The lecture hall remained frozen in a vacuum of absolute shock.
To the everyone in the room, a Vanguard third-year was a terrifying archetype of purebred dominance, but Roman Laurent was an entirely different tier of disaster.
Vance Montrose pushed himself up from the floor, his fingers digging into the stone flags until his knuckles clicked.
The high collar of his uniform had opened during the fall, exposing the ugly, swollen purple bruising around his throat where Roman’s fingers had branded him the previous night.
He was trembling, a volatile mixture of purebred humiliation and burning rage radiating from his shoulders.
“I was having a conversation, Laurent,” Vance spat.
He tried to steady his breathing, but his ribs were clearly throbbing from the impact with the desk.
“I didn’t realize House Laurent owned the general seating arrangements for lower-tier tracks now.”
Roman did not take his hands out of his pockets.
He did not even shift his weight.
He merely looked down at Vance, his eyes glowing a stark crimson that looked exceptionally lethal against the morning light filtering through the stained glass.
“House Laurent doesn’t own the seating,” Roman said.
“I do. And since I spent the last four hours listening to a feral northern animal demolish my furniture, my tolerance for uninvited garbage in my immediate vicinity is exactly zero.”
From the side, Lillian pressed her back flat against her chair.
She looked from Roman’s pristine, terrifyingly calm posture down to Vance who was now standing up.
Her mind was in a complete tailspin as she tried to comprehend the situation currently unfolding in front of her.
Vance’s face contorted demonically.
Driven past the brink of sanity by the reminder of his midnight humiliation and the raw ache in his throat, he snapped.
Abandoning every ounce of Vanguard decorum, his hands shot out, grasping the pristine, silver-threaded lapels of Roman’s uniform jacket, gathering the expensive fabric in a white-knuckled grip.
“You arrogant, condescending piece of trash—” Vance snarled directly into his face, his fangs fully extending, dripping with a sudden rush of defensive venom.
“You think you can just step on everyone in this academy because of your name? I will tear that smug smile off your face myself!”
But before the upperclassman could pull him forward, Roman’s hand shot out of his pocket like a strike of lightning and clamped mercilessly around Vance’s right wrist, squeezing with a crushing force that immediately made the bones in the third-year’s arm grate together.
“Take your hands off my silks,” Roman warned.
The temperature in the room plummeted.
Frost crept across the stone floor from beneath his boots, spreading outward in delicate crystalline patterns as his restrained composure began to fracture under his irritation.
Lillian immediately jerked her feet up, her eyes widening as a thin layer of ice curled dangerously close to the edges of her desk.
“—I have already lost one masterpiece of textile design today. If you wrinkle my lapel, I will make sure the rest of your morning is spent inside a medical capsule.”
“Try it!” Vance yelled, his free hand flying to his belt where a dark pulse of magic began to form, ready to detonate between them.
“I’ll blow this entire row to hell—”
The surrounding students completely lost their minds.
Scrapes of chairs, panicked gasps, and frantic shuffles erupted into chaos as sophomores practically scrambled over one another to get away from the blast radius.
“Please stop.” A voice, incredibly small and violently trembling, cut through the noise from three rows down.
Both Roman and Vance froze, their competing magical pressures still humming like low-frequency thunder, and slowly turned their heads toward the source.
A scrawny boy was standing halfway out of his seat.
The moment the two predators locked their gazes onto him, the boy’s face turned an translucent shade of white, actively regretting every single life choice that had brought him to this lecture hall today.
“This… this is a classroom,” the boy stammered, his voice cracking painfully under the crushing weight of their combined purebred pressure.
“Professor Alder will be here soon. It’s… it’s not a place to fight…”
Vance’s eyes narrowed into slits of pure, displaced malice.
Dropping his hand, he turned his upperbody completely toward the boy, his jaw tightening.
“What did you just say to me, you little—”
Rip.
Vance did not get to finish.
With a powerful motion, Roman yanked the upperclassman back by his wrist, twisted his arm, and used his other hand to viciously grip the back of Vance’s high vanguard collar, forcing the older boy down until his chest slammed back onto the desk.
“Don’t flatter yourself by taking out your incompetence on the sophomores, Vance,” Roman said, his voice dropping into that chilling register that made Lillian’s blood run cold.
He leaned down, his shadow completely eclipsing the third-year.
“If you are so desperately eager to be broken, don’t waste my time here. The physical evaluation grounds open in twenty minutes.”
Roman released his collar with a sharp, disdainful shove that sent the vanguard stumbling back into the aisle.
Vance clutched his bruised wrist, his breathing ragged and chest heaving as he stared at Roman with unadulterated fury.
He spat a small, dark bead of saliva onto the frosted stone floor, his eyes darting to Lillian one last time before locking onto the pureblood heir.
“The Black Ravine,” Vance hissed, backing down the steps toward the exit, his voice raw and filled with a promise of violence.
A collective, terrified murmur rippled through the remaining sophomores at the mere mention of the name.
Someone whispered, “Are they serious…?”
“Midnight. Tonight. Let’s see how much your precious composure survives when nobody is there to applaud your arrogance.” Without waiting for a reply, Vance turned on his heel and violently threw the heavy oak doors open, disappearing into the corridor as they slammed shut behind him with a definitive, echoing boom.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Lillian stared straight ahead, her hands shaking so violently she had to drop her quill onto the parchment.
She could feel the heavy and dark magic still vibrating in the air around her desk.
Slowly, Roman turned his head down toward her.
The terrifying focus evaporated from his eyes in an instant, replaced by that familiar insufferable smirk and casually slid into the empty seat beside her.
“Good morning, partner,” Roman drawled, his tone perfectly light and conversational.
“You look remarkably pale today. Don’t tell me you let a parasite like Montrose ruin your appetite before the trials?”
Lillian could only stare at him, her voice entirely caught in her throat.
The Black Ravine was not officially forbidden by the academy bylaws, but everyone within these walls knew exactly what it was.
The blind spot of the sentinel wards, a sprawling network of ruined foundations beneath the old academy wing where debts were settled in blood, illegal contracts were signed, and bodies could disappear without a trace.
It was the academy’s worst-kept open secret.
A place where rules did not exist and crimes were simply the cost of doing business.
And this absolute lunatic had just casually accepted an invitation to go there.
She knew he was basically untouchable because of his bloodline, but to challenge an upperclassman vanguard?
“Are you insane?” She could not help but ask, her voice barely a fraction above a whisper as she glanced around to ensure the traumatized sophomores were not listening.
Roman looked at her as though she had asked whether the sun intended to rise tomorrow.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s the Black Ravine,” she said, her brows contorting in worry.
“People literally die down there and you just challenged a third-year Vanguard to a midnight duel in a lawless graveyard!”
Roman did not flinch at her outburst.
Instead, he smoothly rested his elbow on the surface of her desk, leaning his chin into his palm.
His brilliant crimson eyes, now completely returned to their state of lazy amusement, crinkled at the corners.
“Let us keep our priorities aligned, my anxious little sophomore,” Roman drawled, his tone dripping with an insufferable confidence.
“The man had his unwashed fingers on my premium tailoring. He actively wrinkled the left lapel. Do you know how difficult it is to remove defensive pureblood venom from silver-threaded weave? It’s a nightmare.”
Lillian’s jaw practically hit her notebook.
“I’m talking about your life!” she hissed under her breath, shooting a frantic glance toward the heavy oak doors, terrified Vance might still be lingering in the corridor.
“He wasn’t bluffing. Everyone knows what happens to students who go down into the Ravine past midnight. What if he brings backup?”
”Then let him bring his little Vanguard scouts,” Roman scoffed lightly, waving a hand with absolute dismissiveness.
“Let him bring the entire third-year tracking roster if it pleases him. I would actually appreciate the effort. It saves me the inconvenience of searching for them afterward.”
Lillian stared at him, completely at a loss for words.
His absolute lack of self-preservation was staggering.
“You’re really insane,” she muttered, rubbing her temples as if she could physically massage away the impending migraine he was giving her.
Roman’s smirk widened, his eyes gleaming as he leaned a fraction closer.
“Tell me, Shaw… is that you saying you’re worried about me?”
“No!” Lillian shot back instantly, perhaps a bit too quickly, a hot flush of heat creeping up her neck.
“Ah.” Roman let out a long sigh, resting his free hand over his heart in a display of devastating agony.
“So you are worried about him. My own partner, harbouring a secret concern for the well-being of a pathetic creature like Montrose. I must say, I’m deeply hurt. Where is the loyalty? Where is the shared team spirit?”
What?!
“I’m not worried about him either!” Lillian said, her voice cracking under the sheer absurdity of the accusation.
“I don’t even know him, and… and he looked like a bad person!”
“Oh, thank heavens,” Roman purred, instantly dropping the tragic act as his chin returned to his palm.
“Because if you were worried about me, it would mean you severely underestimate my capabilities, which is a gross insult to my lineage. But…”
Roman’s crimson gaze drifted away, lowering briefly toward the edge of Lillian’s notebook.
He looked almost thoughtful, a rare, uncharacteristic quiet settling over his sharp features as if he were suddenly trying to decipher a riddle he had not prepared for.
Lillian watched him silently, her brows knitting together slightly, wondering if he had actually run out of arguments or if whatever impossible thought had crossed his mind was something even a Roman Laurent struggled to put into words.
Just as quickly, it was gone.
“But,” Roman cleared his throat and smiled sweetly.
“I suppose I wouldn’t mind being the sole occupant of your sweet, anxious little thoughts. It’s a rather elite position, isn’t it?”
Huh?
Lillian was about to retort when the sharp, rhythmic echoing of heavy leather boots down the front aisle shattered the spell instantly.
Click.
Click.
“Seats. Now,” a booming, dry voice commanded from the front of the hall.
Professor Alder strode into Lecture Hall Seven, his long, ink-black coat billowing behind him like a shadow as he dropped a massive, leather-bound tome onto the main podium with a deafening thud.
The sophomores scrambled to straighten up in their seat.
Lillian snapped her gaze straight ahead, her heart hammering against her ribs so loudly she was terrified Roman could hear it.
She desperately grabbed her quill, her hands still trembling as she focused with absolute, sudden intensity on the blank parchment in front of her.
Beside her, Roman let out a soft hum, casually leaning back in his chair as if he had not just single-handedly sent her internal alarms into complete meltdown.
Professor Alder did not waste a single second on morning pleasantries.
His severe, storm-grey eyes swept across the tiered rows of the lecture hall, instantly cataloguing every single face.
“As of eight o’clock this morning, the preliminary matching phase for the evaluation trials is officially closed,” he announced.
He raised his hand, and with a sharp flick of his wrist, a dozen unrolled parchment scrolls materialized in the air, drifting lazily down the aisles like glowing ribbons.
“The academy expects absolute synchronization from its technical tracks. Those who cannot manage a partnership will certainly fail to manage a battlefield.”
The scrolls glided down the rows, stopping in front of each pair.
When a glowing parchment hovered directly over Lillian’s desk, a pulsing runic circle manifested in the air between her and Roman.
Professor Alder raised a dark focusing rod.
“Present your crests for registration.”
Before Lillian could even ask for her crest back, Roman casually extended his hand, the cool silver face of Lillian’s crest resting perfectly in his palm alongside his own Laurent signet.
He let the ambient pulse from the floating scroll wash over both items.
The runic circle flared a brilliant, undeniable crimson.
A sharp chime echoed as the names Roman Alexandre Laurent and Lillian Shaw locked into the glowing parchment in shimmering, permanent ink.
The magic spell officially confirmed their alliance, binding their evaluation scores together for the rest of the term.
With the registration complete, Roman seamlessly slipped both crests back into his pocket, offering Lillian a small, insufferable wink that she deliberately chose to ignore by staring intently at her inkwell.
Once the scrolls moved past them, the atmosphere in the lecture hall took a sharp, brutal turn.
“For those of you who treated the registration deadline as a mere suggestion,” Professor Alder began, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register as he turned his gaze toward the far side of the hall, “stand up.”
Lillian watched from the corner of her eye as a handful of sophomores slowly rose from their benches.
They were trembling, their faces filled with the exact kind of dread Lillian had been feeling just minutes prior.
“An inability to coordinate with your peers demonstrates a fundamental lack of responsibility, discipline, and basic time management,” Alder lectured, his eyes narrowing as he stared down the displaced students.
“Valerius Academy does not tolerate dead weight. Effective immediately, every student currently standing will receive a ten-mark deduction from their preliminary trial scores.”
A collective, horrified gasp rippled through the penalized students.
Ten marks in the technical tracks was a devastating blow, enough to push someone from the elite brackets straight into the remedial tracking tier.
“Furthermore,” Alder continued, entirely unmoved by their despair, “you will report to the lower bogs for mandatory field-cleaning detention at sunset. If you cannot manage a partner within the given time, you will manage the academy’s waste. Sit down.”
The penalized sophomores collapsed back into their seats, looking utterly hollowed out.
Lillian watched them with a quiet surge of sympathy, knowing exactly how terrifying it was to start the term at a disadvantage.
If it had not been for the insufferable pureblood sitting next to her, she might very well have been one of them.
“Now that the administrative failures have been properly penalized, we will begin the baseline diagnostic. The academy does not care about your high-born lineages or your theoretical scores. We care about survival synchronization.”
With a sweep of Alder’s arm, the heavy black ink on the massive chalkboard at the front of the hall began to liquify, twisting and reforming into a moving map of the academy grounds.
But it was not the manicured courtyards or the familiar lecture wings.
It was a shifting, subterranean labyrinth laced with glowing runes.
“Your first task begins immediately,” Alder commanded.
“The Lower Vaults have been unsealed. You have exactly forty-five minutes to navigate the subterranean corridors, bypass the localized containment hexes, and retrieve a singular, blood-bound relic assigned to your pairing. If you fail to exit before the countdown concludes, the vaults will lock. And whatever is hunting down there will be permitted to keep you.”
Disbelief rippled through the hall.
Lillian’s heart did a violent, panicked flip in her chest upon hearing the instructions.
The Lower Vaults?
In their first year, the practical exams had been held in highly regulated and safely simulated arenas with proctors standing by to intervene the second things went sideways.
But it seemed like second year’s evaluation was far more dangerous than she thought it would be.
They really want to weed us out, she thought, a cold sweat breaking out across her palms.
“The entry portals are active beneath your benches,” Alder shouted over a sudden, deafening mechanical rumble that shook the entire foundation of Lecture Hall Seven.
“Go.”
Before Lillian could even reach for her partner, the solid stone floor beneath her feet suddenly gave way.
Darkness swallowed them whole, and the distant sound of Roman’s amused laughter the last thing she heard before the freefall began.