The ship cutting smooth through open space this time, engines humming steady thanks to the new pilot Seraphina managed to track down — quieter than the last one, less prone to running off screaming, which honestly already puts him ahead.
The Second Star Domain comes into view slow, and it’s massive — a realm built around a cluster of dying stars, their light bent and refracted through floating rings of stardust glass, casting everything in soft, shifting color. Structures hang suspended in defiance of anything like normal gravity, towers stretching upward like they’re trying to touch the dimming stars themselves.
At the center of it all sits the academy — sprawling, ancient, gleaming despite its age, banners marking territory lines even from orbit. Just looking at it, I can feel exactly what Seraphina warned about. Power on display everywhere, status baked into the very architecture.
"There it is," the pilot says, easing us into a slower approach. "Scholar’s Reach. Biggest academy in this domain. Word is half the Upper Realm’s most influential families send their kids here."
Seraphina leans over the display, scanning readouts. "Security’s heavy. Tag detection’s probably active the second we land."
"Cloak’s still up," I say, glancing at the others. "Should hold long enough to get us inside."
Viperess cracks her knuckles slow, eyes narrowing at the sprawling towers ahead. "Feels like the kind of place that deserves a little chaos."
"Careful," Seraphina mutters. "We’re here for the affinity. Ellux. Nothing else."
I smirk faintly, watching the academy grow larger in the viewport.
"No promises," I say.
The ship begins its descent.
The ship touches down smooth, and stepping out, the academy grounds are honestly stunning — gardens grown from crystalline plants that chime faint in the breeze, fountains running with what looks like liquid starlight, students drifting between buildings in robes marked with crests I don’t recognize but can tell mean something important.
Rich kids everywhere. Princes, heirs, nobility — every single one of them radiating that same effortless entitlement I’ve seen twice already today.
We keep our cloaks up, hoods drawn, moving quiet through the crowd toward what looks like a registration hall ahead — but it’s not working the way we hoped. If anything, the cloaks make us stand out more, six hooded figures cutting through a sea of open, flashy displays of wealth and rank.
Students glance our way, whispering, some outright staring.
We’re maybe twenty feet from the entrance when two armored guards step directly into our path, spears crossing to block the way, expressions hard.
"Halt," one of them says, eyes narrowing under his helmet. "Cloaked entry isn’t permitted on these grounds. Identify yourselves. Now."
I feel the others tense slightly beside me, and I hold a hand up, calm, already thinking fast.
"Just visitors," I say, keeping my voice even. "No trouble intended."
The guard’s eyes narrow further, unconvinced, spear tip not moving an inch.
"Visitors don’t hide their faces," he says. "Remove the hoods. Or we do it for you."
I pull my hood back slow, meeting the guard’s eyes without flinching.
He looks me over once — plain clothes, no crest, no rank marker glinting anywhere — and his expression shifts fast into something dismissive.
"You," he says, tone already flat with disinterest. "What business does someone like you have here?"
"Just here to see the academy," I say evenly.
He snorts, unimpressed. "Then where’s your servant registration?"
I blink. "My what?"
The guard exchanges a glance with the other one, like my confusion is somehow proof of something. "Servant ID," he repeats, slower this time, like he’s talking to someone slow. "Every Lower Realm human on these grounds is required to carry one. No exceptions." He looks me up and down again. "Unless you’re claiming to be something else."
That lands heavy, and I feel it settle in slow — not just an insult, an assumption. Like the very idea of a human from Earth being anything other than servant-class here isn’t even worth considering.
Behind me, I catch Viperess going still, tail flicking once, sharp.
"So every human that ends up here," I say carefully, "just gets registered as a servant. Automatically."
"Obviously," the guard says, bored. "What else would a Lower Realm rat be good for?"
I feel the shift ripple through my harem instantly — Viperess’s tail coiling tight, a low hiss barely held back, Frostine’s arms uncrossing slow, ready. I raise a hand without even looking back, quiet, steady, and it’s enough. They still.
Not yet.
The guard’s attention shifts past me, spear tip angling toward the others. "The rest of you too. Hoods off. Now."
I turn back to him before anyone else has to move.
"I don’t have a servant ID," I say, voice level, no heat in it yet, just fact. "And I’m still walking into this academy today."
The guard actually laughs, short and sharp, glancing at his partner like I just told a joke. "Without registration? Not happening. Lower Realm scum don’t walk these halls uninvited. You want in, you get processed through the servant intake like everyone else from your realm." He steps closer, spear lowering slightly, more threat than block now. "Or you turn around and crawl back to whatever ship brought you here."
I hold his gaze, calm, something cold settling behind it.
"I said," I repeat slow, deliberate, "I’m walking in. With or without your permission."
The guard’s jaw tightens, spear snapping up fast like he’s about to swing it straight at me —
I don’t even flinch. Just lift two fingers, quick, subtle.
The signal.
All at once, my harem drops their restraint — mana signatures flaring loose in a single synced wave, pressure crashing down over the guards like a physical weight. Viperess’s shadow rolling thick off her skin, Frostine’s ice cracking faint across the ground, Solnix’s solar glow flaring bright and dangerous, Demitress’s hellfire licking low around her fingers.
The guard’s spear freezes mid-swing. His face drains white, knees actually buckling slightly under whatever raw pressure just hit him.
"W-what—" he stammers, stepping back fast, spear nearly slipping from his grip. "What are you—"
Neither of them finish the thought. They just back off, fast, putting distance between themselves and six very unbothered "Lower Realm" travelers.
One by one, the cloaks come off.
Demitress yanks hers free with visible irritation, tossing it over one shoulder. "Finally. Hate wearing these things, they cling weird."
Frostine drops hers too, arms crossing, eyes cutting toward the guards with open disgust. "Servant registration," she mutters. "Beautiful system. Truly enlightened realm you’ve built here."
Viperess just smirks, tail flicking loose and relaxed now that the mask’s off. "Should’ve just asked nicely."
Solnix, ever the calm one, simply folds her cloak neat over one arm, though even her expression’s cooled several degrees from the usual warmth.
The guards stand frozen, staring at the five of them now fully visible — power radiating off every single one, nothing at all like the "servant" they assumed I was dragging along.
I look back at the guard who almost swung at me, voice quiet now, edge sharpened underneath it.
"Still want to talk about registration?"