The transition from the adrenaline of the training arena to the hushed, intellectual atmosphere of the upper lecture halls was a shift Alaric navigated with ease. While the rest of the squad appeared to be vibrating with the residual energy of the combat simulation, Alaric was already mentally cataloging the tactical data he'd gathered.
Monday morning brought their first session of Advanced Mana-Theory and Spatial Geometry. The classroom was a tiered amphitheater of polished white stone, designed to focus all attention on the central lectern where a massive holographic projector displayed the swirling, chaotic interior of a Class-C Gate.
Alaric took his seat in the center of the front row. Elara sat to his right, her presence a steady, quiet anchor. She didn't hover or fuss over him; instead, she placed her own notebook on the desk with a precise, clinical movement, her eyes fixed forward. She was the picture of a perfect imperial knight—disciplined, attentive, and entirely supportive of the man leading her.
Caspian, Seraphina, and Leo filled the seats behind them. Alaric could feel the prickle of Caspian's gaze on the back of his neck, but he chalked it up to the Northerner's natural discomfort with the confines of a classroom.
"Most students think of mana as a liquid," Professor Valerius began, his voice dry and rhythmic. "They think it flows. It does not. Mana is a series of interconnected spatial vibrations. If you treat it like water, you will drown in the first Rift you enter. Someone tell me the 'Folding Point' of a standard vacuum-sealed portal."
The room went silent. It was a question designed to humiliate overconfident freshmen—a complex calculation involving localized gravity and mana-density that usually required a team of specialists to solve.
"0.0034 microns," Alaric said, his voice calm and unhurried. "But that is only if you assume the portal is stable. If the core is harvested, the Folding Point shifts toward the center by a factor of the square root of the remaining mana-mass. In a Class-C Gate, that effectively turns the exit into a localized black hole if the extraction timing is off by more than four milliseconds."
The Professor paused, his spectacles sliding down his nose. He looked at Alaric for a long, unblinking moment. "Correct, Lord Thorne. I see the rumors regarding your tutoring under the Archmage were not exaggerated."
Alaric offered a modest nod. "The logic of the system is quite beautiful once you see the patterns, Professor."
Beside him, Elara didn't say a word, but her posture straightened a fraction, a look of quiet, internal pride reflecting in her eyes. She wasn't coddling him; she was admiring the sharp edge of the blade she was sworn to defend.
For the next two hours, the lecture became a dialogue between the Professor and Alaric. While the other students—including the elite of the Apex Tier—struggled to keep up with the shorthand on their consoles, Alaric moved through the equations with a terrifying, rhythmic speed. He wasn't showing off; to him, providing the most accurate data was simply the most efficient way to ensure the class progressed.
However, the mood in the room was souring. He could hear the scratching of pens and the low whispers of resentment. To the other prodigies, Alaric wasn't just a classmate; he was a ceiling they could never hope to break.
"He's doing it again," Caspian muttered behind him, the sound barely audible over the hum of the mana-projectors. "He's acting like the savior of the curriculum."
Seraphina didn't respond. She was staring at her own blank screen, her mind caught between the brilliant student in front of her and the cold Inquisitor who had once ordered the burning of her Cathedral for "mana-efficiency." In her memories, Alaric's brilliance was the very thing that had made his tyranny so inescapable. You couldn't fight a man who was always three steps ahead of the logic of the world.
As the lecture concluded and the students began to file out, Alaric stayed behind to gather his notes.
"Alaric," Elara said softly, standing beside his desk. She didn't reach for his bag or try to assist him. "The way you derived the third sequence was masterful. You saved the department nearly a month of introductory lectures."
"It seemed the most logical path," Alaric replied, looking up at her. "Though I suspect the rest of the class might not agree."
"Let them struggle," Elara said, her voice a calm, steady melody. "Excellence is a lonely path, Alaric. That is why I am here. To ensure you have the space to walk it without being tripped by those who cannot keep up."
It was the response of a loyal supporter—silent, unwavering, and entirely focused on his success. Alaric felt a surge of genuine appreciation for the arrangement. Elara understood the weight of his intellect without ever making it feel like a burden.
As they stepped into the hallway, they found Caspian leaning against the opposite wall, his arms crossed over his massive chest. He looked at Alaric with a look of pure, unadulterated skepticism.
"The Professor's pet," Caspian said, his voice a low rumble. "You have all the answers on paper, Thorne. But in the North, we have a saying: 'The smartest man in the room is usually the first one the wolves eat.'"
Alaric stopped, looking at Caspian with a look of sincere curiosity. "A fascinating proverb, Caspian. Though I've always found that the wolves tend to eat the person who hasn't bothered to learn their hunting patterns. Perhaps we can discuss the geography of the Northern Gates later? I'd value your first-hand perspective."
Caspian stared at him, searching for a hint of mockery, a sign of the arrogance he remembered. But Alaric's eyes were clear, his interest entirely academic. It was infuriating.
"I don't discuss the North with people who view it as a map," Caspian spat, before turning and stalking away.
Alaric watched him go, his brow furrowing slightly. "He seems... remarkably resistant to collaborative study."
"He is a Northerner," Elara noted, her eyes following Caspian's back with a cold, clinical focus. "They prize instinct over intellect. Don't let it trouble you, Alaric. His role is to be the shield, not the strategist. As long as he holds the line, his personality is irrelevant."
Alaric nodded, tucking his notebook under his arm. "True. But a team functions better when the logic is shared. I'll just have to work harder to find the right frequency to reach him."
As they walked toward the dining hall, Alaric pulled out his personal journal, making a small note.
Observation: Subject Caspian displays a high degree of intellectual defensive-bias. Likely rooted in cultural friction. Strategy: Demonstrate the practical utility of theoretical models in the next combat drill to bridge the gap.
He didn't see the way Seraphina, walking several paces behind them, flinched when she saw him writing in that journal. In her time, that journal had been the "Black Ledger"—the book where Alaric Thorne recorded the names of those who were no longer "logically necessary" for the Empire's survival.
She looked at the Princess, standing silently at Alaric's side, and felt a cold shiver. They were the perfect pair. The Brilliant Mind and the Silent Blade. And if the future remained on its current trajectory, there was no one in the world who could stop them.