The first sign was not blood.
It was absence.
The eastern trade road remained empty long after sunrise. No bells on ox collars. No cart wheels groaning under load. No curses shouted at stubborn beasts. Only wind brushing against grass that had been trampled smooth for months—and now stood upright again, reclaiming what it had lost.
Rekk, stationed at the watchtower, frowned into the distance.
"They're late," he muttered.
By noon, no one came.
By dusk, the answer arrived.
The merchant did not cross the boundary stone.
He stopped at the edge of the road, eyes darting left and right as if expecting someone to step out of the trees and drag him in. His cart was half-loaded—salt sacks, iron ingots, a few bundles of fine cloth—but he made no move to unload.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice low, almost ashamed. "I can't enter."
The goblin guards exchanged glances.
"Why?" one asked.
The man swallowed.
"My guild license was… reviewed."
That word carried weight.
Reviewed meant watched.
Watched meant marked.
Marked meant ruined.
"They said trading here is… discouraged," the merchant continued. "No formal ban. Just—warnings."
Lucien had been called to the gate by then. He arrived silently, cloak pulled close against the evening chill.
He listened without interrupting.
"What happens if you trade anyway?" Lucien asked.
The merchant laughed weakly, the sound brittle.
"I lose my livelihood."
Lucien nodded once.
"You may leave."
The merchant bowed—not to a ruler, but to a man who understood.
As the figure and his cart disappeared down the road, silence followed him.
A different kind of siege had begun.
At first, nothing collapsed.
Food stores were sufficient.
Tools remained usable.
Morale stayed steady.
But small things vanished.
Salt ran low.
Ink became precious enough to ration—records were scratched into reused tablets instead of parchment.
Metal nails were pulled from old structures and straightened for reuse.
Some monsters noticed.
"They're choking us," a beastkin guard growled one evening, claws tapping restlessly against his spear. "Without spilling blood."
Lucien did not deny it.
"This is how civilizations erase others," he said. "By making survival exhausting."
Inside the Black Academy, life adapted.
Workshops redesigned tools to be repairable instead of replaceable. Handles were standardized so broken parts could be swapped easily. Broken blades were reforged into smaller ones.
Children were taught to count supplies—not as fear, but as discipline.
Luna recorded shortages carefully, marking not just *what* was missing, but *how long* it took for people to notice.
"Why are we doing this?" a young goblin asked her during one late-night tally.
"Because ignorance makes panic," Luna replied. "And panic makes mistakes."
Training intensified.
Guards drilled longer hours—not harder, but smarter. Patrol paths were adjusted so no route repeated the same pattern twice in a row. Signal mirrors were installed on rooftops—simple flashes of reflected sunlight or moonlight.
"No mana alarms," Lucien instructed. "Light and sound only."
The walls were inspected daily.
Not for cracks.
For habits.
"An enemy studies routines," Lucien said during one briefing. "We must not give them any."
Miko, who had once argued for killing the wounded humans, now stood beside Lucien during these sessions. His voice had softened—not with trust, but with reluctant understanding.
"They want us to fail quietly," Miko said one night. "So no one sees."
Lucien nodded.
"Then we succeed loudly."
Far from the Academy, in cities that had never feared hunger, discussions continued.
"They haven't raided," a guild officer reported to the inner council.
"They should be desperate by now," a noble replied.
"They aren't."
That word settled poorly.
Self-sufficiency was not expected.
Manaless beings were supposed to fail.
Yet reports came in:
> Fields expanding.
> Internal production increasing.
> No signs of disorder.
Someone muttered, "They're adapting."
No one liked that.
Back in the city, tensions simmered.
A goblin blacksmith slammed a hammer down one night, sparks flying.
"We should take what we need," he snapped. "Why suffer politely?"
Lucien met his eyes across the forge.
"Because the moment we do," he said, "they become right."
The room quieted.
"They want us to confirm their story," Lucien continued. "That monsters without mana are savages who can't be trusted."
"And if we don't?" someone asked.
Lucien answered calmly.
"Then they must invent a new excuse."
Weeks passed.
Then months.
No caravans.
No scholars.
No messengers.
The world had decided the Black Academy did not exist.
Yet the city still stood.
Still learned.
Still grew.
That terrified the observers more than open rebellion ever could.
One night, Lucien stood alone on the western wall.
Below him, torches burned in orderly intervals. Guards rotated shifts with practiced efficiency. Somewhere inside the city, a child recited measurements aloud instead of prayers.
Miko joined him quietly.
"They're patient," Miko said.
Lucien nodded.
"So are we."
A pause.
"Will they stop?"
Lucien stared into the darkness beyond the forest.
"No," he said. "They'll escalate."
"How?"
Lucien answered after a long moment.
"When ignoring us stops working."
Beyond the forest, a sealed letter passed between hands that had never lifted a sword.
> Status: Entity remains stable
> Containment: Ineffective
> Recommendation: Escalation authorized
The reply came swiftly.
Not with orders.
With permission.
That same night, Lucien felt it—a tightening in the air, like the world drawing a slow breath.
The polite siege was ending.
And something worse was preparing to begin.