Chapter 7: The Representative

Evangeline did not wait for the silence to settle. She commanded it.

“This island is not a sanctuary,” she said, her voice drifting over the rows of students like a cold fog. “It is a crucible. The Empire, the Palaces, and the Kingdoms send their best iron here. My job is to melt you down. If you are slag, you will be discarded. If you are steel, you will be forged.”

She leaned forward on the podium. The ambient pressure in the room spiked. Vane felt his Rank 3 mana shield flicker involuntarily, struggling to handle the sheer weight of her presence.

“There are no titles here. There are no bloodlines. There is only your Rank and what you can do with it. If a commoner kills a Duke in a sanctioned duel, the commoner stays. The Duke goes home in a box.”

A ripple of unease went through the noble factions in the middle rows. The commoners in the back sat up straighter.

’She is lying,’ Vane thought, watching the Headmistress with narrowed eyes. ’She says there are no titles, but she handed out the SA ranks herself. She engineered the hierarchy before we even stepped off the boat.’

Evangeline straightened up. The oppressive gravity lifted instantly, leaving the students gasping for air.

“We begin the year with the Rite of the Pillars. It is tradition for the highest-ranked students to pledge the intent of the First Year class to the Academy. They will speak for you. They will bleed for you.”

The room seemed to lean forward.

“It is Isaac,” a boy whispered loudly two rows ahead of Vane. “It has to be. The Ice Palace heir.”

“Or the Princess,” another muttered. “The Empire would not allow anyone to outrank her.”

Vane glanced at the front row.

Isaac Glacium was not looking at the stage. He was looking at his own hands, counting his fingers with a bored expression. He knew something the rest of the room did not.

Evangeline unrolled a scroll made of black parchment.

“The Female Representative. Special Admission Rank 3. Princess Anastasia of the Aurelian Empire.”

Thunderous applause erupted from the center and right wings of the auditorium. It was disciplined, rhythmic, and loud. The nobles were clapping for their future Empress.

Anastasia stood up. She did not rush. She smoothed her skirt, lifted her chin, and walked toward the stairs. Every step was measured. She radiated a soft, golden light that made her look like she was walking on a path of sunbeams.

She ascended the stage and stood to the right of Evangeline. She looked out at the crowd, her expression serene. She belonged there.

Vane tapped his fingers on his knee.

’Special Admission Rank 3,’ he thought. ’That means Isaac is Special Admission Rank 2. Which leaves one seat.’

The applause died down. The anticipation in the room sharpened. Everyone turned their eyes to Isaac. The boy in the front row finally looked up from his hands. He looked bored, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He turned his head slightly, scanning the back rows.

’He knows,’ Vane realized. ’He got his letter. He knows he is Rank 2. He is looking for the person who beat him.’

Evangeline cleared her throat.

“And the Male Representative,” she said. Her eyes scanned the darkness of the auditorium, locking onto the pillar where Vane sat. “Special Admission Rank 1.”

The room held its breath.

“Vane.”

The name hung in the air.

For three seconds, there was no sound. No applause. No booing. Just absolute, confused silence.

Heads turned to Isaac. The students waited for him to stand up. They waited for him to reveal that “Vane” was his middle name or a title.

Isaac did not stand. He just smiled, a small, sharp expression that looked like a crack in ice. He turned around in his seat, looking directly at Vane.

The gazes followed him.

A thousand faces turned toward the back of the room. They looked past the nobles, past the merchants, to the shadows near the exit.

Vane sighed. He stood up.

The sound of his chair scraping against the floor echoed like a gunshot.

“Who?” someone whispered.

“Is that a commoner?”

“He is wearing the uniform, but look at his boots. Those are standard issue.”

Vane ignored them. He activated [Courtier’s Mask (Grade F)].

The skill washed over him. His spine straightened. His chin lifted. The micro-expressions of anxiety and stress vanished from his face, replaced by a mask of polite, aristocratic boredom.

He walked down the aisle.

It was a long walk. Every step was a battle against the pressure. He was walking past Rank 3 heirs who wanted to kill him for stealing their glory. He was walking toward a Rank 9 monster who had set him up as bait.

He kept his pace even. He did not look at the students sneering at him. He looked straight ahead, at the stage.

As he passed the front row, he felt a wave of cold air.

Isaac was watching him. The Frost Monarch did not look angry. He looked fascinated. He nodded, a respectful dip of the chin that sent a shockwave of confusion through the nobles watching.

Vane did not nod back. Kings do not acknowledge vassals they have not conquered yet.

He climbed the stairs. The lights of the stage were blinding. He walked to the center and stood next to Anastasia.

Up close, the Princess was even more terrifying. Her skin seemed to hum with energy. She smelled of ozone and burning flowers.

She turned to look at him. Vane expected disgust. He expected the same sneer the other nobles wore.

Instead, Anastasia tilted her head. Her golden eyes swept over him, analyzing his posture, his mana density, and the way he held himself. It was the look of a jeweler inspecting a rough diamond that had just shattered her favorite cutting wheel.

“Vane,” she said softly. Her voice was melodious, but it carried the weight of a command. “I do not know your House.”

“I do not have one,” Vane replied, his voice amplified by the acoustics of the stage.

“And yet,” she murmured, “you stand above the Ice Palace. Interesting.”

She stepped back, giving him space. There was no mockery in her movement. Only curiosity. She wanted to see what he would do. She wanted to see if he would break.

Evangeline stepped between them. She held out a silver bowl filled with clear liquid.

“The Oath,” she commanded. “Place your hands.”

Vane and Anastasia placed their hands in the water. It was freezing cold.

“We pledge our mana to the ascent,” Anastasia said, the ritual words flowing easily from her.

“We pledge our blood to the defense,” Vane repeated, having memorized the handbook Pervis gave him.

“We stand as the pillars of the First Year,” they said in unison.

The water flashed blue. The Oath was sealed. It was a binding contract. If they fled a battle or betrayed the Academy, the mana in the water would track them.

Evangeline nodded, satisfied. She stepped back to the podium.

“The Representatives will now address the class,” Evangeline announced. She looked at Vane. “Rank 1. The floor is yours.”

Vane looked at the crystal microphone. He looked at the thousand students who wanted him dead. He looked at the Professors who were dissecting him with their eyes.

He had no speech prepared. He did not know the cadence of high society. If he spoke now, he would sound like a thug trying to recite poetry. He needed a template. He needed to steal her rhythm.

Vane stepped back. He gestured to the podium with an open hand.

“Age before beauty?” Vane said, his voice smooth. “No. That is not right. Rank 3 before Rank 1. Please, Princess. Set the standard for us.”

The crowd murmured. Was he mocking her? Was he afraid?

Anastasia’s eyes narrowed slightly. She looked at his hand, then at his face. She saw the challenge in his eyes. He was not yielding out of fear. He was yielding because he wanted to see what she could do.

She smiled. It was a radiant, dangerous expression.

“Very well,” Anastasia said. “Watch closely, commoner. I will show you how a ruler speaks.”

She stepped up to the microphone.

Vane stepped back into the shadows of the stage.

’Go ahead, Princess,’ he thought. ’Show me everything.’

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