The ultimate one of Gaia

Martin sat on one of the few benches not overrun by moss, spell-graffiti, or sleeping students. A lazy breeze stirred the loose pages of his notebook, where equations on mana diffusion swirled between sketches of ritual circles and crude insults about Fenice's fanbase.

He wasn't working—not really. For once, he was letting the sun touch his face, eyes half-lidded, enjoying a moment of peace rarely afforded to him since his arrival at Varncrest.

And then the ground rumbled.

A distant boom echoed from the western wing. Not magical—mechanical. Polished. Announced.

Martin floated upward with a sigh, peering over the rooftops. A procession of students and staff had gathered like flies to a carcass, their murmurs thick with awe and speculation.

What he saw made his eyes narrow. Two figures, dressed in regal precision, were gliding up the central path toward the administrative spire. Golem knights—towering constructs plated in sunmetal—marched in sync beside them, each step resonating through the stone like a war drum.

"Well," Martin muttered. "A royal shit-show indeed."

He descended lazily, boots tapping onto the ground beside a shaded bench, flipping a page in his notebook with practiced indifference.

"As if I didn't have enough dangerous lunatics on campus already," he grumbled.

Moments later, Roen came jogging into view, chest heaving, sweat clinging to his armor like guilt.

"You saw that, right?" he panted, eyes wide.

"I'm blind, Roen," Martin replied without looking up.

"Those were the Marlo twins, weren't they?"

Martin gave a single nod.

Prince Cordovan Marlo—the so-called Gilded Fool—was as infamous as he was adored. A half-genius, half-degenerate, known for crashing diplomacy summits by challenging foreign dignitaries to drinking duels. His sister, Princess Letra Marlo, the Iron Feather, was his opposite: austere, hyper-competent, rumored to have executed three traitors with a hairpin during a noble ball.

"Why would they come here?" Roen asked, finally slumping onto the bench beside him. "Do you think they're here to take control of the academy?"

"No," Martin replied, closing his notebook with a snap. "They're here to observe."

Roen blinked. "Observe?"

"They want to see if the Independent Program is worth anything. This entire experiment—me, Diemo, Dombach, the rest of us—was designed to test if unfunded, unstructured, unsupervised students could outperform noble-trained peers."

Roen frowned. "And what about me?"

Martin turned to him. "You're a statistical outlier. Belisarius picked you for your swordsmanship, not your politics. This program was meant to mold the next generation. You're thirty-six, Roen."

Roen slumped further. "Sword talent, huh. All I've done since I got here is get my ass kicked."

Martin patted his shoulder once, mock-sincerely. "Hang in there."

Roen muttered something unflattering under his breath.

The golem-knights' footsteps still echoed faintly across the campus, drawing attention wherever they passed. Martin could feel the mana turbulence they left behind—the constructs weren't just decorative; they were built for high-scale battlefield suppression.

A quiet tension settled over the academy.

"Why now?" Roen finally asked. "Why show up now, after all this time?"

"Because Varncrest is waking up," Martin said. "The world's noticing. The harp incident, the duel with Vercyne, the restructuring of the Independent dorms, even Fenice's drama—these aren't isolated ripples. They're proof that the academy is no longer stagnant."

Roen looked up at him. "And that scares people?"

"It excites them," Martin replied. "Scared people keep their heads down. Excited people send princes."

Roen laughed softly. "You really think the Marlo twins are here to audit us?"

"Yes," Martin said without hesitation. "They'll observe everything—training, political shifts, faction tensions. They'll smile and wave, but behind every interaction will be a question: Is this sustainable? Is this replicable? Is this dangerous?"

"And your answer to that?"

Martin smirked. "It's all three."

A silence settled between them. The bench creaked as Roen leaned back, staring up at the floating runes tracking wind patterns across the sky.

"…Do you ever think we're all just test subjects?" he asked, voice softer.

Martin's smile didn't fade. "Not all of us. Some of us are the control group. Some of us are the chaos."

Roen groaned. "I don't even know which one I am."

"You're a knight with an existential crisis and a midlife career shift," Martin said. "That makes you the comic relief."

Roen gave him a slow look. "You know, one of these days I might surprise you."

"I look forward to it."

Across the field, more students began murmuring as the Marlo twins approached the central courtyard. Martin didn't need to be there to imagine the scene: Letra with her hair tied back like a weapon, Cordovan in gold-threaded casuals acting like he owned the place. Their guards standing silent, unblinking.

Already, factions were realigning. He could feel it. The nobles would start calculating. The Independents would start posturing. Faculty would begin debating reforms under the guise of formality.

The quiet was ending.

"What now?" Roen asked.

Martin stood, dusting his coat off. "Now? Now I go prepare for the inspection."

"Inspection?"

Martin glanced back at him. "Come on, Roen. You think they came all this way just to look at us?"

He walked off without waiting for an answer, vanishing into the shadow of the archway that led back toward the Independent District.

Roen sat alone, blinking at the sky, then sighed deeply.

"Maybe I should've stayed a city knight."

A pause.

"…Nah. The food's better here."