Instructor Justinian did not wait long.
"Eleanor of House Zonara. Basiliscus of House Bardanes."
Eleanor stepped forward—tall and broad-shouldered, with a posture carved by combat. Her frame alone made most think twice. Heavyset, with coiled muscle wrapped in the mana-rich density of Titanroot.
Basiliscus followed with calm, measured steps. He was lean, angular—built like a duelist rather than a brawler. His dark hair was slicked back. The way he seemed to erase his presence was almost an art. Perfect for someone of Bardanes.
As they walked, he turned his head slightly.
"My apologies in advance," he said, voice quiet, unbothered. "House Zonara deserves better stock."
Eleanor gave no reaction. She wouldn't.
But I saw her shoulder tighten. The insult landed.
She was flawed—psychologically soft where others had hardened—but her power was undeniable. For someone barely fifteen, her physique was terrifying.
They took their positions across the field. Instructor Justinian offered no ceremony.
"Begin."
Now we would see why House Zonara still held third in the imperial rankings.
Their Seed—Titanroot—was a refinement of Earth, evolved over centuries. It fortified the body from the inside out, layering the skin in hardened, bone-like mana. Their blows were seismic. Their bodies were weapons in themselves. The brutality of Zonara during the Imperial War was still used as case studies in our strategy lectures.
House Bardanes ranked eighth.
Politically minor—on paper.
But Bardanes had no need for visibility.
Their influence worked differently.
Assassinations. Intelligence. Leverage.
Their Seed—Galeform—descended from Wind, refined into pressure manipulation. Where Zonara overwhelmed, Bardanes dismantled.
Eleanor made the first move.
Her shell activated instantly—mana thickened across her frame. The air felt heavier.
It had been a long time since we were permitted to go all out.
This would be interesting.
Basiliscus moved just before impact. He seemed to disappear—more shift than step—dodging to the right and releasing a silent blast of compressed air directly at Eleanor's temple.
It hit.
Calixtus laughed.
"A head-on strike and she didn't even blink? Bardanes, all that arrogance just to caress her?"
Instructor Justinian turned his head. That was enough.
Calixtus went quiet.
He would be punished later.
Eleanor charged forward. Basiliscus released a flurry of pressure strikes—each one invisible, precise, aimed at her joints and balance.
She didn't stop.
The attacks slowed her, staggered her slightly—but none broke through.
Then he adjusted.
A wide blast—centered at her footing.
The stone beneath her cracked. She stumbled.
He jumped.
A second blast launched him downward like a bullet, and his boot crashed into her ribs.
It was clean. Sharp.
But it was also a mistake.
She caught him.
"I win," she said.
Before he could twist free, Eleanor's body detonated outward—hundreds of sharpened bone protrusions erupted from her skin in all directions. A defensive burst. Instant.
Like a spined warbeast in full bloom.
Instructor Justinian appeared between them before the second heartbeat.
He caught Basiliscus mid-air with one hand, pulled Eleanor back with the other. The duel stopped just short of blood.
"Eleanor of House Zonara is the winner."
There was no pride on her face. Just relief.
Not from winning. From it being over.
So much power, wrapped around such fragile foundation.
What a waste.
The duels continued.
When the final match was called, the results were predictable. A few surprises here and there. But nothing that would ripple beyond these walls.
Afterward, we showered. Changed. Returned to routine.
By midday, we were seated in the learning hall.
Today's lecture: War Strategies and Structural Collapse.
Instructor Armenius stood at the front—an older tactician with a limp and a thousand-yard stare. His robes were plain, face lined, voice steady. He didn't waste words.
"We begin with siege deterrence," he said. "Specifically—how to win without fighting."
The room settled.
"Centuries ago, the Dominion of Mevra defended its eastern cities not with stone, but with emptiness. They would abandon entire outer districts before enemy armies arrived, retreating behind fortified walls while leaving food stores intact."
He let the silence hang.
"The invaders believed they'd won. They feasted. Rested. Grew soft. Some sent word home to celebrate."
"Then came the fire."
A tap of the staff against the databoard.
"Burning oil. Lit from beneath. The gates locked behind them. No escape. No negotiation."
"The siege never began. Because the siege never had to."
Everyone listened intently.
Armenius was one of the few instructors who still believed some of us could learn without fear.
He took a liking to me early on. Something about my essays. My precision.
I played into it.
The way he looked at me when he posed a rhetorical question—the brief glance, the almost smile—it was useful.
Too useful to ignore.
He thought he saw a future general. A strategist in the making.
I certainly had the potential to be one.
After the lecture was done, we had lunch.
Aside from Eleanor and Calixtus, I didn't interact with the others. It seemed unnecessary. I was of the Empire. They had their Houses. That difference was enough.
The Varean Empire had invested everything in me—through generations of selective breeding, curated lineage, mana enhancements, tailored education. I wasn't simply born; I was constructed.
A project.
When the Fifteen Noble Houses caught wind of it, they demanded a piece.
And so, the Institution was born.
We weren't ignorant of our purpose.
We ate mostly in silence—until Calixtus, as always, broke it.
"So, Eleanor," he said through a mouthful of bread, "how do you think your reunion with House Zonara will go? One more year till they welcome their darling daughter home."
She didn't look up.
"I'm more concerned with surviving the exam," she said. "After that, they'll smile, lie about how hard it was to leave me here, and assign me to whatever warfront needs a symbol of strength."
"So… warm family hugs, then?" he smirked.
She did not respond.
Soon, the next lecture began.
Debate.
If one was to represent a House—or rule one—they had to wield more than a sword. Words could move cities. Collapse alliances. Secure empires. One had to be able to articulate themselves to a high degree.
We were seated in the oratory chamber, the room arranged like a miniature senate. Domed ceiling. Raised platforms. No instructor interference once the bell rang.
Instructor Thales announced the topic:
"The moral viability of state-run genetic engineering. Does a state's pursuit of strength justify tampering with legacy and life?"
Calixtus groaned softly beside me. He knew I'd be chosen.
"Kaelen of the Empire. Affirmative." "Isaac of House Phocus. Opposition."
Isaac stood opposite me—shorter, slight of frame, with a gold-trimmed tunic and a House seal over his heart. House Phocus took pride in tradition. Bloodlines. Sacred records. Their orators were polished to the syllable.
The bell rang.
He began.
"A state that deconstructs legacy to fabricate power risks losing the very soul of its people. Bloodlines are not equations. They are continuity. Culture. Memory."
"To cut and paste a child into a 'masterpiece' is to sever them from the one thing no state can replicate—origin."
He paused, measuring the room.
"The Empire may build warriors. But at what cost? Do you serve it—or replace it? Will it even recognize you when it's done?"
A few nods in the audience.
My turn.
I didn't rise quickly. I let silence stretch for just long enough.
Then I stood.
"House Phocus speaks of legacy as if it cannot rot."
"But history doesn't honor blood. It honors outcome."
A few heads turned.
"I am what your Houses fear: proof that lineage can be designed. That heritage isn't sacred—it's replicable. That discipline and intent can surpass tradition."
"You say I lack origin. But origin is irrelevant if the outcome is undeniable."
I looked directly at Isaac.
"You quote the past. I author what comes next."
After a moment of silence, Instructor Thales recorded the result.
"Point: Affirmative."