“Sarvic is heading back to the surface!”

“I don’t believe it for a damn second. Sarvic wouldn’t return unless they’d found what they were looking for, and if they found… it, then we’d bloody well know about it. Besides, how would you know that they’re coming back?”

“Father Echo told me that a Paragon clad in willpower and darksteel is on their way and asked us to prepare some healing rituals.”

“...that implies that he’s hurt. What the fuck could have thrashed him so badly that he can’t heal himself?”

“Based on last time he was injured, I’d say a god. The real question is, what kind of god lives that deep in the Underneath?”

-Excerpt from ‘Fly on the Wall: The Autobiography of an Anonymous Illusionist’

One week after the attempted assassination of Professor Jensen

Kira POV

It’s a beutiful day today; the sun is shining through the hedges as they slowly rearrange themselves to the beat of birdsong, and the grass is as soft and comfortable. But best of all I am alone in my mind; it’s a rare moment of peace from the incessant mundanities and insecurities that occupy the thoughts of others. Grandma says that I’ll get used to it, but I’m not so sure. Psionics run in the Arken family, and I’m proud of my noble lineage. Still, that doesnt make constant subconscious telepathy any less problematic.

Fortunately, none of those problems apply to my current company; Mark Nine is sitting next to me, rapidly flipping through a pamphlet about the prerequisite equipment for the lessons that start next week. I can see my reflection in their forehead; they must have polished their plating recently, leaving their depleted manasteel head looking vaguely like a skull. The only sound I hear from them is the thrumming of runes.

“Fun fact; humans need to breathe. Isn’t that interesting?” I say with a wink.

They freeze in place for a second, before an audible exhale marks the resumption of their ‘disguise’.

“Answer; yes, that is a very interesting and fun fact. As a human myself I find breathing to be one of my favorite hobbies, right after eating and sleeping. Subject change: according to my research, student triads typically composed of three students. Do you know who our third group member will be?” Mark says, their voice a monotone drone that is entirely at odds with their surprisingly expressive body language.

I don’t know why Mark feels the need to pretend that they're a human, but they’re far from the strangest entity studying at Deepvein.

“I asked an administrative thrall earlier, they told me that our third is a commoner called Vreem. That’s all we know about them, unless you recognise the name?” I say, and as I ask the question Mark freezes in place for a split second.

“Name matches with an entry in the student directory. According to the student directory, they took the martial admission test as opposed to the academic test that you did or the special entry pathway that I used. They are not associated with any organisations, noble houses, and have no surname.”

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

As I hear Mark’s words, anxiety begins welling up within me. No surname means that this Vreem is almost certainly a commoner, and if they got into Deepvein through the martial path… I can’t help but envision some kind of brute, stupid and crass. Surely Deepvein wouldn’t put me in a group with some thug?!

I am torn out of my worries by a panicked scream coming from elsewhere within the hedge maze.

“MEDIC! NEED A MEDIC!”

Mark is on his feet and heading straight there before the scream finishes, leaving divots in the grass, holes in the hedges and dirt all over my dress; I follow while trying to pin a name to that voice.

—

Vreem POV

My opponent is quick to adapt and I cannot ignore their mobility advantage. Despite my soul forcing my muscles into overdrive, they are faster than me. Still, if I can get into melee… despite them being head and shoulders taller than me, I’m confident I could rip them apart. The gaunt draconoid hovers above the hedges, the greenery easily three times my height. They hover like a puppet with invisible strings a panicked expression on their face and zero attention being paid to me.

“MEDIC! NEED A MEDIC!” They scream out. It seems my bluff paid off; they think I’m bleeding out.

After the events of the admission test, it was made very clear to me that using lethal force on school grounds is grounds for expulsion; so I can understand their concern. Unfortunately for them, the handaxe buried in my neck is more an inconvenience than anything else; the regenerator cells are sealing the wound, and I’ve primed my secondary nervous system just in case my spine is severed. If anything, I am more irritated by the damage to my armor- I haven’t had a chance to go rat hunting since my failed ambush of the wizard I now know to be Proffesor Jensen.

I reach up and pull the elegant handaxe out of my neck. It’s well made; the blood soaking it barely reduces my grip on it. Staggering like a wounded animal, I stumble towards the hedge. The threat sees me holding the blood soaked axe, and they drop towards me. I take stock of their arsenal; they have a parrying dagger in their left hand, a few spare handaxes on their belt and three small steel vials presumably containing potions that are sown into their chainmail armour.

“Stop moving, you’ll bleed out…” The draconoid begins to say concernedly, before they stop moving and once more return to a hover. They must have noticed that my neck is no longer bleeding; I have a split second before they gather their thoughts and render my trick useless.

So I don’t think, reacting on instinct. I drop the act and dash up the hedge, jumping off of it once I have enough height to reach them. The manoeuvre takes less than a second, but that’s enough for them to begin to react, raising the dagger to parry their own handaxe clutched in my undersized hand. Time seems to slow to a crawl as I fly through the air towards them, and I feel my brain start to burn as I push it to its limits. Even caught off guard, they’re skilled enough to block, but the rushed parry leaves the blade misaligned so I can catch the blade in the wickedly curved axehead, twisting it out of their hand.

As they reach for their spare axes and neurons start to die, I am forced to extend my aura and put it to use as a place to think outside of my body; I plan to finish this fight before the threat can take advantage of me losing my accelerated thinking. My momentum offers no chance to reconsider or retreat, and I collide with them head on before they can move their axe in between us. Reflexively, I drop the handaxe and grab them by the shoulders to pull myself towards them, rendering their superior bladework irrelevant and reducing the fight to a messy grapple. I’ve got them now, and it’s just a matter of finishing this. Putting my momentum to use, I headbutt them in their blunt snout; their sky blue scales cannot negate an impact like this. As my forehead makes contact with their chin equivalent, two things happen simultaneously. The first is that we begin to fall- in hindsight, I didn’t see the leathery wings usually found on draconoids, so they were obviously using a spell to fly; and I just brought them into the antimagical static of my extended soul. As we both fall, with me on top, the second occurrence is what worries me: the handaxe I just dropped is being swung at the back of my head by a surprisingly nimble tail- how could I forget about the tail?

I don’t have time to get angry at myself as the ground rushes at us and the axe rushes at me, I have no time to think and no time to plan. All I can do is tighten my grip and start to peel apart their armor as we hit the ground- and the axe splits my skull wide open.