[The Academy at New Elysion · Administration Block · Conference Room B3]
“—Is the line open?”
“Still negotiating encrypted handshake.”
“Tell the system that if he doesn’t pick up, we’re switching to the emergency council override.”
A group of board members huddled around a circular display screen. Papers were scattered across the table. The climate system was failing—several degrees hotter than usual. Everyone was sweating, though no one would admit it.
“Connection secured,” the tech said, as if he’d just lit a fuse. The screen flickered once.**Then Vice President William Grasse appeared. He did not look like someone who’d just been woken for a classified security briefing. He looked like someone who’d just come back from a vacation he refused to end. The background was a sun-bleached balcony—palm fronds stirring lazily in the wind. A single towel hung off a wooden rail, drying like a flag of indifference. A rusted vending machine stood tucked in the corner, still branded in faded hiragana.
William wore a loud, red Hawaiian shirt, half-buttoned, revealing a collarbone tan line that suggested recent sunshine. A pair of cheap reading glasses slid halfway down his nose, and he was chewing—very visibly—on a strand of seaweed snack, like the world’s most laid-back oracle. “Ah, there we go,” he said, waving at the camera with two fingers.
“Apologies for the delay. Signal’s been cranky since I accidentally surfed with my phone this morning. Okinawa beaches do that to you.” He lifted a sweating glass to the camera. “Either lemon water or vodka. Still deciding.”
“William—do you have any idea what just happened?” One of the board members slammed a hand on the table. A vein pulsed in his neck.
“Sure do.” William swirled the ice in his glass. It clinked in mockery.
“This was not a random accident,” another snapped. “An intruder got into the upper port district and executed a precision hit on one of our own. Enforcement Bureau’s already involved—”
“Any word from Bureau analysts?” someone asked.
The boardroom fell quiet. A third voice cleared his throat, almost reluctantly. “Preliminary flag… indicates Ouroboros signature. Same pattern as the records van.”
The clinking stopped. William tipped the glass, watching the last cube float, then brought it back to his lips. “I know I have to respond,” he murmured into the rim. “But maybe don’t plan her funeral just yet. She’s still technically in surgery.”
“Do you understand what this means?” A younger board member leaned in, voice rising. “She was the signing officer for the Artemis Project export license. If she goes down, every single—”
“—contract needs a new autograph?” William cut in, lifting a lazy peace sign. “Good news. I still have hands.”
“You’re not taking this seriously.” The young board member’s jaw was tight. “If Artemis gets frozen, so does Lockhart’s capital—”
“Relax.” William’s smile didn’t move, but something behind it did. “Lockhart called this morning. Asked what sunscreen I use.”
He set his glass down. “Tell me, Gavin—how many times have you personally spoken to their chair?”
“I—well, I—”
“Thought so.” He reclined again, letting the quiet settle. “Now,” he said, with breezy finality, “are we done auditioning for the role of Crisis Narrator?”
Another pause. Then a voice, deeper. Older. “William,” someone said quietly. “You can’t keep parrying this like it’s nothing. Whoever hit her—this wasn’t noise. It was a message.”
William didn’t flinch. “Sure. I got it loud and clear.”
“Then what are you saying?”
He exhaled—finally letting the calm slip just a little. But not the smile. “I’m saying,” he said, “you’re all free to panic, speculate, and delete half your inbox.” His eyes scanned the screen. Not quite naming names. Not quite avoiding them. “But what this city needs next isn’t collapse. It’s clarity.” Then softly—almost like a joke with teeth: “I’ll handle it. You just… stay out of the way. I’ll even send you some Ruby Roman grapes. It’s peak season. Things tend to sort themselves out.” And the call cut.
Silence held for five full seconds. Like the room was waiting for permission to exhale. Then someone muttered: “He’s lost it.”
And another, quieter: “No. He’s exactly the same. And somehow… it always works out.”
The statement went out at dawn. By the time the story reached campus, the language had softened: medical leave, long-term stress, rest and recovery. The kind of phrasing meant to turn a gunshot into a cough.
The fluorescent lights had barely flickered on when Matt swaggered into the lecture hall and flopped down next to Solan, a crinkling bag of chips in hand.
**Solan, meanwhile, felt like he was dying. Not dramatically. Just ** slowly , in the very specific way a person does after 2.5 hours of sleep and several emotional crises he refused to admit were emotional.
Last night, Matt had read the news aloud off his phone in that smug “I skim headlines so you don’t have to” tone:
“The Academy at New Elysion released a statement this morning confirming that President Bendapudi has taken medical leave due to long-term stress fatigue—blah blah, rest and recovery.”
Matt hadn’t noticed the second story right underneath it: “Minor gas leak reported in Port District. Under control. No injuries.” Solan didn’t either. Not then.
Matt had nudged him then, voice lowered just enough to sound like a rumor. “Hey, do you know anything about this Dr. Heller Kovach guy?”
“They’re saying he might be the interim president.”
“No thanks,” Solan replied flatly.
“Dude. You okay?”
Solan was not okay. He’d planned to sleep at ten. But the thought of who he might see today had him wide awake by one, summoning and resheathing the Black Blade like that might drain the nerves from his bloodstream. It didn’t.
Now, seated in the lecture hall, jittery and exhausted, he was absolutely not himself.
“You know, for someone who looked like their entire reputation would combust if I didn’t register for this class with them, you’re awfully quiet now.”
Solan didn’t look away from the podium. “Shut up. And put those chips away before we both get kicked out.”
“Yes, sir.” Matt shrugged, rustling the bag. “You said— and I quote —‘She might remember me. I can’t be the only idiot in the room.’ I mean... that moved me, man.”
“I shouldn’t have told you anything.”
“You really shouldn’t have.” Matt grinned and crunched loudly, on purpose. “You’re nervous.”
Solan’s fingers tapped against the desk, rhythmic and unsteady. His gaze flicked toward the lecture hall door. It was late August, the air-conditioning already dead, and though it was still morning the lecture hall was stifling—heat pressed against every surface, swelling in the room until breathing felt slow and heavy. The door opened, and for a moment Solan couldn’t tell what hit first—the faint clean scent or the glimpse of her face. The change in the air should have settled the room, the kind of presence that made people breathe easier. But on Solan it had the opposite effect. His pulse spiked, fingers tapping harder against the desk. She looked like someone meant for a better morning. The air got thinner. Solan didn’t look again. He didn’t have to. His hands quit shaking. His thoughts didn’t.
She slipped into a chair one seat away, leaving the spot between them conspicuously empty. The gap sat there like a dare. Solan’s pulse spiked. Matt grinned as if handed a script. With a rustle of chips, he hopped up, swung around, and claimed the buffer seat between them, dropping his bag with a thud. “Oohhh damn,” Matt breathed, “You two sitting like this? It’s giving... **the vibe of my divorced parents at therapy.”
Solan’s ears lit up like emergency lights. “You absolute—”
But Matt was already leaning forward, grinning at the girl. “Hi. I’m Matt. This is Solan Elric—he’s usually very articulate, I swear.”
She blinked once. Her lashes fluttered—soft, startled. Then she smiled, small and neat. “Clara Vale.”
Solan swallowed. The words caught like glass in his throat. “Solan... Elric.” The syllables landed crooked, like he’d forgotten how names work.
Matt clapped slowly, mock-cheering. “A historic breakthrough. So—should we all go get matching tattoos, or—”
Clara frowned.
Solan coughed into his fist, sharp and awkward, like he could smother the moment into silence. He shot Matt a glare that promised murder, then muttered to Clara, “Just ignore this guy.” He opened his mouth to add something clever—nothing came. The words abandoned him.
So instead, while Clara bent over her notes, he dragged a thumb across his throat at Matt. Matt only grinned wider, like Solan had just confirmed everything.
Clara opened her textbook without a word. Her hair fell forward just enough to cover the flush blooming on the tips of her ears.
Solan stared at his own page. Didn’t read a word. His heart had slowed. Then sped up. Then crashed into something unquantifiable. Matt leaned in again, warm breath in his ear. “Was your voice shaking just now?”
Solan muttered through gritted teeth: “Matt, I swear to God.”
Matt had wingmaned him. That was the only word for it. One smug grin, a casual excuse about “group projects,” and suddenly Solan was standing there, phone in hand, watching Clara Vale type her number into his screen like it wasn’t the single most perilous moment of his short life.
And then what? He had no idea. Numbers traded, door closed, and he was left holding an artifact far more unstable than any Kamuy.
Now came the follow-up: Introduction to Draconic Factor Theory . A required foundations course, which meant nearly five hundred students crammed shoulder to shoulder into a tiered hall that looked more like a parliament chamber than a classroom. The air buzzed with voices, friends finding friends, classmates reuniting like they’d been separated for decades instead of a summer.
Solan slid into a seat halfway down and tried not to notice how easily people already knew each other. He half-hoped Clara would materialize in the crowd, maybe wave, maybe nod like what had just happened wasn’t a hallucination.
But she didn’t. Different section, probably. Good. Safer.
Except—why did he want to see her again? That was a dangerous mindset. A slippery slope. He wasn’t here to chase distractions. He had a blade that hummed in his veins like a migraine and a life expectancy hovering somewhere around “don’t ask.”
Still… she was really pretty. No. Wrong again. Bad trajectory. Abort mission. He dropped his head into his hands for a moment, let the din of the lecture hall swallow him up. Five hundred students, and he was the only one already losing the battle against his own brain.
The room quieted not with a bell or microphone but with the soft scrape of shoes across the stage. Professor David Kline stepped to the podium like he had all the time in the world. Glasses perched low on his nose, plaid suit neat to the point of severity, silver hair groomed back to reveal a narrow mustache. He looked like an aging librarian, until you noticed the military cut of his overcoat draped over the chair, the campaign ribbons stitched discreetly along the inner lining. And in his hand, a fountain pen, held with the weight of a sidearm.
Solan had glanced at the syllabus: Former UN field logistics and disaster-planning architect. Which meant, in practice, the man had probably built cities for people who’d lost theirs.
Kline rested the pen against the lectern, surveyed the sea of students, and spoke in a voice steady enough to slow the room’s pulse. “This is not the class where you become a superhero,” he said. “If that is your intention, join the army. Or the police. Or the fire service.”
A ripple of laughter broke out, scattered but genuine. Even Solan smiled faintly, though mostly because he couldn’t imagine this man ever raising his voice above “mild disapproval.”
“But still,” Kline continued, the corner of his mouth tilting like he found the laughter predictable, “congratulations to those of you who’ve already made the Scratchlist.”
That set off a different wave—cheers from somewhere in the back, a slap on someone’s shoulder, the communal noise of envy disguised as applause. Heads turned, searching for the name, the face. Who was the hero in their midst? Solan looked too. Not out of admiration. Not envy. Just practical calculation. It seemed useful to know whose path not to block in the hallways, who deserved a wide berth when you carried a tray of noodles past the cafeteria exit. That was all.
Kline’s voice carried easily across the hall, measured, unhurried, as if the acoustics bent to accommodate him. “The Draconic Factor,” he said, “can manifest in physical enhancements. Increased strength, speed, reflex.”
A murmur rippled through the seats. Someone cracked their knuckles, like the idea alone might unlock hidden muscles.
Solan, meanwhile, thought about the news story Matt had read aloud two days ago—half a dozen Kamuy-bearers trying to rob a billionaire’s compound in Seattle. Enhanced bodies, crackling powers, the whole cinematic package. They lasted all of twelve seconds before one personal security guard with a .45 turned them into meat confetti.
So much for evolution.
By the time Kline moved on—“…and the Factor is like a hidden vein of uranium buried inside you—its amount fixed, impossible to increase or reduce. All you can decide is whether to set it off. That is to say: if you awaken your Kamuy. And nobody in the world knows how, or why, or when.”—Solan wasn’t writing anything down.
He was thumbing his phone under the desk, brightness turned low, typing **Clara Vale into every platform he could think of. Search. Refresh. Scroll. No matches. Just a handful of Vale cousins who clearly weren’t her. He locked the screen. Unlocked it again. Typed her name slower, as if that would change the algorithm. What am I even doing? I barely know her. This wasn’t curiosity, it was reconnaissance. Or worse. He should be paying attention to the man at the lectern, the one explaining why some people burned holes in walls and others couldn’t light a match. He locked the screen and shoved the phone away, cheeks heating as if Kline could see right through him. I’m such a creep, he thought. And maybe worse—an obvious one.
Kline capped his pen, the sound sharp against the microphone. “Your first assignment will be simple. Read chapters one through three of **Draconic Factor: A Brief History and prepare a short reflection on the case studies. No summaries. I want analysis.” A low groan rolled across the hall, swallowed quickly when Kline’s gaze flicked over the rows like a searchlight.
“And one more thing,” he added, voice softening but not in kindness. “Those of you who’ve already awakened—remember your Stabilin. Take it on time. If you need extra, submit a request through the health office. Don’t skip. Don’t pretend you can do without.”
Kline hadn’t even lowered his pen before the scrape of chairs and shuffle of bags began. Five hundred students already halfway to the door, the professor still mid-sentence. Solan’s stomach growled, loud enough that the girl two seats over glanced sideways. He coughed to cover it, already settling on shepherd’s pie at the dining hall. Hot, heavy, carb-packed. Something to glue the day back together.
Kline was still talking, words about discipline, dosage, responsibility. Solan’s mind had already wandered down the corridor, across the quad, into the line where steam would fog the glass and trays would clatter like cheap percussion. Shepherd’s pie. That was the plan. Dinner first. The rest of the world—Kamuy, Draconic Factor, responsibility—could wait.
He shoved his phone away and slumped lower in his seat. The professor’s voice had blurred into background static—syllables slipping past like rain against glass. He barely caught the cadence of one last announcement as students shuffled toward the exits. Something about ** interim leadership . A name: Kovach.
Solan didn’t register it. Not really. He was already counting the steps to the dining hall, to food, to anything that wasn’t his own thoughts.