Clayton didn't head back to class.
Not after that.
Asher had said what he wanted to say, and Clayton couldn't shake it off like a normal conversation. It clung to him, each word like an echo in his chest, looping over and over.
So, instead of returning to the rest of today's Gold Fangs elective, an optional class, he made his way toward his apartment through bustling corridors
A-52 greeted him like always, cold and unfriendly; no matter how hard he tried, he still could not get accustomed to this apartment, and 52, although a good rank, just made him stand out more.
And that was not what he needed.
Clayton dropped his bag to the ground and sat against the edge of the bed, stretching out his legs and letting his head fall back against the wall.
He exhaled.
Hard.
Asher Augustus had seen through him. That much was clear. But it wasn't just that he'd noticed Clayton was hiding something—any decent duelist could've guessed that. No, Asher had connected dots that Clayton hadn't even realized were visible.
He knew something was off.
And worse, he wasn't wrong.
Clayton looked at his hands for a moment, bruised now. A little scarred. Not like the hands he had before—when he was just a guy reading a novel at 2 a.m., curled under a blanket, bored out of his mind.
Back then, this was all fiction.
Factions. Powerhouses. Politics.
They were interesting, sure. He remembered reading about them—how each group had a philosophy, a style, and a hidden agenda. It made for good drama. Kept things moving between the duels and flashy magic.
But it didn't feel real.
Not until now.
Not until he was living in it.
Clayton leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
He remembered the way the book had broken it down—how each faction was backed by one or more powerhouses, old families, or legacy groups that had survived the Arcane Fracture. Vyrith's Arcane Academy was the only neutral ground left, the one place where all those influences could shape the next generation without direct war.
But reading about it and living it?
Different.
Now he saw what was really going on.
The Pioneer Tower—they weren't just encouraging innovation. They were scouting for the next game-changer. Powerhouses that backed them didn't care about school pride—they wanted visionaries. Rule-breakers who could unearth lost patterns or invent new ones entirely. If someone like that rose through Pioneer ranks, they could reshape how magic was used, sold, and weaponized; in simple terms, they were arcane fanatics
The Iron Ring wasn't just training soldiers. They were building champions. Their backers were mercenary guilds, private armies, and fortress-states. They needed raw power—brute force wrapped in strategy. Not for defense. For deterrence. For influence. A single prodigy from the Iron Ring could sway a border conflict before it began. They were basically lovers of monarchy and military
The Rose Pact? That one had always seemed gentle, elegant. But in reality, it was the most socially dangerous. Their supporters were peace councils, diplomatic houses, and healing sects… but also spies. Because empathy was a tool. Healing was power. And knowing how to talk someone down—or break their spirit quietly—was worth more than any duel.
Then there was the Black Veil.
They didn't even pretend to be subtle.
They were the web beneath the floorboards. Whispers, records, debt, blackmail. Their faction wasn't just training illusionists or informants. They were raising people who could vanish into any room and leave with everyone's secrets. Their powerhouses? Unknown. Hidden. Some didn't even have names anymore—just symbols and ciphers.
And finally, the Gold Fangs.
Clayton used to think they were boring.
Old money. Nobles. Rich kids.
But now?
He saw what they were really doing.
The Gold Fangs didn't care about cards or power—they cared about control. Infrastructure. Law. Currency. The backing houses were all political giants: trade consortiums, empire ministries, and financial courts. They didn't want to win duels.
They wanted to own the arena.
And Vyrith?
Vyrith was the battleground.
The one place where all those influences could reach into the future and shape it through students. Through people like Clayton.
He finally understood why everyone was so obsessed with this place.
It wasn't about grades or advancement.
It was about recruits.
The factions were planting seeds. Grooming first-years into second-years, second-years into faction elites, and those into the next generation of power.
But there was more.
The academy isn't just teaching students—it's grooming rulers, engineers of magic, and gatekeepers of truth. Powerhouses are using students and faculty like chess pieces to secure dominance over
Arcane education
Access to stabilizing methods
Magical economy and warfare
Surveillance and secrets
A hidden layer no one talked about.
Because Vyrith wasn't just where talents grew—it was where unknowns were watched.
Clayton?
He was an unknown.
His unique card was talk of the academy; everyone was guessing what it is, because a unique card like Clayton could change the scales of power
He was an anomaly.
And anomalies were threats… or opportunities.
Asher had seen that.
He'd said as much.
Clayton leaned back and rubbed his eyes.
This whole time, he'd been focusing on surviving classes. Winning duels. Learning card tempo and AP distribution. Trying to fit in.
But now?
He realized he wasn't supposed to fit in.
He was a variable.
And variables shift outcomes.
A quiet knock interrupted his thoughts.
He didn't move. Just waited.
After a moment, a paper slipped under the door—tucked carefully, like someone didn't want to be noticed.
Clayton frowned, stood up, and picked it up.
It wasn't a note.
It was a card.
A proper illusion card, which could be swapped to one of his existing cards
"Watch the next duel tournament. Patterns are beginning."
No name.
No signature.
Just another thread.
Clayton stared at it for a while before placing it beside the Monocle of Insight on his desk.
Then he sat down again, facing the open window.
The sky outside was painted in gold and gray, with the sun dipping behind the towers.
He was tired.
But his mind wouldn't rest.
Because now he wasn't just surviving the academy.
He was part of the real game.
And whether he wanted to play or not…
The board was already set.