Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Institute That Eats Its Own

The gates of the Capital Cardmaker Institute were taller than most city buildings, gleaming with prismatic runes that shimmered in the sunlight. They looked like they belonged to a temple, not a school.

Julien stood before them, bag slung over one shoulder, throat dry.

He knew the institute was prestigious. He knew only those with high enough arcana potential or political leverage got in. But he also knew something else—this Julien had no one. Just the pension left from his parents’ deaths and the faint signature of arcana humming in his blood.

"Scan complete," a female voice chimed. A drone hovered above him. "Julien Deton. Admitted under Sector 4 hardship grant. Dormitory assigned. Please proceed to Orientation Hall 3C."

Sector 4.

Translation: bottom rung. Scholarship case. No backing. No sponsor. A good target.

Inside the campus, everything was too bright and sharp. Elegant towers curved into the sky, connected by floating walkways. Students moved in coordinated flows, uniforms in shades of gold, navy, and crimson. Julien passed a group in black—combat class, he realized—laughing as they tossed charged cards back and forth like they were toys.

A younger girl brushed past him and paused.

"Hey. You’re the Sector 4 admit?"

Julien blinked. “Uh. Yeah?”

She snorted. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

And just like that, she vanished into the crowd.

The Orientation Hall smelled like old stone and ozone. Rows of students were seated already, arranged by class tier. Julien spotted a few other scholarship kids—most looked scared or bitter. He found an empty seat near the edge and sat quickly, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes.

At the front, a projection shimmered into being—a man with pale skin and an iridescent cloak, eyes like violet fire.

“Welcome, initiates,” he said. “I am Arch-Tier Professor Ryell. Here, you will learn to bind energy into form. Shape chaos into structure. The first law of Cardmaking is this: What you forge is who you are. And power—true power—has a cost.”

Julien listened, half-entranced, half-wary. His fingers itched to touch a card.

After orientation, students were ushered into dorm assignments. Julien’s room was small but clean—two bunks, one terminal, no roommate yet. He dropped his bag and immediately checked the starting supplies: one basic card template, a tuner, and a cheap stabilizer wand.

Not enough to impress anyone. Barely enough to practice.

He was too focused on inspecting the materials to notice the figure that passed by the door. Too distracted to catch the brief flicker of movement before the terminal buzzed violently.

ERROR: Mana contamination detected.

Julien backed away, heart slamming.

The card template in his hand—pristine seconds ago—was now cracked. Someone had cursed it. Quietly. Subtly. A delay-trigger hex meant to explode during tuning. If he’d used it—

He would’ve been disqualified. Or worse.

His breath came fast, ragged. Someone had already marked him.

And they knew what they were doing.

Later that night, alone in his dorm, Julien held the ruined template and thought about the dream he still clung to—about crafting cards that could shape fate, about standing on a battlefield beside the empire’s best, not cowering in their shadow.

He wasn’t going to quit.

They’d have to do better than sabotage to break him.

What he didn’t know was that in a shadowed control room, a man with silver eyes had already flagged his student profile for observation.

Veldaric Hill had a taste for unpolished weapons.

And he was hungry.

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