Drake trailed behind Sir Duron through the maze-like halls of Arachis Academy, his mind churning. The scan results had shifted too abruptly—too conveniently—the moment Duron arrived. What was the truth? Drake felt conflicted.
'Had the numbers been replaced, or was there truly a system error.' The first case seemed likely, but only Sir Duron knew the answer.
He opened his mouth to speak—
"No questions." Sir Duron's voice was as sharp as a blade, cutting off Drake's thoughts before they could form. The man didn't even glance back.
Drake's jaw tightened. "Fine. For now."
---
The rest of the day blurred into formalities. Sir Duron led him through the academy's steel-and-glass arteries, each corridor more imposing than the last.
Their first stop was the Quartermaster's Den—a vault-like chamber where a disinterested attendant shoved a bundle of black-and-gold uniforms into Drake's arms without meeting his eyes. The fabric was shockingly light, the black base threaded with gold filaments that shimmered when moved. The Arachis crest coiled over the left breast—a serpent eating its own tail.
Next came the Tech Hub, a sterile room where a white-coated engineer clasped a sleek, cold metal band around Drake's wrist. The smartwatch activated with a pulse of blue light, its surface rippling like liquid.
"Standard issue," Sir Duron grunted. "It's your ID, keycard, tracker, and lifeline." He tapped his own watch, which flashed red for half a second. "Turns red if your vitals crash. Try not to test that feature."
Drake barely suppressed a scoff. Less privacy—of course.
---
By dusk, they reached the residential wing—a towering structure of smoked glass, its balconies overlooking the academy's artificial lake. Duron stopped at Room 47G, swiped his watch over the sensor, and shoved the door open.
The room was smaller than Drake had expected for an academy as grand as Arachis, yet unnervingly pristine. A narrow bed hugged one wall, its sheets folded with military precision. A desk of polished blackwood bore no dust, no scratches—just a lamp, its glow warm against the cold steel of the walls.
And there, in the corner—his luggage.
Not just dumped. Arranged.
His clothes hung in the closet, spaced with unsettling precision. His meager toiletries lined the bathroom shelf like soldiers at attention. Even his sword rested carefully on the desk, as if displayed for inspection.
'Who the hell touched my things?'
Sir Duron smirked, reading his expression. "Welcome to Arachis. Privacy is a privilege here. Earn it." With that, he left, the door hissing shut behind him.
Drake exhaled, sinking onto the bed. The mattress was firmer than he liked, but after years of Iron Vale's lumpy cots, it felt like luxury. He raised his wrist, tapping the smartwatch. The hologram flickered:
>> SYSTEM UPDATE COMPLETE.
>> NEW DATA AVAILABLE.
He swiped.
A list materialized in the air:
CURRENT ACADEMY RANKINGS
1. Ryan Poseidonis (House Poseidon)
2. Jackson Storm (House Storm)
...
1977. Lola Brazzaville (House Brazzaville)
1978. Drake Jagger (Unaffiliated)
A dry laugh escaped him. "Dead last. Of course."
---
Elsewhere in Arachis, lightning arced across the training hall as the figure at its center spun his spear in a deadly blur. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the polished obsidian floor, each drop sizzling where it landed.
His watch beeped.
A flick of his wrist brought up the rankings update. His cobalt blue eyes narrowed at the new addition at the very bottom.
>> 1978. Drake Jagger (Unaffiliated).
His lip curled. "Disgraceful."
The spear in his hand crackled with barely contained energy. First, they admitted weaklings, now they were scraping the bottom of the barrel? This Jagger creature didn't even merit a House affiliation - just another weakling wasting space that should belong to true warriors.
The training dummy before him exploded into splinters with his next strike. The scent of ozone filled the air as lightning danced across his knuckles.
"Arachis used to mean something," he muttered to the empty hall. "Now they'll let in any gutter rat who stumbles through the gates."
He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, glaring at the ranking display still hovering above his wrist. That zero at the end of the list burned in his vision like an insult.
"Don't get comfortable, Jagger," he said to no one. "You won't last the week."
With a final crack of thunder, he resumed his drills - every strike harder than the last, every movement charged with furious energy. The floor trembled beneath his feet.
Somewhere in the academy, an unworthy was sleeping in a bed meant for warriors. That mistake would be corrected soon enough.
---