The wind was sharp as a blade, cutting through cloth and bone alike.
Kurobane Arashi stepped beyond the towering ebony gates of the noble district, his once-pristine midnight robes billowing like silent ghosts in the night air.
The vast streets stretched before him, lit by arcane lanterns, casting their cold, blue radiance onto cobblestone paths worn smooth by centuries of noble footsteps that would never again include his own.
For the first time in his life, he was truly alone in a crowd of thousands.
'Or so they think.'
His exile had been orchestrated like a grand theater performance, a spectacle designed to humiliate and destroy him in the eyes of society.
Every noble house would hear of it before sunrise.
But Arashi knew better. House Kurobane had discarded him not just because he was weak, but because he was a potential threat—a loose end in a world where power dictated existence and blood purity was everything.
They believed they had erased him from history with a single declaration.
That was their first mistake.
Their second mistake was assuming he had nowhere to go, no resources beyond what they had provided.
, he made his way through the dimly lit streets, his mind calculating every possible path forward.
He had already formulated three escape routes in case of pursuit, two contingency plans in case he was being watched by his father's spies.
Five different scenarios should Daizen decide that exile wasn't enough to silence the shame of having birthed a magicless heir.
'If they wanted me dead, they would have sent an assassin before the announcement. Meaning they want to see if I'll rot in the gutter first. Perhaps even enjoy watching my descent.'
How quaint. How predictable.
Arashi's lips twitched into a ghost of a smirk as he turned into a quieter district.
The noble estates with their magical gardens and enchanted fountains fading into the distance behind him like a fever dream.
The lower city was a different world entirely—a world few nobles ever deigned to visit except in disguise for illicit pleasures.
Unlike the polished marble and sculpted gardens of the noble quarter, the streets here were rough, uneven,
And crowded with commoners pushing carts laden with meager goods, vendors haggling over copper coins, and mercenaries nursing wounds and bitter drinks outside cheap taverns with names like "The Broken Shield" and "The Emperor's Bastard."
The scent of roasted meat mixed with the sharp tang of unwashed bodies and open sewers, and the occasional beggar lurked in the shadowed alleyways, their hollow gazes flickering toward him with a hunger that spoke of desperation.
He was an outsider here—his noble garments, despite the absence of the Kurobane crest that had been literally ripped from his clothing, still marked him as someone who didn't belong.
Eyes followed him through shuttered windows and from beneath tattered hoods. Some curious, others predatory, all calculating what he might be worth.
He ignored them all, maintaining the practiced indifference of nobility while his senses remained razor-sharp.
'Walking through the slums in noble clothing. Definitely not suspicious at all. Might as well have painted a target on my back.'
His hand subtly brushed against the concealed dagger at his belt—a gift from a servant who had shown him more kindness than his own blood.
He had no intention of using it unless absolutely necessary, but appearances were important in the lower city.
Predators only attacked prey that looked vulnerable, and Arashi had spent a lifetime ensuring he never appeared weak, even when surrounded by those who could shatter mountains with a gesture.
He passed a group of thugs lounging outside a gambling den called "Fortune's Fool," their laughter coarse and slurred with cheap ale that reeked even from a distance.
One of them, a burly man with missing teeth and a scar that split his lip in two, let out a slow, deliberate whistle as Arashi passed.
"Well, well. What's a fancy boy like you doing in a place like this? Lost your nursemaid?" The others chuckled, the sound ugly and threatening.
Arashi didn't stop walking, didn't acknowledge their existence with even a flicker of his gaze.
The thug took that as an invitation, as Arashi knew he would.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, fingers digging into fine fabric. "Oi. I asked you a—"
Arashi moved.
Before the man could finish his sentence, his wrist was seized in an iron grip, twisted at an unnatural angle with the precision of someone who had studied anatomy not for healing but for exploitation.
A sharp, calculated application of pressure to a nerve cluster sent the thug to his knees on the filthy street, his breath hitching as pain flooded his nervous system like liquid fire.
Arashi crouched slightly, his voice calm, polite—almost bored, as if explaining a simple concept to a particularly slow child.
"Let go, or I break it. And then I break you."
The thug hesitated, alcohol-clouded mind struggling to comprehend how quickly the tables had turned. Then he saw Arashi's eyes for the first time.
Cold. Empty. The eyes of a predator staring at something beneath his notice—something he could extinguish without a second thought or moment of remorse.
He let go, fingers trembling.
Arashi did not.
Instead, he leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for the kneeling man.
"Next time, make sure your hands are clean before touching someone above your station. Death comes in many forms, and some of us don't need magic to deliver it."
Then, with an almost lazy flick of his fingers, he released the man and stepped away, walking down the street as if nothing had happened, his posture unchanged, his pace unhurried.
Behind him, the thug remained on the ground, cradling his wrist, his drunken bravado replaced by silent fear that would haunt his dreams for weeks. His companions exchanged wary glances but made no move to follow.
Predators recognized when they had encountered something higher on the food chain.
Arashi allowed himself a small exhale once he was beyond their sight.
'Low-class street rats. Useful pawns eventually, but not today.'
He had bigger concerns, larger pieces to move on the board he was constructing in his mind.
By the time he reached his destination, Street vendors set up their stalls, children in ragged clothes darted between alleyways, and the night's predators slithered back into their hiding places.
Before him, towering beyond the lower districts like a monument to power itself, stood the Imperial Arcane Academy—the most prestigious magic institution in the empire.
Where the children of emperors had studied alongside prodigies who would go on to reshape reality itself.
Its gates were wrought from enchanted steel, lined with ancient inscriptions that shimmered with protective wards capable of incinerating unauthorized visitors.
The academy itself loomed beyond, an immense structure was stretching into the sky like grasping fingers.
For ordinary students—the lucky few selected from thousands—entering these gates was a moment of pride. A privilege handed to them by fate and talent.
For Arashi, it was merely an inconvenience, a necessary step in a much larger design.
The academy had been a last-minute addition to his plans—a calculated risk.
Initially, he had intended to move in the shadows, working through the criminal underbelly, gathering secrets and leverage unseen until he gained enough power to make his return inevitable.
But plans could be adjusted. Plans should be adjusted when better opportunities presented themselves.
Attending the academy would give him three things he desperately needed—access to forbidden knowledge.
Proximity to future power players who would one day rule the empire, and, most importantly, protection under imperial law.
Even his father, with all his influence, couldn't touch him here without raising questions that House Kurobane couldn't afford to answer.
Still, the real challenge wasn't entering.
It was existing within its walls without being crushed by the weight of expectation and scorn.
A student with no magic had no place in an academy designed to cultivate the empire's elite mages.
He would be tested, mocked, provoked at every turn—expected to break under the weight of his own incompetence and crawl back to the father who had disowned him.
Which was fine.
He had no intention of playing fair. Never had.
"Identification?"
A guard at the gate, clad in ceremonial armor held out his hand expectantly. Behind him, other students entered freely, displaying insignias of noble houses or personal emblems that marked them as magical elites destined for greatness.
Arashi pulled out a small envelope sealed with wax that bore no official mark.
The guard took it, examining the contents before narrowing his eyes, suspicion etched in the lines of his weathered face.
"Kurobane?" He looked Arashi up and down, noting the lack of a family crest, the absence of the magical aura that should surround any true scion of such a powerful bloodline. "You don't look like—"
"I'm adopted," Arashi said smoothly, the lie rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. "A ward of the house for... political reasons."
The guard hesitated, clearly weighing the risk of offending a noble house against the irregularity before him.
Lies, when delivered with absolute certainty by someone who looked like they belonged in the upper echelons of society, were harder to question than one might expect.
And no one—absolutely no one—expected a freshly outcast noble to walk through these gates alone, head held high as if he owned the very ground beneath his feet.
The guard eventually shrugged, deciding it wasn't worth the trouble. "Your business here?"
"Enrollment." Arashi's voice remained neutral, revealing nothing of the satisfaction he felt at navigating the first of many obstacles.
The guard scoffed, unable to completely hide his disdain. "And your magic affinity?"
Arashi smiled. A small, cold smile that never reached his eyes but promised something that made the guard's hand twitch instinctively toward his weapon.
"Surprise me."
There was a beat of silence, heavy with unspoken tension. Then the guard motioned him through with a reluctant jerk of his head, muttering something about "noble brats" under his breath.
As Arashi stepped onto the academy grounds, crossing the threshold into a world of privilege and power that should have rejected him, he could already feel the weight of the gazes that followed him.
Students paused in their conversations, professors narrowed their eyes, and servants whispered behind cupped hands.
The rejected noble. The magicless failure. The disgrace of House Kurobane who dared to walk among them as if he belonged.
He ignored them all, his face a perfect mask of aristocratic indifference that he had perfected over years of enduring similar scrutiny.
Because at the end of the day, titles were just words.
And words could be rewritten.
History could be rewritten.
And those who underestimated him would live just long enough to regret it.
'Step one, complete. Step two... let's see who the real players in this game are.'
And with that, Kurobane Arashi took his first step into the world of the academy—where power, deception, and opportunity awaited behind every polished door and beneath every arcane inscription.
A world that thought it would break him, never suspecting that he had been forged in a fire far hotter than anything they could imagine.
Not a single student passing him knew they were looking at their future master.
Or their executioner.