The morning light spilled softly through the dorm's thin curtains, pale gold washing over the cracked ceiling and the faint scent of ash that still clung to Aston's uniform. For the first time in days, the academy was silent. No cheers, no booming announcers, no explosions of essence. Just quiet.

Aston stirred, eyes blinking open. It took him a few seconds to realize where he was—the simple dorm room, the familiar hum of the ventilation crystal, Gray curled neatly on the windowsill. Mirage perched above the doorframe, feathers faintly aglow like slivers of glass in sunlight.

For a long moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the memories replaying behind his eyes.

The molten arena. The roar of the crowd. Tristan's blazing smile. Gray's claws cutting through light itself.

And then victory.

He exhaled slowly, pressing a hand against his forehead. "It's really over…"

His gaze drifted sideways—to the opposite bed.

Ren's side was untouched again. The sheets were neatly folded, the pillow centered, like no one had ever slept there. Not for the entire duration of the festival.

Aston sat up, a faint frown tugging at his lips. "Gone again?"

Ren had always been quiet, the kind of roommate who could vanish for days without a sound, but this time felt… off. No messages, no trace in the academy system, nothing. Just absence.

Gray opened one eye, tail flicking lazily before hopping down to rub against Aston's leg. Mirage fluttered from her perch, landing on the desk with a soft rustle of feathers. Both watched him expectantly.

"I'm fine," Aston said, though his tone carried little conviction. "Just thinking."

He dressed quickly, fastening his academy jacket with slow, deliberate motions, trying to settle the weight in his chest. When he finally stepped out into the corridor, the day was already alive.

—

Festival banners still hung between the bridges of the upper terraces, their once-bright colors faded by morning haze. The scent of roasted essence fruit and brass oil lingered in the air. Students streamed through the halls, laughter echoing off polished stone—but whenever Aston passed, the noise softened.

Then came the whispers.

"That's him—Aston Rhyner."

"The one who won the singles arena!"

"He beat Tristan Graves? With a red potential?"

"No way—his beast tore space apart!"

He didn't need to look to know the eyes that followed him. Admiration, awe, curiosity, envy—each emotion a thread of attention that tugged faintly at his awareness. He'd been invisible for most of his life. Now, every step drew a spotlight.

Gray padded beside him, fur gleaming faintly under the sun, while Mirage glided low, her transparent feathers scattering faint reflections on the tiles. Together, they were a moving reminder of the festival's finale: the boy with a red mark who stood against a green-tier prodigy and didn't fall.

And won.

The thought should have brought pride. Instead, it carried a weight that pressed behind his ribs.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Every eye on him was another risk. Every rumor, another thread to unravel.

He reached the edge of the central terrace overlooking the academy below. The spire towers shimmered faintly, their banners dancing in the breeze. From this height, he could see the remnants of the festival stage being dismantled—workers clearing debris, essence wards flickering as they reset.

"Fame, huh?" Aston murmured, resting his elbows against the railing. "First infamy, now this."

Gray tilted his head, letting out a small, almost judgmental meow. Mirage clicked her beak softly in agreement.

He smiled faintly. "Yeah. I prefer the quiet too."

But the quiet didn't last. As he turned toward his class corridor, echoes from the team arena resurfaced—sharp words, betrayal, and Selene's warning, her tone calm but laced with worry.

"...If someone's willing to meddle in the tournament, they might try again."

Aston's hand curled slightly at his side.

He'd dismissed it during the celebration.

Now, it didn't feel so easy to ignore.

If someone had truly arranged it—if Ivy and Brennar's betrayal wasn't just greed—then it meant something larger was moving beneath the surface. Someone who had influence. Someone who wanted him to lose.

Or worse, wanted to see what he'd do if pushed.

—

By the time Aston reached Foundational Spirit Theory, the classroom was already half-full. But the moment he entered, the chatter stopped cold. Dozens of heads turned toward him, expressions flickering between awe and disbelief.

"That's the champion."

"He looks… normal."

"Normal? Did you see his beast? That's nothing normal!"

Aston pretended not to hear. He took his usual seat at the back, Gray leaping onto the desk while Mirage perched on the chair's backrest. Their familiar presence helped still the noise in his mind.

Professor Cael paused mid-note when he saw Aston, then simply nodded and resumed teaching. Yet even as diagrams of essence flow illuminated the board, Aston could feel it—the glances, the whispers behind lowered hands, the weight of reputation already shaping his days.

He sighed quietly.

I guess normal's over.

Gray flicked his tail, unimpressed. Mirage gave a low hoot.

Beneath the murmurs, there was resolve. He'd proved his point—even red potentials could rise. But even that victory was built on a lie. His potential wasn't red. And every triumph brought him closer to being discovered.

—

Class ended. The corridors buzzed again, full of gossip about upcoming ranking shifts and festival rewards. Aston kept his pace steady, though the voices around him were impossible to ignore.

"Tristan's getting scouted already."

"Did you hear? The Empire sent observers."

"They say the Vice Principal himself was watching the finals…"

Aston caught fragments of it all as he walked. His reflection flashed across a polished pillar, sunlight glinting against the silver threads on his uniform sleeve.

Fame had a strange kind of gravity—it pulled everything around him tighter, faster. And he could feel the world shifting ever so slightly toward him.

At the edge of the terrace, he stopped once more, letting the noise fade behind him. The wind carried the faint scent of essence ash and blossoms, the sky stretched wide and blue above the academy's domes.

Gray leapt to the railing beside him. Mirage hovered overhead, her translucent wings catching the light like shards of stained glass.

"Peaceful, isn't it?" Aston murmured.

Neither beast responded. They didn't need to. He could feel their shared unease—the stillness after the storm that wasn't peace at all.

Something else was moving now.

Something that had noticed him.

He looked out toward the distant spire where the Vice Principal's chamber gleamed faintly under the rising sun.

"…The storm's just beginning," he whispered.

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