The caravan burned at dawn.
Not inside the forest.
Not close enough to be defended.
But close enough to be blamed.
Charred wood collapsed inward as smoke rose in thin, accusing spirals. Three wagons lay overturned, their contents scattered and ruined—salt sacks burst open, iron ingots blackened, bolts of cloth reduced to ash. Horses—still harnessed—lay dead where they had fallen, eyes wide in final terror.
Human bodies were found among them.
Six in total.
Their wounds told a confusing story.
Some were torn—claw marks, deep and brutal, as if a beast had ripped through flesh in frenzy.
Others were clean—precise cuts meant to kill quickly, almost surgically.
The guild investigators focused only on the first.
The report spread before the sun reached its peak.
> MONSTER ATTACK NEAR RESTRICTED ZONE
> SURVIVORS: NONE
> CAUSE: CONFIRMED HOSTILITY
No mention of mixed wounds.
No mention of distance from the Academy.
No mention of how the beasts that *supposedly* attacked left no tracks leading back to the forest.
The conclusion was written before the investigation began.
Black Academy – The Western Wall
The city felt it before it heard it.
Birds fled the treeline in sudden, panicked flocks.
Patrols reported unfamiliar movement beyond the outer markers—shadows that moved too deliberately, too human.
Lucien was summoned to the wall.
He looked down at the distant smoke, face unreadable.
"We didn't do this," Luna said beside him, voice low.
"I know," Lucien replied.
"But they needed something to die."
By midday, guild proclamations arrived at border towns—parchments nailed to posts, read aloud in taverns.
Travel near the forest was officially *unsafe*.
Trade routes were declared *temporarily suspended*.
Independent healers were warned not to approach the area.
A polite lie wrapped around a hard truth.
Isolation was no longer containment.
It was preparation.
Inside the Academy, tension grew like a slow fever.
Guards sharpened weapons not for beasts—but for people.
Students whispered in corners of the Hall of Learning.
Children asked questions their parents couldn't answer.
"Will they attack us?"
"Will they burn the city?"
"Are we wrong?"
Lucien addressed them before fear could rot into panic.
They gathered in the central courtyard at dusk—hundreds of faces lit by torchlight, goblin ears twitching, kobold tails still, beastkin claws flexing.
"They will not charge in blindly," Lucien said, voice carrying without effort. "That would make us victims."
"Then what will they do?" a beastkin guard asked.
Lucien paused.
"They will provoke us," he said. "And wait for us to justify them."
A murmur spread.
Lucien raised a hand.
"We will not give them that gift."
He looked over them—faces he had watched grow from fear to quiet pride.
"We built this place by refusing to become what they expect.
We will not undo it in a single moment of rage."
The crowd stilled.
"We wait," he said. "We prepare.
And when they come—
we show them what restraint truly costs."
That night – Outer Perimeter
A group of humans approached the outer markers.
Not soldiers.
Not adventurers.
Mercenaries.
They wore no insignias. No mana flares lit their steps. They carried torches and confidence.
A goblin sentry raised his hand.
"Turn back," he called in human tongue.
One man laughed.
"Look at that," he said. "The rats learned to speak."
An arrow struck the dirt between them.
A warning.
The mercenaries froze.
Then retreated.
Laughing.
"They didn't attack," Luna said later, standing beside Lucien on the wall.
Lucien's voice was quiet.
"Because fear is more useful alive."
**Far away – Guild Inner Chambers**
In the guild's inner chambers, satisfaction spread like smoke.
"They haven't retaliated," a noble noted.
"As expected," a cleric replied. "They fear judgment."
"They fear being erased," a mage corrected.
The guildmaster folded his hands.
"Good," he said. "Let them understand restraint."
No one questioned what restraint meant.
Black Academy – Night
Lucien did not sleep.
He walked the city until dawn.
He passed children asleep beside slates covered in half-finished calculations.
He passed doctors sterilizing tools they might never use again.
He passed guards who stood knowing no god would shield them.
And in the quiet, another memory surfaced.
Not clearly.
Not fully.
Just a sense.
Fire.
Pressure.
A brightness so absolute it erased shadows permanently.
Lucien stopped walking.
"No," he whispered.
Not yet.
At dawn, the city gates remained closed.
Not in fear.
In resolve.
Lucien gathered the council.
"We will not strike first," he said.
"And when they strike?" Miko asked.
Lucien met his eyes.
"Then," he said, "we decide what kind of monsters we are willing to become."
Outside the walls, smoke drifted.
Inside, the city prepared.
Because blood had already been spilled.
And none of it had required mana.