I watched sunlight filter through the high windows of the Academy's east wing, dust motes dancing in the golden beams. My mechanical fingers traced patterns on the worn oak desk; an old habit I'd developed when processing complex thoughts.

More than a month had passed since I'd executed Shawe in the arena. The memory still played vividly in my mind: his face contorting in terror as my tendrils burst from beneath crimson robes, the satisfying resistance as my sword-lance punched through his chest, the wet sound of his head separating from his body.

The Academy had transformed since that day.

Instructors who once sneered at commoners now offered them the same courtesies as noble-born students. Professors who had deliberately failed monster students now graded their work with surprising fairness. This sudden change in behavior stemmed not from any moral awakening, but from naked fear; fear that they might offend a student who would challenge them as I had challenged Shawe.

Fear was an effective teacher.

"Widow," Casper called from the front of the classroom, "demonstrate the proper form for the third stance."

I rose fluidly, the new auric steel joints in my remodeled humanoid frame moving with perfect precision. The combat classroom fell silent as I moved to the demonstration area. Even after weeks, students still watched me with a mixture of awe and terror.

Casper had become our primary combat instructor following Shawe's death. Unlike his predecessor, he judged students solely on ability. Under his assessment, my friends and I had flourished. Annes, Yulios, Sven, Patter and I had all advanced to A-rank. Genta and Loland too had risen through the ranks, their talents finally recognized without prejudice clouding the evaluation.

Only Copelan remained behind, though his mental brilliance had earned him B-rank status. His swordsmanship improved daily; it wouldn't be long before he joined us.

Even Eyarna had reported improvement in her treatment. Her enchanting professors now acknowledged her questions and graded her work fairly, rather than dismissing her talent because of her tusks.

I completed the demonstration with mechanical precision, each movement calibrated to the exact specifications Casper had taught.

"Perfect form," Casper nodded. "Return to your seat."

As I walked back, no one whispered insults or made rude gestures. The harassment that had been constant during my early days had vanished completely. Nothing quelled bullying quite like watching someone decapitate a professor with a golden dragon-headed tendril.

Later that afternoon, I found Annes and Genta practicing in the eastern courtyard. Their movements had grown more fluid, more confident since our time in the deep tunnels. Fighting monsters thirty levels above your own had a way of accelerating growth.

"Widow!" Genta called, lowering her practice sword. "We were just talking about the upcoming field exercise."

"Casper says we'll be tracking chimeras in the western forests," Annes added, wiping sweat from her brow. "Actual field experience instead of those staged arena fights."

I nodded, pleased. With Shawe gone, the curriculum had shifted toward practical combat application rather than ritualized dueling. It seemed Headmaster Reins approved of these changes, despite (or perhaps because of) his twisted philosophy about creating warriors through adversity.

The world is changing, I said, more to myself than to them. And we're changing with it.

Whether that change would ultimately benefit the Academy remained to be seen. But for now, my friends were thriving, and that was enough.

Genta grinned, her orange freckle-like spots crinkling. "Three more students approached me today, asking to join Gutter House."

I groaned, my golden mechanical arm rubbing the bridge of my nose under the porcelain mask. What had begun as a defiant joke had mutated into something unrecognizable. How many does that make now?

"Fifteen," Annes said, counting on her fingers. "No, seventeen if you include those twins from Professor Kilnei's class."

"Nineteen," Genta corrected. "Those halfling sisters asked yesterday."

The irony wasn't lost on me. While official Chapter Houses scrambled to recruit the most promising A-rank students, we had inadvertently created a haven for the overlooked and underestimated. Our victory over the Platinum Dragon, broadcast throughout the Academy, had transformed Gutter House from mockery to legend.

What did you tell them? I asked, already knowing the answer.

Genta's smile widened. "That they should talk to you, of course. You're our founder."

Stolen novel; please report.

I am not- I began, then stopped. There was little point arguing semantics now.

Annes changed the subject, mercifully. "How did your meeting with House Swords go? They've been trying to recruit you for weeks."

A few days earlier, I'd received an ornate invitation bearing the crest of House Swords. Curiosity had compelled me to attend.

It was... unexpected, I replied. Princess Ellewyn herself conducted the meeting.

Genta's yellow eyes widened. "The third princess of the Kingdom of Swords? Here at the Academy?"

I nodded. She offered me immediate admission to House Swords. Full privileges, private quarters, access to their armory and library.

"And?" Annes leaned forward, her short red hair falling across her forehead.

I thanked her for her kind offer but declined. I told her I already belonged to a House.

Both women burst into laughter. I didn't join them. At the time, it was meant to be an ironic statement. Now it had solidified into something resembling truth. Every student in the Academy spoke of Gutter House as if it stood equal to the ancient Chapter Houses.

"What's next?" Annes asked, wiping tears from her eyes. "Will we need to design a crest? Choose official colors?"

"We already have colors," Genta said. "C-rank black and Widow's gold!"

I stared at them, my mechanical fingers twitching slightly. This isn't what I intended.

"Few great things begin with intention," Annes replied, suddenly serious. "Sometimes they just happen because they need to."

Perhaps she was right. The Academy was changing. Perhaps Gutter House was exactly what it needed.

"Excuse me, Widow?" a shy voice spoke up from behind us. I looked back and saw Lyta, dressed in her maid uniform. Things had remained tense between the two of us, but at least she wasn't afraid to talk to me anymore.

I walked over to her. How are you? I projected into her mind, keeping my mental voice gentle.

"I'm fine," she said, her eyes darting away from my porcelain mask. "I have a message for you."

Ah, she was here on business. The brief hope that she might have sought me out personally withered.

What message? I asked.

"A man arrived at the Academy asking to meet with you," Lyta explained, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her uniform. "He said he was an old acquaintance."

My mechanical fingers stilled. Did he give a name?

Lyta shook her head. "No, he just said you'd want to speak with him. He looked like a scholar."

If I had a heart, it would have beaten harder. It had to be Harke! The healer from Weath had finally arrived, perhaps with information about my origins.

Thank you, Lyta, I projected. Where is he now?

"Waiting in the visitor's hall. The eastern one." She managed a small smile before quickly turning to leave.

I watched her go, a familiar sadness settling over me. Despite everything I'd accomplished, despite the power I'd gained, I couldn't repair what had broken between us when she learned that I had killed Kolin Redflight.

"She's still afraid of you," Annes observed, coming to stand beside me.

Not afraid, I corrected. Disappointed. She thought I was something I'm not.

Annes frowned. "I could talk to her. Explain what really happened in Weath."

I shook my head. No. The fewer people who know that truth, the safer for everyone. Safer for her, safer for the villagers.

"She already knows you killed people," Genta pointed out.

She knows I killed Kolin. She doesn't know why, or who I really am. Let's keep it that way.

I turned to my friends. I need to meet this visitor. It could be important.

"Want us to come with you?" Annes offered, her hand resting casually on her sword hilt.

No need, I replied. But thank you.

As I walked toward the eastern hall, my thoughts raced. If Harke had traveled all this way, he must have discovered something significant about my origins. Perhaps he'd found records of Primordials, or information about Vardin that might explain the fragmented memories haunting me.

Whatever Harke had discovered, I suspected it would change everything.

The eastern visitor's hall stood quiet and mostly empty when I arrived. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting long rectangles of light across the polished stone floor. I expected to see Harke waiting, perhaps nervously thumbing through his notes as he prepared to share his discoveries.

Instead, I froze in the doorway.

The man who turned to face me wasn't the healer from Weath. He stood alone by the window, his silhouette haloed by sunlight. He wore scholarly attire: simple beige and brown robes that had seen considerable travel, with worn leather sandals beneath. A crimson scarf wrapped multiple times around his neck cascaded down his chest.

But it was his face that stole my ability to move.

Shoulder-length blond hair framed features that seemed impossibly familiar. Young yet somehow ancient, his face was graced with fine lines etching the corners of his eyes and mouth. Those eyes... they gleamed a brilliant gold, not merely in color but in luminescence, as if molten auric steel had been poured into his irises.

Within those golden orbs, I could see impossible things: runes, symbols, and numbers flowing and rotating like stars in a miniature cosmos, reflecting thoughts too complex for ordinary minds to comprehend.

My mechanical legs took an involuntary step backward as recognition crashed through me like a physical blow.

This face. I knew this face.

I had seen it in the mirror during my episodes. I had seen it in my fragmented memories. It had been my face… or rather, I had been this face, once.

This man was Vardin.

This man was me. Or I had been him.

He smiled, a small, knowing expression that conveyed both recognition and appraisal.

"So, my calculations were correct," the man, Vardin, said, his voice sending vibrations through my mechanical frame.

I remained frozen, my mind struggling to interpret the contradictory signals flooding my systems. This wasn't possible. I was Vardin, not... this thing.

"You have returned from death," he continued, studying me with those impossible golden eyes. "I suspected one of you would, eventually. To have it occur after ten thousand years..." He shook his head slightly. "Quite the wait."

He approached with measured steps, closing the distance between us. Standing before me, I realized how tall he was, nearly matching Arctur's imposing height. The crimson scarf around his neck shifted slightly, as if something beneath it had moved independently.

"This new form of yours is definitely different," he mused, his gaze traveling over my mechanical body clothed in the War Academy's uniform. "But I can tell it's you. Yes, it's definitely you."

Those golden eyes fixed on my porcelain mask, boring through to where eyes should have been. "What's wrong, Machalaziel? You look shocked. Surely you knew that we would meet again."

The name hit me like a physical blow.

My world shattered. And soon, I remembered everything.

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