt systems. They introduce variance. Uncontrolled variance destroys civilizations."
A hand rose hesitantly from the left side of the room.
Halverin looked at it. "Speak."
"What exactly do you teach here?" the student asked.
Halverin smiled faintly. "Failure."
The answer drew scattered laughter, quickly suppressed when no one else joined in.
"I will elaborate," Halverin said calmly. "This academy teaches you how to gain power. It teaches sword forms, spell construction, contract theory, and rank optimization. What it does not teach you is why those methods fail."
He gestured to the walls. "Those symbols represent spells that collapsed under their own complexity. Rituals that consumed their casters. Techniques that functioned perfectly until the moment they did not."
Lucien leaned forward slightly.
"This division exists to study the boundaries," Halverin continued. "Where rank advancement stalls. Where mastery plateaus. Where cost exceeds benefit."
His eyes swept the room again. "If you are here because you believe yourself clever, you will suffer. If you are here because you believe yourself weak, you will suffer less."
A student near the front scoffed quietly.
Halverin's gaze snapped to him. "You. Name."
"Rennick," the student said. His posture suggested a sword background. Confident. Well-trained.
"Rank?" Halverin asked.
"Eight," Rennick replied.
Halverin nodded. "Demonstrate."
Rennick hesitated only a moment before standing. He stepped into the open space and drew his sword in one smooth motion. The blade gleamed, faint runes along its length catching the light.
Without waiting for further instruction, Rennick executed a practiced sequence. Clean footwork. Controlled swings. Each strike cut the air with audible force.
Several students watched with interest. Others looked unimpressed.
When Rennick finished, he held his stance, chest rising and falling steadily.
Halverin regarded him for a long moment.
"Efficient," Halverin said. "Repeat the sequence, but remove the third strike."
Rennick frowned slightly but complied. He began again. The absence of the third strike disrupted the flow. His timing faltered. The fourth movement came too early, the fifth too late.
His final stance wavered.
"Again," Halverin said. "Remove the fifth."
Rennick tried. This time, the sequence unraveled completely. His foot slipped. The blade dipped at an incorrect angle.
He stopped, breathing harder now.
"What did you feel?" Halverin asked.
Rennick hesitated. "It felt wrong."
"Why?" Halverin pressed.
Rennick opened his mouth, then closed it. "Because the form is designed as a whole."
Halverin nodded. "Correct. Your technique relies on internal stability. Remove one element and the structure collapses."
He turned back to the class. "Rank Eight. Competent. Powerful. And utterly dependent on memorized sequences."
Rennick flushed and stepped back.
Halverin clasped his hands again. "You are here to learn what happens when systems are incomplete. Or when they are too complete."
Lucien felt a flicker of recognition.
That was the problem with most engineered systems. Over-optimization created fragility. Under-optimization wasted potential.
Balance was not intuitive.
"Now," Halverin said, "we begin with something simple."
He raised one finger.
"Define power."
Silence.
Several students glanced at one another. A few hands rose uncertainly.
Halverin pointed to a girl near the back. "You."
"Power is the ability to impose your will on the world," she said.
Halverin nodded. "Common definition. Incomplete."
He pointed to another. "You."
"Power is rank," the student said confidently. "Higher rank means greater influence."
"Measurement, not substance," Halverin replied.
He gestured again. "You."
"Power is control," a third student said. "Over oneself and others."
"Closer," Halverin said. "Still insufficient."
He turned his gaze to Lucien.
"You have not spoken," Halverin said. "Define power."
Lucien felt several eyes turn toward him.
He considered his answer carefully.
"Power," he said, "is the ability to reduce the cost of changing outcomes."
The room went very still.
Halverin's eyes narrowed slightly. "Explain."
Lucien did not rush. "Anyone can attempt to change the world," he said. "Most fail because the cost exceeds their capacity. Rank reflects how much cost one can bear without collapse. True power lies in lowering that cost."
A murmur rippled through the room.
Halverin studied him intently. "Name."
"Lucien Valencrest."
A flicker of recognition crossed the instructor's face. Not judgment. Interest.
"And your rank?" Halverin asked.
"Nine," Lucien said.
Several students snickered quietly.
Halverin raised a hand. Silence returned.
"An interesting answer," Halverin said. "Potentially dangerous."
Lucien inclined his head slightly. "Most efficient systems are."
Halverin laughed softly. "You may regret saying that."
"Possibly," Lucien agreed.
Halverin turned back to the class. "Power, then, is not strength. It is not a rank. It is not talent. Power is efficiency under constraint."
His gaze returned briefly to Lucien, then moved on.
"Your first assignment," Halverin continued, "is to observe failure. You will attend combat drills, spellcasting labs, and summoning exercises. You will not participate."
A hand shot up. "What if we already have combat training?"
"You will observe," Halverin repeated.
Another student protested. "That's a waste of time."
Halverin smiled thinly. "Then you will fail efficiently."
The lecture ended shortly after.
Students filed out in subdued silence, many deep in thought.
Lucien remained seated for a moment, letting the room empty around him. Only when Halverin stepped down from the platform and approached did he rise.
"You," Halverin said. "Walk with me."
Lucien complied.
They exited through a side door into a narrow corridor lined with shelves filled with worn tomes and sealed scroll cases.
"You are not like the others," Halverin said without preamble.
Lucien did not deny it. "Neither are you."
Halverin chuckled. "Flattery is inefficient."
"Then consider it an observation," Lucien said.
Halverin stopped walking. "Your answer earlier. You have thought about cost before."
"Yes," Lucien said.
"In what context?" Halverin asked.
Lucien hesitated. Not out of uncertainty, but out of calculation. "In systems that fail catastrophically when margins are ignored."
Halverin studied him for a long moment. "You speak as if you have seen such failures firsthand."
"I have," Lucien said truthfully.
Halverin nodded slowly. "Be careful. This academy rewards innovation. It punishes deviation."
"I'm aware," Lucien said.
"No," Halverin replied. "You are not."
They resumed walking.
"Rank Nine," Halverin continued. "That will protect you for a time. You will be ignored. Underestimated. That is a privilege."
"I intend to use it," Lucien said.
"Good," Halverin said. "Then observe."
They stopped at a door etched with layered sigils.
"Inside," Halverin said, "is the archive of failed ascensions."
Lucien felt a subtle pressure as the door opened.
Shelves stretched into the distance, filled with journals, diagrams, and fractured artifacts sealed behind glass.
"Every Rank One attempt that ended in collapse," Halverin said quietly. "Every archmage who miscalculated propagation. Every swordmaster who overcommitted to stability. Every summoner who misjudged the cost."
Lucien's breath slowed.
"This is not for first-years," Halverin said. "But I suspect you will find it… educational."
"Why show me this?" Lucien asked.
Halverin met his gaze. "Because you are already asking the wrong questions."
Lucien frowned slightly. "Wrong?"
"You are asking how to gain power," Halverin said. "You should be asking how much power the world will tolerate from you."
A chill ran down Lucien's spine.
Halverin stepped back. Attend to your observations. Do not draw attention. And do not attempt to be clever."
Lucien inclined his head. "I will attempt to be precise."
Halverin smiled faintly. "That is worse."
Lucien left the archive and stepped back into the academy's flow of movement.
Students passed him, some animated, others tense. The institution hummed with controlled activity, every action guided by unseen frameworks.
As Lucien walked toward the observation halls, he felt it again.
That faint internal pressure.
[Continuance Drift Increasing.]
He stopped.
No one else seemed to notice.
Lucien closed his eyes briefly.
"What is drifting?" he whispered.
There was no immediate answer.
Then, slowly:
[Identity Load Approaching Threshold.]
Lucien opened his eyes.
Identity load.
He exhaled carefully.
So this is the cost, he thought. Not power. Not rank.
Memory. Continuity. Self.
He resumed walking.
For now, observation was enough.
He would not rush. He would not force outcomes.
Systems failed fastest when pushed beyond what they were designed to endure.
And Lucien had no intention of becoming a catastrophic error.
Not yet.