Chapter 7: The Unspoken Division

  Virtus Academy might have been a monument to magic and martial brilliance, but underneath its grandeur pulsed a web of quiet hierarchies, invisible chains that bound student to status and teacher to tradition.

  The sun filtered through stained glass windows into Victor’s classroom—an Elite Class room, polished, radiant, and humming with softly bound enchantments. Velvet seats, desks carved from etherwood, and a chalkboard that cleaned itself. Everything screamed privilege.

  Victor took a seat, surrounded by students draped in noble cloaks and enchanted accessories, many of whom spoke with accents rehearsed for balls rather than battle.

  He glanced at the girl to his right—Allena Vorth, daughter of a famed general. She twirled her wand absentmindedly while ignoring him.

  “Another summoned commoner?” she muttered under her breath.

  Victor stiffened.

  “Excuse me?”

  She smirked. “Oh, no offense. I’m sure you’ll make a fine Elite someday. Maybe they’ll even upgrade your robes.”

  Victor grit his teeth but said nothing.

  Before he could retort, the door swung open and Professor Dorian stepped inside. He wore robes edged in glowing gold runes, and his hair was bound in a high tail. A powerful mage, no doubt—but even he played the part expected of an Elite instructor.

  “Good morning, class,” he said with a bow. “Let us begin with Tier-3 Elemental Invocation Theory. Royals study Tier-5, of course, but even Tier-3 will suffice to set you above the… rest.”

  Victor’s jaw clenched. The message was clear: “Elite” was only relatively superior.

  Meanwhile, in the Peasant Class quadrant, the air was heavier.

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  The classrooms were cracked, their enchantments flickering or outdated. The desks bore burn marks from failed spells long ago. Dust settled in the corners like forgotten dreams.

  Lucien Elcarin sat silently near a window, his eyes half-closed. Lena Kronov sat two rows behind, reading an ancient book titled The Mechanics of Voidfolds.

  The professor entered with a sigh—a balding, wrinkled man in a stained robe. Professor Merin.

  “Another day of wasted potential,” he grumbled. “Try not to blow yourselves up this time.”

  He looked around.

  “You, girl with the silver hair. Kronov, yes? You’re wasting time with that nonsense. You can barely handle a levitation spell, let alone spacefolding.”

  Lena didn’t respond. Lucien’s eyes opened slowly.

  Merin turned his gaze to him next.

  “And you—Elcarin? I heard your house fell. Guess it makes sense you landed here. Try not to embarrass that once-noble name any further.”

  Lucien smiled faintly.

  “I’ll do my best, Professor.”

  There was something in that voice—cold, detached. Merin didn’t know how to respond, so he looked away.

  Back in the Elite wing, Victor walked down the corridor after class. His mind swirled with formulas, but also frustration. That’s when he heard his name.

  “Victor!”

  He turned to see two familiar faces rushing toward him. Ethan—tall, energetic, with wind affinity—and Rina, small but sharp-eyed, a water magic user with a sharp tongue.

  “Finally!” Ethan clapped his shoulder. “You made it in! Elite Class, huh?”

  Victor smiled. “Yeah. Barely.”

  Rina raised an eyebrow. “They put me in Peasant Class,” she said, crossing her arms. “Apparently, water magic isn’t fancy enough for the Elites.”

  Victor’s smile faded. “What? You’re better than half the people in my class.”

  “I know,” she said simply. “But my blood’s not noble. My father’s a blacksmith.”

  Victor exhaled. “It’s messed up.”

  Ethan looked between them. “So? We make our own ranks. The strong rise. Screw titles.”

  Victor looked around. Nobles walked past them, sneering. Some whispered behind fans or under breaths. Even the instructors kept to their own domains. Elite professors ignored Peasant students in the halls. Royal instructors passed without even glancing.

  It was systemic. Deep.

  But maybe, just maybe… they could change it.

  “Let’s meet after classes,” Victor said. “Let’s not forget why we’re here.”

  Rina nodded. Ethan grinned.

  They would rise. Together.

  Meanwhile, Lucien walked alone down a shadowed hallway. A pair of Elite students passed him, laughing.

  “Why even bother teaching the bottom feeders?” one said.

  “Probably to give them someone to clean the alchemy labs.”

  Lucien turned, slowly. They froze under his gaze. There was no emotion—no anger or sorrow. Just stillness.

  He said nothing and kept walking.

  But in his pocket, the Guild Insignia warmed.

  Frona. Begin compiling targets of interest. Student and faculty.

  Understood, Master, came the reply.

  The Academy had declared its caste.

  But so had he.