Kaelen stood in the hushed, sterile silence of the library's sub-basement, the cool, climate-controlled air a stark contrast to the sudden, hot flash of irritation that washed through him. He stared down at the cheap, cracked screen of the burner phone, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as he read the text message for a third time.
Campus quad. Now. Or the girl you were just talking to might have an accident.
The words were crude, a blunt instrument of coercion forged in the mind of an arrogant fool. The sender was anonymous, but the identity was as obvious as a charging mammoth. Dante Valerius. The insect had decided to buzz in his ear once more.
Kaelen's first, instinctual reaction was a wave of sovereign-level annoyance. He had just uncovered a critical breadcrumb on his path back to power, a tangible lead that pointed to a potential source of immense spiritual energy in the Blackstone Mountains. It was a matter of cosmic significance, the first truly important discovery of his new life. And now, he was being diverted from this grand purpose by the petty tantrum of a mortal child. It was like being forced to pause the orchestration of a new galaxy to deal with a wasp buzzing in one's ear.
His second reaction, however, was a cold, meticulous analysis of the threat itself. He dissected the message, deconstructing its intent and its credibility with the dispassionate logic of a god.
The threat was directed at Isolde Thorne. Was it a credible threat? He replayed his brief encounters with her in his mind. The way she carried herself, the depth of her knowledge, the faint but refined spiritual energy he had sensed from her—she was no ordinary student. She was a player in the hidden world, that much was certain. And Dante Valerius, for all his family's local influence, was a braying peacock at the very bottom of that world's food chain. Would a creature like Dante truly dare to orchestrate an "accident" for someone like her? Someone who moved with such quiet, confident authority?
Unlikely. The risk of provoking a power he did not understand would be too great. A direct, violent attack on Isolde would bring consequences that his minor martial arts family could not possibly withstand. No, Dante was a bully, and bullies were fundamentally cowards. He would not choose a hard target.
The conclusion was obvious. The threat against Isolde was a lie. It was a clumsy, transparent bluff. She was not the target; she was merely the bait. The true target, the object of Dante's wounded pride and simmering rage, was Kaelen himself. The summons was not a negotiation; it was the prelude to an ambush. Dante wanted a confrontation, a public spectacle where he could regain the face he had so spectacularly lost at the Old Town Market. He wanted to use the familiar, controlled environment of the university campus to humiliate the man who had humiliated him.
A profound sense of weariness settled over Kaelen. This was the tedious nature of mortals. Their actions were so often dictated not by logic or strategy, but by fragile egos and petty slights. It was inefficient. It was boring.
But it was also a problem that needed to be dealt with. A persistent pest, if left unswatted, could eventually become a genuine nuisance. He had shown mercy at the market by simply walking away. It was a courtesy he would not extend a second time.
He slipped the phone into his pocket and began the long walk from the silent depths of the archive back to the sunlit, vibrant world of the campus surface. The transition was jarring. He left behind the cold, still air and the sacred silence of forgotten knowledge and emerged into the chaotic, energetic hum of thousands of young, mortal lives.
The main campus quad was a wide, sprawling expanse of perfectly manicured green lawn, crisscrossed by stone pathways and dotted with ancient, shady oak trees. It was the social heart of Keystone University. Students were everywhere, lounging on blankets, throwing frisbees, laughing, flirting, arguing, their soul-auras a riotous, flickering storm of fleeting emotions that was a constant, low-grade irritant to Kaelen's [Soul Sense].
He walked onto the quad, his steps unhurried, his eyes scanning the crowd. It did not take him long to find his target.
Dante Valerius stood near the large, ornate fountain at the center of the quad, a position of maximum visibility. And he was not alone. Flanking him, standing in a loose but deliberately intimidating formation, were a dozen other young men. Kaelen recognized their matching athletic jackets instantly. They were members of the Keystone University Martial Arts Club.
Kaelen took in the scene with a single, sweeping glance, his mind processing the tactical situation. The trap was even cruder than he had imagined. Dante hadn't hired thugs or assassins. He had mobilized a group of fellow students. They were athletes, not killers. Their ages ranged from eighteen to twenty-two. They were arrogant, proud, and likely fueled by a misguided sense of loyalty to Dante, who was probably a major financial contributor to their club.
This was not an ambush designed to kill him. It was a stage set for a public beatdown. A place where a dozen trained martial artists could legally assault a single student under the thin, plausible guise of "sparring" or "teaching someone a lesson." Any injuries he sustained would be dismissed as the result of a "fair fight." Any attempt he made to defend himself would be framed as an attack on the university's beloved athletes. It was a cowardly, but clever, manipulation of mortal rules and perceptions.
Kaelen continued walking towards them, his path direct and unwavering. As he approached, the chattering of the nearby students began to die down. People were noticing the tense, unnatural formation around the fountain. They saw the handsome, wealthy Dante Valerius, the captain of the fencing team. They saw the formidable members of the martial arts club. And then they saw the lone, slender figure walking calmly towards them.
Whispers began to ripple through the crowd. Phones began to emerge from pockets, their dark screens angled to record the impending confrontation. A circle began to form, a captive audience hungry for drama.
Dante saw Kaelen approaching, and a cruel, triumphant smile spread across his face. This was it. This was the moment he would reclaim his honor. He had the numbers, he had the audience, and he had the moral high ground he had manufactured for himself.
As Kaelen came to a stop a dozen feet away, Dante pointed a dramatic, accusatory finger at him, his voice booming across the quad for the benefit of the gathering crowd.
"There he is! Kaelen Vance!" he shouted, his voice ringing with self-righteous fury. "This is the coward I was telling you about! A cheat who somehow got his expulsion overturned! A nobody who thinks he can disrespect his betters and get away with it!"
He turned to the martial arts club members, his voice dripping with false camaraderie. "This punk has no honor. No respect for the traditions of this university. We're here today to teach him a lesson. To show him that at Keystone, we deal with problems head-on, with strength and with pride!"
The speech was ridiculous, a piece of performative theater so absurd that Kaelen almost felt a flicker of secondhand embarrassment for him.
He looked past the preening Dante, his calm, golden gaze settling on the martial arts club members. He used his [Soul Sense] to read them. He felt no real killing intent, only a misguided sense of club loyalty, youthful aggression, and the simple, brutish pleasure of anticipated violence.
Kaelen ignored Dante completely, as if he were a piece of furniture, and addressed the athletes directly. His voice was not loud, but it was clear and carried an unnatural weight that cut through the noise of the crowd.
"You are all wasting your potential," he said, his tone one of genuine, academic disappointment. He pointed a single finger at the burly captain of the team. "Your stance," he said, "is fundamentally flawed. You put too much weight on your lead foot. It makes you powerful in a straight line, but leaves you hopelessly vulnerable to a lateral counter. It is a beginner's mistake."
He then looked at another member, a quick, wiry student. "And you. Your breathing is uncontrolled. You hold your breath at the peak of your exertion, starving your muscles of oxygen. It gives you a momentary burst of power, but leaves you drained and open to attack immediately after."
He went on, his gaze moving from one student to another, his voice calm and clinical as he systematically, and with perfect accuracy, dissected every flaw in their stances, their techniques, their very understanding of martial arts.
"You are children," he concluded, his voice holding not malice, but a profound, weary disappointment. "Playing at being warriors."
His words had a stunning effect. The martial arts students, who had been puffing out their chests with arrogant pride, now looked at him with expressions of shock and confusion. He had not just insulted them; he had exposed their deepest insecurities as fighters with an impossible, almost supernatural insight.
Dante's face, which had been a mask of triumphant glee, was now turning a familiar shade of purple. Kaelen had stolen his audience and undermined his authority with a few quiet words. He had to regain control.
"Talk is cheap, Vance!" Dante roared, trying to reclaim the narrative. "You think you know so much? Then prove it! Leo!"
The burly captain of the team, whose flawed stance Kaelen had just publicly critiqued, stepped forward. He was a mountain of a young man, his face now a mixture of anger and a new, unsettling flicker of doubt. "You want to talk about flawed?" Leo growled, cracking his thick knuckles. "Let's see what you've got, pretty boy!"
Dante smiled again, feeling the control return. This was what he wanted. A physical confrontation. A sanctioned fight. "That's right," he said, his voice dripping with malicious intent. "The Keystone Martial Arts Club hereby issues a formal challenge to you, Kaelen Vance. Let's see if your mouth is as strong as your fists."
The crowd murmured with excitement. This was it. The fight was about to begin. The trap was sprung. All eyes were on Kaelen, waiting for his response. They expected him to refuse, to back down, to show his cowardice.
Kaelen looked at the circle of expectant faces, at the arrogant Dante, at the dozen determined athletes who were preparing to beat him senseless. He felt no fear. He felt no anger. He felt only a profound, universe-deep sense of annoyance that he had to waste his precious time on this pathetic mortal drama.
He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible so he could return to the far more important task of planning his expedition to the Blackstone Mountains.
He gave a slight, almost imperceptible sigh.
Then he looked at the martial arts captain, his golden eyes completely calm.
"I accept your challenge," he said.