Night had already swallowed the academy whole when Caelan dismissed the last ripple of mana.
The water dispersed obediently, collapsing into harmless droplets that soaked into the stone beneath his bare feet. He stood alone in the training ground, chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths, sweat cooling along his spine.
Control first. Power second.
That had become his law.
His fingers flexed unconsciously, phantom sensations still lingering from the water constructs he had forced into increasingly complex forms—compressed spears, rotating rings, layered currents that resisted collapse just long enough to expose their flaws.
Too much loss at the core.
Refinement lagged behind intent.
'Its been months since I came into this world and I am still not strong enough to keep myself alive in the face of danger and all those cool powers I thought I would have. Nothing. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. No Bankai No Rasengan No Domain Expansion. At least they could have given me some cool isekai powers but all they gave me is this body of cool looking bad guy, which doesn't even have that high of a potential'
Footsteps broke the stillness and jolted Caelan out of his thoughts.
"Your Highness."
Caelan turned. A servant stood at the edge of the training ground, lantern casting a soft halo in the darkness.
"It is night. Dinner has been prepared."
Caelan glanced at the sky—deep indigo, stars faint behind thin cloud cover. He nodded once.
The corridors were quiet as he returned to the royal dormitory wing. At night, the academy felt less like a battlefield and more like a sleeping beast—watchful, patient.
Dinner was simple. He ate alone, as always, methodical and silent.
First in theory. Seventh in practical, he recalled. Acceptable. Not optimal.
He finished quickly and returned to his room.
The moment he opened the door, his instincts sharpened.
The wards were intact.
The presence inside was deliberate.
A man stood near the window, moonlight outlining his silhouette. Relaxed posture. Controlled breathing. The kind of calm that came from knowing escape routes.
"You're punctual," the man said lightly.
"You're trespassing," Caelan replied, closing the door. "Do you have the report?"
The man stepped forward and placed a thick folder on the desk.
"Compiled as requested. Corrupt nobles, financial trails, shell houses, second ledgers, and embezzlement records. Cross-verified."
Caelan opened it, eyes scanning rapidly.
Names leapt out immediately.
Good. Clean. No padding.
"This payment is for the report," Caelan said.
"Of course," the man replied.
Caelan placed a pouch on the desk. The sound of gold was muted but unmistakable.
"One hundred," he said. "As agreed."
The man weighed it once, nodded, and straightened.
"You're efficient, Prince Crowndread."
"I'm selective," Caelan corrected. "Leave."
The man smiled faintly and vanished as quietly as he had arrived.
Only after the door closed did Caelan allow his shoulders to relax.
Three days earlier, the academy library had been steeped in afternoon silence.
The meeting in the library hadn't been an accident of shadows. Caelan had engineered it.
He had found Elian—the boy the school ignored, the "scholarship student" who smelled faintly of old ink and expensive secrets—tucked behind a shelf of forbidden genealogies. Caelan didn't wait for a greeting. He simply leaned against the mahogany wood, blocking Elian's only exit.
"The Silverveil Guild is hemorrhaging gold," Caelan said quietly.
Elian didn't look up from his book. "Is it? Perhaps they should spend less on wine."
"They're spending it on a second ledger," Caelan countered. "And you're the one who's going to steal it for me."
Elian finally looked up. His eyes weren't those of a student; they were the eyes of a man who had seen the bottom of many shallow graves. "You're bold, Prince. Most people who mention that ledger end up as part of the academy's foundation."
Caelan leaned in, his voice a lethal silk. "I know your father is moving a shipment of prohibited 'Blood-Opal' through the southern straits next Tuesday. I also know the Royal Navy is planning a sweep of those exact waters. Give me the ledger, and the Navy finds nothing but empty waves. Refuse, and your family's legacy becomes a footnote in a traitor's trial."
Elian's mask didn't break, but his fingers tightened on the page until the paper groaned. "Three days," he whispered. "And you better hope your word is as heavy as your threats."
Sleep came quickly.
Morning followed.
Caelan bathed, dressed, and made his way toward the lecture halls as students filtered in from every direction. Conversations died down subtly as he passed. He noted alliances forming, distances maintained, eyes that lingered too long.
An academy is just a quieter battlefield.
The first lecture was Warfare Strategy.
Professor Halbrecht stood before the hall, scarred hands folded behind his back.
"Today," he said, "we test whether you think like soldiers… or commanders."
He waved his hand, and a projection flared into existence.
Scenario:
A fortified city sits atop elevated terrain.
Enemy force: 30,000.
Your force: 12,000.
No reinforcements. Limited time.
"How do you win?"
Hands rose.
Caelan's.
Another—slender, pale, unmistakable.
The elf princess.
"Prince Crowndread," Halbrecht said.
Caelan stood.
"You don't attack the city," he said evenly. "You fracture it."
The room stilled.
"The enemy believes their advantage is positional. That's the trap. You isolate command nodes—false retreats, selective skirmishes, targeted misinformation. Force them to redeploy defensively until cohesion breaks."
Murmurs spread.
Before he could sit—
"That assumes predictable command behavior," the elf princess interjected calmly. "A fortified city invites patience. I would provoke internal collapse."
Caelan turned slightly. "Elaborate."
"Layered feints against supply gates, civilian unrest manipulation, selective exposure of weakness. You let paranoia rot the structure."
Caelan shook his head. "Too slow. Gives them time to adapt."
"And your method risks overextension," she countered. "A fractured enemy can still kill."
The debate ignited.
"Strategy isn't about certainty," Caelan said sharply. "It's about forcing irreversible decisions."
"And commanders aren't pieces on a board," she replied. "They react. They adapt."
Voices rose. Students leaned forward.
Professor Halbrecht watched, eyes gleaming.
"Enough," he said finally. "You've both answered correctly."
The bell rang.
The tension lingered.
The second lecture was Mana Theory.
Professor Aurelion wasted no time.
"Mana absorption," he began, "determines your ceiling. Refinement determines whether you ever reach it."
He inscribed glowing symbols in the air.
Mana Absorption Formula:
A = (Mₑ × Cₐ) / Rₑ
Where:
Mₑ = Environmental Mana Density
Cₐ = Affinity Compatibility
Rₑ = Resistance of the Mana Core
"Most novices increase Mₑ," Aurelion continued. "Experts reduce Rₑ."
Caelan's quill moved rapidly.
So refinement isn't compression… it's resistance reduction.
Next formula appeared.
Refinement Stability Index (RSI):
RSI = (ΔM / Δt) × S
Where:
ΔM = Mana circulated per cycle
Δt = Time per circulation
S = Structural integrity of the core
"Push ΔM without increasing S," Aurelion said, "and you die."
Some students swallowed.
Then came conversion.
Elemental Conversion Law:
E₂ = E₁ × K × I
Where:
E₁ = Base Element
K = Conversion Coefficient
I = Intent Vector
"Intent," Aurelion emphasized, "is not emotion. It is direction."
Caelan's eyes narrowed.
Water as medium… intent as vector…
The implications spiraled.
Then—
The ground shook.
A violent explosion tore through the academy.
Mana surged.
Students screamed.
Caelan was already on his feet.
So the real test begins.
And whatever had been quietly set in motion… had finally erupted.