Veil of Feats

The training fields behind Arcanum Spire were alive with noise. Mana crackled in the air, and the scent of scorched earth and ozone hung heavy. Crystal obelisks marked dueling zones while floating observatory drones circled above, recording every movement with arcane sensors. The arena’s tiered structure resembled an amphitheater carved from silverstone and obsidian, warded against magical overflow. Arcane banners fluttered in midair, pulsing with the Spire’s crest — a silver eye wreathed in flame, always watching.

Lucien stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed over his standard-issue combat robe. Around his wrist, a faint shimmer of a stabilizing sigil glinted — a required tool for support Archetypes, or so the instructors thought.

Across the dueling pit, Thorne Valen rolled his shoulders. The boy was built like a siege engine. His Ironhide Berserker Archetype encased his limbs in a flexible sheath of stone-etched muscle, powered by raw Aether infusion. His crimson gauntlets bore the Valen crest — jagged iron pierced by flame. He had the swagger of a second-year who knew how far brute force could carry him.

Lucien assessed him clinically. In the original timeline, Thorne injured three students during spar week and was reprimanded. Later died during the Siege of Halcyon Bridge. Predictable arc. Easily manipulated.

"Hope you brought a healer," Thorne jeered, cracking his neck.

Lucien didn’t respond. Around them, students whispered:

"That’s the quiet one." "Support-type, right?" "He’ll get flattened."

Lucien welcomed their underestimation. He cultivated it.

“Begin!”

Thorne lunged. The ground quaked beneath each step as Aether-enhanced muscles drove him forward like a freight golem. Lucien pivoted sideways, narrowly avoiding a gauntleted fist that shattered the dueling floor.

Struggle. Don’t excel. Guide the fight without dominating it.

Lucien summoned a pale wisp of mana — deliberately thin, unstable — and flicked it at Thorne’s shoulder. It fizzled on impact. Laughter rippled through the crowd. Thorne bared his teeth.

"That tickled."

Lucien feigned panic and stumbled, narrowly dodging another blow. He rolled across the dirt, but his mind was clinical — calculating trajectories, measuring mana expenditure, tracking Thorne’s rhythm.

I know exactly how to dismantle him. But victory would be suicide.

He countered once — a sharp burst of air to the knee joint. Enough to make Thorne stumble. Enough to show potential.

A flicker of unstable energy pulsed beneath Lucien’s boot — a circular rune, faint and silver. He masked it instantly with a stomp, grinding it into the dirt.

Careful.

The match ended seconds later, with Lucien pinned, breathing hard, his brow furrowed in controlled frustration.

Professor Aldric, an old duelist whose left arm had been replaced with a crystal prosthetic, nodded slowly. "Minimal offensive capacity. Slight tactical acumen. Adequate reflexes. Room for improvement."

Lucien bowed, inwardly smirking.

Exactly as planned.

In the observation lounge, Kael leaned forward as the replay crystal shimmered through Thorne’s assault.

"He fought better than expected," Kael muttered.

Seraphina stood beside him, arms folded, eyes unreadable. Her Soulmark Sentry Archetype granted her enhanced perception — she saw intent as ripples of emotional resonance. And Lucien’s readouts? Blurred. Unfocused.

"Not too well," she said. "But... managed. Every movement had just enough control. Not instinct. Precision."

Kael frowned. "You think he’s hiding something?"

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she pointed to a moment in the duel — Lucien’s roll, the ankle placement, the feigned stumble.

"That’s a controlled fall. Textbook misdirection."

"You think he’s dangerous?"

Seraphina’s eyes narrowed. "I think he’s... like the Crimson Mask. Remember? Volume Four. The royal tourney. Played the fool for six chapters before stabbing the king."

Kael looked thoughtful. "You think Lucien’s playing a role?"

She nodded. "I think he’s avoiding something. Maybe even the spotlight itself."

Back in his dormitory — a narrow, high-vaulted chamber lined with rune-inscribed bookshelves — Lucien sat at his desk, a blank scroll before him. The night sky outside was filled with mana trails that glittered like celestial veins.

He opened his System interface.

[Status Obfuscation Active: Threat Rating - Low.]

[New Story Divergence Point Triggered. Timeline Deviation: 2.3%]

Too soon, he thought. But manageable.

He glanced toward a parchment pinned to the wall — a crude hand-drawn graph of divergence tolerance thresholds. He had weeks before exponential instability kicked in.

If my true identity is revealed before the fourth arc, the penalty would be catastrophic. System would initiate Narrative Lockdown. Trials become lethal. NPC behavior adjusts. I can’t let that happen.*

His gaze dropped to the line labeled: Trial of Elements.

In the novel, it had been a trial in name only — a fake emergency staged by the Academy to test leadership under pressure. But a careless mistake led to tragedy.

Lisette. Windweaver. Young, earnest. Died because of poor planning. Kael had saved the survivors and gained acclaim. A hero’s step forward.

Now, she lived. Still smiling. Still bright-eyed.

Not this time, Lucien thought. You survive.

He exhaled.

The System pinged.

[Hidden Achievement: Narrative Divergence — Villainous Mislead] [Reward: Temporary Skill — Echo of the Script]

A shimmering glyph appeared, echoing the sigil he’d stomped earlier.

Lucien blinked.

Now this... this is new.

He rose, cloak brushing the floor. Outside, the Spire’s bells rang — not metallic, but resonant tones made of tuned mana.

The world believed it was watching Kael, Seraphina, and Thorne.

Let them.

Because while they played their parts, Lucien rewrote the script from the shadows.