The carriage stopped three times before reaching the Citadel.
Not for traffic. The driver knew better than to take routes that would delay an Eisenrath. No—the stops were for other carriages to yield. To pull aside and let the black lacquer with silver trim pass first. Because in the capital, you didn't make a von Eisenrath wait.
Even if that von Eisenrath was a known disappointment.
Casimir watched through the window as a merchant's carriage—fine enough by common standards, probably carrying someone who thought themselves important—pulled hastily to the curb. The merchant inside was visible for just a moment: middle-aged Valdren man, well-dressed, golden eyes wide as he recognized the crest.
The fear was instinctive. Trained into the bones of anyone who lived in the capital.
They're not afraid of me, Casimir thought. They're afraid of Father.
The distinction mattered. One was earned. The other was borrowed.
He'd spent eighteen years—no, a hundred and eighteen years—living on borrowed authority. Time to change that.
The Citadel came into view as they crested the Hill of Martyrs. The name was older than the empire itself, from some war no one remembered anymore. The hill was covered in monuments now—stone pillars commemorating victories, statues of dead generals, plaques with lists of names too weathered to read.
The Citadel sat at the summit like a crown made of stone and iron.
It wasn't beautiful. Wasn't meant to be. Four massive walls of grey granite, each one thick enough to withstand siege weapons. Towers at every corner, flying the empire's banner—black field, golden sun, the Emperor's star above all. The main gate was solid iron, built to hold back armies.
Because the Citadel wasn't just an academy. It was a fortress. Had been used as one during the Succession Wars, back when there were still people foolish enough to fight over who deserved to rule.
It fell in the original timeline, Casimir remembered. Third year of the war. Revolutionary Army breached the western wall with mana-charges. Killed everyone inside. Used the fortress as a base for six months before the Ersatz revealed themselves and slaughtered them in turn.
He could still remember the stories from the guards. How they'd laughed about it. How the mighty Citadel had burned.
Not this time.
The carriage rolled to a stop at the outer gates. Two guards stood at attention—both Valdren, both wearing the dark grey uniform of the Citadel's security force. Young men, probably 3-Star at most. They snapped to attention as they saw the crest on the carriage door.
One approached. His face went carefully blank—the expression of someone who knew exactly who this carriage belonged to and was terrified of making a mistake.
"Lord Eisenrath." The guard's voice was steady, professional. "Welcome back to the Citadel."
The title was automatic. Casimir wasn't technically a lord—that required either land grants or formal recognition from the Emperor—but everyone used it anyway. Being Reinhardt von Eisenrath's son came with certain assumptions.
Casimir stepped out of the carriage without waiting for the driver. The guards stood rigid, eyes forward, not quite looking at him directly.
Smart. Looking directly at a superior could be interpreted as challenge or disrespect.
"I'll walk from here," Casimir said.
"Of course, my lord. Shall we escort—"
"No."
The guard's mouth closed immediately. "Yes, my lord."
Casimir walked through the gates without looking back. Behind him, he heard the guards exhale quietly—relief at the encounter being over.
They were afraid, he noted. Not of me. Of making Father angry by treating his son poorly.
The inner courtyard was already busy despite the early hour. Students crossed between buildings in small groups, most wearing the standard black and silver uniform. Some carried books. Others had practice weapons slung across their backs. A few had the slightly disheveled look of people who'd stayed up too late studying and were paying for it now.
Casimir walked through them. They noticed. Of course they noticed—an Eisenrath walking through the Citadel didn't happen often, and when it did, people paid attention.
But they didn't approach. Didn't call out. Just watched from the corners of their eyes and whispered to each other once he'd passed.
He caught fragments:
"—that's Eisenrath's son, isn't it?"
"—thought he never came to class anymore—"
"—wonder what he's doing here—"
No mockery. No open disrespect. Just confusion and carefully maintained distance.
Good. Fear was useful. Even borrowed fear.
The main academic building loomed ahead—a fortress within a fortress, all stone and narrow windows designed more for defense than comfort. The entrance hall was controlled chaos: students moving between classes, instructors giving directions, the low hum of voices echoing off stone walls.
Casimir stopped just inside the doors and surveyed the space with methodical precision.
Advanced Mana Theory, third floor, eastern wing. Professor Thorne. Class starts in fifteen minutes.
He'd never attended before. The old Casimir had been enrolled in remedial courses—classes for nobles who were there because their families paid, not because they belonged.
That ended today.
"Casimir?"
The voice came from his left. Female. Familiar in the way that twins were familiar even when you barely spoke anymore.
He turned.
Elise von Eisenrath stood five paces away, training sword strapped to her back, golden eyes sharp with something between surprise and suspicion.
His sister looked exactly as he remembered from before. Exactly as she'd looked when the guards told him she was dead, their voices full of mockery as they described her execution in detail just to watch him break.
"Spit at the magistrate during sentencing. Refused the hood. Last thing she ever said was 'Glory to the Empire'. Then the drop. Clean break. She died instantly."
They'd laughed when he screamed.
Now she stood in front of him, alive and whole, looking at him like he was a puzzle she couldn't quite solve.
"What are you doing here?" Elise's tone was carefully neutral. Professional. The voice of someone who'd learned not to expect much.
"Attending class."
Her eyes narrowed fractionally. "You never attend class."
"I'm attending today."
Silence stretched between them. Around them, students continued moving through the entrance hall, but Casimir noticed several slowing down, lingering nearby. Watching. An Eisenrath confrontation was worth witnessing.
"Which class?" Elise finally asked.
"Advanced Mana Theory. Professor Thorne."
His sister's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. Calculation. Assessment.
"That's a sixth-year class," she said quietly. "For officer candidates. You're not enrolled."
"I will be."
"Casimir." She stepped closer, close enough that her voice wouldn't carry to the watching students. "What are you doing?"
He met her eyes. Golden like his. Like Father's. Like every other Valdren in the empire. But hers held certainty—the confidence of someone who'd never truly failed at anything important.
"Six months," he said. Just as quietly. "Winter's end. Grand Knight Order selection."
Elise's jaw tightened. Just slightly. "You know about the letter."
"Enzo delivered it. Yes."
"So you're… what? Suddenly going to start trying?" Her voice carried something that might have been anger or might have been disappointment. Hard to tell. "After eighteen years of wasting everything, you wake up one morning and decide to fix it?"
"Yes."
"That's not how it works. You can't just—" She stopped. Took a breath. When she spoke again, her voice was colder. More controlled. "You're 4-Star, Casimir. Most third-years are already past that. I'm 6-Star. The gap between us isn't something you close in six months."
"I know."
"Then what's the point?"
To save your life. To stop the apocalypse. To prove I'm not the failure everyone thinks I am.
"Because I have to try," he said instead.
Elise stared at him for a long moment. Her expression was unreadable—not quite hostile, not quite concerned. Something between the two.
"Fine," she finally said. "Do whatever you want. It's not like I can stop you."
She started to turn away.
"Elise."
She stopped. Didn't turn around.
"Thank you," Casimir said quietly. "For not laughing."
"I'm not laughing because there's nothing funny about this." Her voice was tight. "You're going to fail. You're going to humiliate Father even more. And then you'll be disowned and I'll be the one left dealing with the fallout."
She walked away before he could respond. Disappeared into the crowd of students heading toward the eastern wing.
Casimir watched her go. Let himself feel the weight of it—the disappointment, the certainty that he would fail, the distance that had grown between them over years of his failures.
She's right to think I'll fail, he thought. The old Casimir absolutely would.
Good thing the old Casimir was dead.
He turned toward the stairs leading to the third floor. Advanced Mana Theory. Professor Thorne. The first step on an impossible path.
Around him, students were still watching. Still whispering. But they kept their distance. Kept their voices low.
Because he was an Eisenrath. And even a failed Eisenrath commanded a certain respect.
For now.
The classroom for Advanced Mana Theory was smaller than Casimir expected. Twenty desks arranged in a semicircle facing a raised platform. The walls were covered in diagrams—complex mana circulation patterns, cultivation techniques, theoretical models that would have meant nothing to the old him.
Now they were weapons. Tools. Information that could mean the difference between advancement and stagnation.
He was early. The room was empty except for the lingering chalk dust and the faint smell of ink and old paper. Casimir chose a desk in the second row—not front, not back. Middle ground. Where someone serious would sit.
He sat down and waited.
Other students began arriving five minutes before class.
The first was a Valdren girl with severe features and her hair pulled back in a tight bun. She walked in, saw Casimir, and stopped. Her golden eyes went wide for just a fraction of a second before she controlled her expression.
She didn't say anything. Just moved to a desk on the opposite side of the semicircle and sat down, back straight, hands folded.
Two more students arrived together—boys, both Valdren, talking quietly about something. They stopped mid-conversation when they saw Casimir.
One of them opened his mouth. The other one grabbed his arm and shook his head minutely.
They took seats near the back. Didn't resume their conversation.
More students filtered in. By the time class was supposed to start, there were seventeen of them. All sixth-years. All preparing for officer commissions or administrative positions after graduation. All very carefully not staring at Casimir while obviously trying to figure out what he was doing there.
No one spoke to him. No one asked questions.
The silence was respectful. Cautious. The kind of quiet that came from not wanting to accidentally offend someone whose father could end your family with a single word.
They're afraid, Casimir realized. Not of me. Of what might happen if they treat me poorly and Father finds out.
The door at the back of the classroom opened.
Every student immediately straightened, facing forward. The quiet became absolute.
Professor Aldric Thorne walked in like a man who'd long ago stopped caring about making impressions.
He was older—somewhere past sixty, with steel-grey hair and the kind of weathered face that came from decades of hard living. He moved with a pronounced limp, his left leg stiff as he crossed to the platform at the front of the room.
Southern Campaigns, Enzo had said. Battle-mage. Saw real combat.
Thorne set down a worn leather satchel and surveyed the class with eyes that had seen men die and hadn't found it particularly remarkable.
His gaze swept across the students. Paused when it reached Casimir. Lingered for just a moment.
Then moved on.
"Good morning," Thorne said. His voice was rough, scarred by years of shouting orders over battlefield noise. "Before we begin, I need to address something."
He looked directly at Casimir.
"You're not enrolled in this class, Lord Eisenrath."
"No, sir." Casimir's voice was level. Cold. A statement of fact.
"Then why are you sitting in my classroom?"
"Because I need to be here, sir."
"That's not a reason."
"Yes it is, sir."
Silence. The other students were frozen, barely breathing. This was either about to be very entertaining or very dangerous, and no one wanted to miss it.
Thorne limped closer, studying Casimir with the intensity of someone evaluating a piece of equipment. Deciding if it was worth keeping or should be thrown away.
"You're Reinhardt von Eisenrath's son," the professor said.
"Yes, sir."
"I served under your father during the Southern Campaigns. Twenty years ago. He was a colonel then. Seven-Star. Already the most dangerous man I'd ever met." Thorne's expression was unreadable. "I watched him kill a Calamity-rank serpent with nothing but a sword and his bare hands. Took him six hours. When it was over, he walked away with three broken ribs and a smile."
Casimir said nothing. What could he say?
"That man is the reason the Empire still has southern borders," Thorne continued. "He's the Emperor's Hound. The Sovereign. Second strongest being on this continent. And you…" He trailed off, but the implication hung in the air.
And you're nothing like him.
"Yes, sir," Casimir said. "I'm aware."
"What's your Star rank?"
"Four-Star, sir."
"Four." Thorne said it like he was tasting something bitter. "Your sister is Six-Star. She's been in my advanced theory class for a year. Top marks every examination."
"Yes, sir."
"So explain to me, Lord Eisenrath, why I should let you sit in a class you're not qualified for, taught at a level you can't possibly understand, surrounded by students who are two years ahead of you in every metric that matters."
The room held its breath.
Casimir met Thorne's eyes and spoke with the cold certainty of someone who'd had a hundred years to contemplate failure.
"Because in six months, I'll be Six-Star. I'll have recommendations from both a wizard and a knight for the Grand Knight Order. And I'll prove that being Reinhardt von Eisenrath's son means something other than borrowed authority and wasted potential."
Thorne stared at him.
"Four to Six-Star in six months. That's impossible."
"Probably, sir."
"You'll tear your mana pathways apart trying."
"Only if I'm careless, sir."
"You've never shown discipline in your life."
"That changes today, sir."
Thorne's expression shifted. Something that might have been curiosity or might have been dark amusement flickered across his weathered face.
"You're serious."
"Yes, sir."
"Why now? What changed?"
Everything. I watched you die screaming when the Citadel fell. I spent a century learning that wasted potential kills more than just yourself.
"I received a letter from my father, sir."
"And that was enough? A letter?"
"It was enough to remind me what I owe."
Thorne nodded slowly. "Duty."
"Yes, sir."
"All right, Lord Eisenrath." The professor turned and limped back to the platform. "You can stay. But understand this: I don't give special treatment. I don't care whose son you are. If you fall behind, you're out. If you waste my time, you're out. If you prove to be the same disappointment everyone says you are, you're out."
"Understood, sir."
"And one more thing."
"Sir?"
Thorne picked up a piece of chalk and began drawing on the board. "You said you need a wizard's recommendation for the Grand Knight Order. I give exactly one recommendation per year. Your sister already has it from last year. This year's recommendation is already promised to someone else."
Casimir felt nothing. Expected this.
"So if you want one from me next year," Thorne continued, not turning around, "you'll need to be better than every other student in this academy. Not just good. Better. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then sit down, shut up, and pay attention. We're covering mana compression theory today. If you don't know the basics, you're already behind."
Casimir sat. The other students slowly relaxed, realizing the confrontation was over.
Thorne began lecturing. His voice was rough but clear, each word chosen with precision. He talked about mana density, about the theoretical limits of human cultivation, about the gap between Six-Star and Seven-Star that most people never crossed.
Casimir listened. Memorized. Cataloged every word.
Because he had six months to do the impossible.
And the first step was learning exactly what impossible looked like.