The ultimate one of Gaia

Two days later.

"The sanctity of what?" Martin blinked at the student in front of him, genuinely flabbergasted.

"The sanctity of honorable combat!" Iven barked, his posture rigid with self-importance. His uniform was pressed to perfection, badge glinting in the sun, hair sculpted into what Martin could only describe as a gravity-defying monument to aristocratic delusion.

Martin rubbed his temple. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was attending an improv theatre performance today."

"This is not a joke!" Iven snapped. "What you did was an abomination. An exhibition of excess. A stain on Varncrest's reputation!"

Martin tilted his head. "You mean winning?"

"No!" Iven practically vibrated with outrage. "I mean reducing combatants to weeping rubble on a public stage! You— you broke the Pelk boy's shoulder. You left Lady Kyliss in traction. Gareth Albrecht may have permanent scarring!"

Martin folded his arms and leaned against the wall lazily. "Don't pick fights you can't win."

"You turned a duel into a public execution," Iven growled, his eyes narrowing. "You humiliated the bloodlines that keep this academy's shields online and its sky-lattice from falling apart!"

Martin snorted. "Nobles use their children like disposable assets. I don't think it will make a difference. Besides, the shields are powered by a central mana engine maintained by rune-tech engineers with contracts longer than your bloodline's entire history."

"You lack all respect for order!" Iven pointed a trembling finger at him. "All you care about is winning—"

"All I care about is cause and effect," Martin interrupted, voice lowering to a dangerous calm. His eyes locked onto Iven's, freezing him mid-sentence. "But if you want me to grovel… make me."

For a moment, silence hung heavy between them. Then Iven smiled—a slow, poisonous curve of his lips.

"In that case, we will oblige."

Martin blinked. "We who?"

"I represent the Consortium of Lineage and Legacy—CLL for short." Iven puffed his chest out with practiced pride.

Martin frowned. "That sounds like a disease."

Iven's eye twitched. "We're a student faction of elite families, bound by blood, vision, and heritage. And you've insulted all three. You'll see you're not untouchable. We're issuing a formal challenge to you—sanctioned, witnessed, and streamed."

Martin sighed and rubbed his temple again. "How many this time?"

"Twelve," Iven said, almost gleefully. "Twelve noble heirs. Chosen carefully. Specialized formations. Each representing a founding House of Varncrest's international charter."

"All this for one man," Martin said flatly.

"You should take it seriously," Iven said, grin widening. "You're not walking away from this one with snark and trickery."

Martin smiled faintly. "Try me."

Iven spun on his heel and stormed away, cape flaring with overly dramatic flair.

Later that night.

Martin sat at his small worktable, sipping steaming black tea from a chipped ceramic cup. The room was dim except for a single glowing glyph above his notes. An array of half-assembled constructs littered the shelves, alongside rune-ink jars, preserved organs, and shattered prototype cores. His chalkboard was filled edge to edge with equations that would give a lesser mage a migraine.

He was reading an old text on mana-field topology when a quiet knock came at the door.

Martin's eyes flickered towards the wards. Blue threads of detection rippled outward and returned their answer.

Roen.

Martin flicked his fingers. The locks unlatched and the door swung open with a gentle creak.

Roen stepped inside, still wearing partial training armor under his brown traveling coat. Dried blood stained the bandages on his wrist. His expression was tired, but his eyes sharpened when they landed on Martin.

"Twelve," Martin said without turning back to his notes.

Roen let out a low whistle as he dropped onto a stool. "That's… excessive. Even for you."

"Apparently, I've become a target for idiots who think the world respects them." Martin closed the book and finally looked up, meeting Roen's gaze with bored indifference. "Do you think they're serious?"

Roen snorted. "You're the only one who isn't serious. They've booked a private arena outside of Varncrest. Bought out faculty arbitration. Two of the head referees are CLL sympathizers. There's going to be seating for three hundred observers, with scry viewings for the entire academy."

Martin exhaled, leaning back in his chair, cup balanced between his fingers. "They're doing this in front of the entire empire?"

"Yes," Roen said, scratching at the gauze under his chin. "And the timing's interesting. The wargames are just around the corner."

"Wargames?" Martin repeated, eyes narrowing.

"Varncrest hosts annual wargames to display the might of its students," Roen explained. "The event is broadcast to every major power bloc and house. It's part training, part intimidation. The winners are offered insane sponsorship deals, contracts, research grants. It's the one time even the faculty are evaluated by external eyes."

Martin's lips curled into a sharp smile. "And the CLL wants to get wrecked before such an important event?"

Roen chuckled despite himself. "No. They think you don't have enough power. That you're just clever with your gadgets and borrowed theories. That twelve scions with training since birth can overwhelm your unorthodox approach."

"So… blatant foolishness," Martin summarized, taking another sip of tea. "I bet they aren't even looking into my origins."

Roen tilted his head curiously. "What exactly is your origin anyway?"

Martin's eyes flickered with amusement. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Silence settled for a moment between them. Roen's gaze drifted across the workshop—over the shelves of bottled nerves, hearts with embedded glyphs, shattered bloodstone cores, and serrated bone daggers etched with logic circuits.

He sighed deeply. "I keep forgetting. You're not just a student."

"No," Martin said softly, eyes distant. "I'm what happens when a student survives long enough to teach himself everything his teachers feared."

Roen shook his head with a tired grin. "You scare me sometimes."

Martin smiled faintly and raised his cup in mock toast. "Good. Fear keeps people alive."

Outside, down the hall.

A pair of silhouettes watched the flickering light beneath Martin's door.

"Is it true?" asked one voice quietly. Young. Feminine. Nervous.

"Yes," replied the older figure beside her, robes trimmed with command glyphs and noble crests. "The Bloodhand's Remnant is moving again."

"And him?"

The older mage didn't answer immediately. His fingers traced an old burn scar hidden beneath his sleeve. Finally, he whispered:

"He isn't a remnant."

The girl shivered. "Then what is he?"

The older mage turned away. "The one who burned them to ash."