The Dirrium kingdom school arc
The transition from the warmth of the Southern private islands to the frost-tipped peaks of the Dirrium Kingdom was more than a change in climate; it was a change in the air itself. The humidity of the beach was gone, replaced by the scent of pine and the stagnant, heavy odor of ancient, rotting tradition.
Inside the carriage—a masterpiece of enchanted white oak and silver filigree—the atmosphere was silent and clinical. This wasn't a journey; it was a deployment.
Leornars sat cross-legged on the velvet bench, a small silver mirror floating in the air before him. His fingers, pale as bleached bone, moved with rhythmic precision as he gathered his long, ashen-white hair. He pulled it back into a high, severe ponytail, securing it with a cord of enchanted silk.
"The uniform is... restrictive," Leornars remarked, his voice devoid of the warmth he had shown on the beach. He adjusted the lapel of his blue blazer, the golden lion insignia of the Dirrium Academy gleaming over his heart. "It's designed to foster a sense of belonging. A subtle psychological trick to make the students feel like part of a pride. Too bad they've invited a wolf into the den."
He turned his head, his crimson eyes glowing with a faint, predatory light against his ashen skin. The contrast made him look less like a student and more like a high-tier undead or a deity in human skin.
Stacian sat opposite him, smoothing the pleats of her white skirt. Her blue hair was styled in a sharp, professional bob that framed her face, and her cyan eyes were fixed on a stack of magical tablets.
"The 'wolf' is wearing black trousers and a white shirt, My Lord," Stacian replied, her tone perfectly balanced between a playful aide and a lethal subordinate. "You look remarkably like a model student. If one ignores the fact that your pocket change could buy this entire province."
"And you, Stacian?" Leornars asked, his eyes tracking the way she adjusted her own blue blazer. "Are you prepared to play the role of the 'loyal ward'? You'll have to endure the gaze of these noble sons. They see a beautiful woman and think 'prize,' not 'Prime Minister.'"
Stacian's cyan eyes sparked with a cold, flickering light. "Let them look. It's easier to cut a throat when the victim is distracted by the face of the one doing the cutting. I've already mapped the social hierarchies of the third-year dorms. I'll have the daughters of the Three Dukes eating out of my hand by the end of the week."
Leornars leaned back as the carriage hit a cobblestone path, the suspension absorbing the shock perfectly. Outside the window, the massive iron gates of the Academy loomed—a fortress of stone and prejudice.
"Remember the objective," Leornars said, his voice dropping to a low, melodic hum. "We aren't here to graduate. We are here to audit. Every professor with a bribe in his pocket, every student who thinks their bloodline gives them the right to strike a demi-human—I want their names. We aren't just taking over their economy, Stacian. We are going to dismantle their culture."
Stacian reached into a hidden compartment in the carriage, pulling out a white leather satchel. "The 'tuition' has been transferred. The Headmaster's personal account is currently heavier by ten million gold. He'll be waiting at the gate, likely rehearsing a speech about 'academic excellence' while mentally calculating how many new wings he can build with your money."
Leornars stood up as the carriage began to slow. He reached out, his hand hovering over the door handle.
"Let's give them what they want, then," Leornars whispered, a thin, cruel smile touching his lips. "A savior with deep pockets. They've spent centuries building these walls to keep the world out. They don't realize that today, the walls just became the perimeter of their cage."
The carriage came to a complete halt. Outside, the sound of a brass band and the hushed murmurs of hundreds of students reached them.
"Ready, Stacian?"
She stood, her posture shifting into one of graceful, unassuming elegance. "After you, Lord Leornars. Let's go to school."
The door swung open, and the "International Scholar" stepped out into the biting northern wind, his white hair whipping behind him like a banner of war.
The carriage door didn't just open; it exhaled a faint mist of climate-controlled Southern air into the biting cold of the Dirrium courtyard.
As Leornars stepped onto the cobblestones, the brass band faltered. The rhythmic thumping of the drums trailed off into a ragged silence. The faculty, lined up in their stiff, velvet robes, found themselves staring not at a boy, but at a phenomenon. His ashen white skin seemed to absorb the pale Northern sun, and his crimson eyes swept over the crowd with the detached interest of a biologist looking at a petri dish.
Stacian followed a step behind, her cyan eyes sharp and observant. She didn't look like a student; she looked like a high-end predator disguised in a white skirt and blue blazer.
"Lord Leornars!" Headmaster Aristhone stepped forward, his smile a brittle mask of greed. He reached out a hand, his rings clicking together. "A historic day! The Dirrium Academy welcomes the scion of the South. We have prepared a—"
"The wind is blowing at twelve knots from the North-East, Headmaster," Leornars interrupted, his voice cutting through the crisp air like a diamond saw. He didn't take the hand. "It carries the scent of unwashed stables and poorly refined coal. Your 'prestige' seems to have a ventilation problem."
The Headmaster's hand hung in the air, trembling slightly. "I... I beg your pardon?"
"My Lord is simply noting that your infrastructure is as dated as your curriculum," Stacian added smoothly, her voice a polished silver blade. "We passed the West Wing on the way in. The masonry is cracking. We shall have to discuss a renovation budget—after we've appraised if the building is even worth saving."
A group of students, standing behind a velvet rope, began to whisper. At the front of the group stood a tall, broad-shouldered youth with golden hair and a cloak lined with expensive manticore fur. This was Prince Kaelen, the Academy's reigning "sun."
"You have a loud mouth for a guest," Kaelen called out, stepping over the rope despite the protests of the faculty. He sneered, looking Leornars up and down. "In the North, we value strength and blood, not the size of one's purse. You look like you'd shatter in a stiff breeze, 'International Scholar.'"
Leornars turned his head slowly. His glowing crimson eyes locked onto the Prince. The temperature in the immediate vicinity seemed to drop.
"Blood?" Leornars repeated the word as if it were a fascinating piece of trivia. "You speak of the Dirrium royal line. A lineage that has seen three civil wars in two centuries and currently owes my central bank four hundred million gold coins in interest alone."
"You dare—" Kaelen reached for the decorative sword at his hip.
"Touch that hilt," Stacian whispered, her voice appearing right beside the Prince's ear despite her not having moved a muscle, "and I will ensure your family line ends before your hand moves an inch. My Lord is speaking. It is a privilege you are currently wasting."
Kaelen froze. He couldn't see how she had moved, but the killing intent radiating from the girl in the blue blazer was more terrifying than any monster he had hunted.
Leornars walked toward the Prince, stopping only when their chests were inches apart. He was slightly shorter, but he seemed to loom over the royal.
"Logic, Prince Kaelen," Leornars said softly, reaching out to straighten the golden lion insignia on the Prince's blazer. "If I withdraw my grain today, your knights will be eating their horses by next month. If I withdraw my gold, your 'strength' won't be able to pay for the boots it stands in."
Leornars leaned in, whispering so only the Prince could hear.
"I didn't come here to play at being a noble. I came here because I find your kingdom's inefficiency offensive. You are not my rival. You are a line item on a ledger I am about to balance."
He pulled back, his face returning to a mask of youthful boredom. He looked at the Headmaster, who was sweating despite the frost.
"The ceremony is over," Leornars announced to the entire courtyard. "I find the acoustics here subpar. Stacian, have the Golem-constructors begin the layout for my private residence in the East Garden. I want it finished by sunset."
"At once, My Lord," Stacian bowed.
Leornars began to walk toward the main hall, the crowd of elite students parting before him like the sea. He didn't look back at the Prince or the faculty. He was already looking at the stone walls of the Academy, calculating exactly how much explosive force it would take to bring them down—metaphorically and literally.
"Stacian," he called out as they reached the heavy oak doors.
"Yes, My Lord?"
"Tell the kitchen I require my tea at exactly 80°C. If they serve me that lukewarm swill they call 'Northern Blend' again, I'm buying the tea plantation they use and burning it to the ground."
"I shall make the arrangements immediately," she replied with a sharp, knowing smile.