Five days later, Martin submitted his first mandatory research report.
The instructor looked up from the blood-bound ledger and blinked slowly, lips moving as they re-read the title:
"Applications of Refined Horel as a Sedative Treatment for Chronic Insomnia."
They raised an eyebrow. "Horel. The alchemical toxin that induces coma at low dosages and flatlines nervous systems at higher ones?"
Martin tilted his head in mock contemplation. "I prefer the term efficient tranquilizer."
The instructor stared.
Martin smiled helpfully. "It's cheaper than Dreammist, doesn't leave arcane residue like Somna-bloom, and if you microdose it right, the subject enters a restful sleep with a 62% chance of natural awakening."
"And the other 38%?"
Martin shrugged. "They won't be waking up tired, at least."
The instructor sighed, rubbing their eyes. "You've submitted it. I'll forward it for internal evaluation. You'll be notified on your handbook if it's approved or… uh, condemned."
Martin nodded. "Appreciate the efficiency."
He turned and walked out, coat flicking behind him, ignoring the stunned silence of other students queued behind him in line. Most were nervously clutching scrolls and vials—typical alchemical theories or recycled lectures about mana structure.
Martin, as usual, operated on his own wavelength.
As he reached the steps outside the faculty tower, a vibration crawled across his palm. He raised his left hand. The runes on his handbook shimmered, then displayed an incoming message:
To: Martin Kaiser
From: Combat Oversight Subdivision
Re: Sanctioned Match Registration
We have reviewed your status. Your name has been added to the pool for sanctioned matches.
You may now be challenged at any time, in any format.
If you survive, feedback will be provided.
Good luck.
—Combat Oversight Subdivision
Martin grinned. "Nice."
Sanctioned violence. Structure without shackles. Now he could test his edge with fewer consequences—and more eyes watching.
The independent badge on his chest hummed faintly. It was a rare thing to see one last more than a week. By the fifth day, most students either broke under pressure or chose the safety of joining a House or academic Faction, trading raw autonomy for social armor.
But this time was different.
Varncrest was no longer crawling with excellence. The Marlo Empire—once a titan of magical innovation—had grown complacent. Generation after generation of bureaucratic chokeholds, padded noble seats, and safe, stale magic had bred mediocrity. The last decade had seen declining spell performance in Empire-sponsored tournaments, a loss of faculty to rival nations, and a general decay in ambition.
So Varncrest did something bold.
They stopped waiting for talent to walk in. They hunted it.
Recruited the unstable. The outliers. The monsters.
Like Martin.
And others.
The idea was simple: show them what excellence looks like.
Break the walls.
Raise the standards.
Martin had no problem with that. He didn't care for the politics. But he loved permission to go full tilt.
"Not my problem if they can't keep up," he muttered.
He flicked open his medallion—his personal arcane archive—and began flipping through entries as he walked:
Cult Arcane
Personal Modifications
Spells
Kills
Notes
Alchemy Recipes
Curses
Item List
He was browsing old schematics for soulbinding methods when he bumped into someone at a corridor turn.
Papers scattered.
"Oh—sorry!" the girl said, crouching quickly.
Martin mirrored the motion, picking up a few scrolls and stacking them neatly. She had short brown hair, soft features, a layered uniform robe with a student tag—not a faction flag. Probably new.
"Thank you," she said sweetly.
"Mention not," Martin replied, brushing past her casually.
He took five steps.
Stopped.
"…Hilariously childish," he muttered. His pupils dilated briefly, flickers of mana overlay patterns revealing the light sheen of illusion dust still clinging to his shoulder.
An aphrodisiac.
Mild. Slow-acting. Contact-based.
A classic seduction trap for stealing artifacts, access, or worse.
Martin rolled his eyes, reached into his pocket dimension, and produced a thin black vial. He uncorked it and took a single drop on his tongue.
His body shimmered faintly—sweating out the induced effect in a single breath. A faint pink mist drifted off him and evaporated.
"Rookie hour."
He continued walking. Reached his dormitory. Touched his door sigil—and paused.
The girl from before was there, already waiting.
"Oh, hello again!" she said, clutching a folder. "I just realized—I'm missing one of the papers you picked up. Mind if I check if it fell with your stuff?"
Martin tilted his head, feigning confusion. "No," he said simply.
Then, with a snap of his fingers, a dome-shaped barrier formed around them—dense, silent, and rune-locked. A prison for two.
The girl froze. Her eyes darted around.
"What—?!"
She looked down.
A knife was embedded in her stomach.
Not a dramatic stab. A subtle, surgical insertion that she hadn't even felt. No pain. No nausea. No reaction. Just steel—and a slow spreading of red against her robe.
Her mouth opened. No scream came.
Martin stared her down, voice casual. "The blade is laced with suppressants—mana blockers, pain dampeners, and a paralytic derived from Gorgon-tail moss. You'll live. For now."
He crouched, leveling his gaze with hers.
"Now," he said softly. "Why don't you tell me who sent you?"
Her lips trembled.
Martin's grin didn't reach his eyes.
"I have a few guesses," he added. "And if I'm right, you're going to wish you used something stronger than contact pheromones and a sad little fluttery voice."
The barrier pulsed quietly.
"Start talking."