Rules for the Powerless

"Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist."

— Pablo Picasso

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Lyra’s objective lay behind a polished mahogany counter in The Agora. As she navigated the narrow aisles, the sheer wealth of the academy pressed in on her—shelves bowing under gleaming armor, the air thick with the murmur of bartering nobles. It was a world of power, and she was here to buy a small piece of it.

She placed a meticulously written requisition slip on the counter, each movement calculated to draw minimal attention. The parchment, crisp and official, displayed Kaelen's unmistakable handwriting—neat yet unremarkable, just like the public persona he cultivated: One vial of Flash-Powder, five ounces of Niter-Dust, and a spool of quick-fuse.

The quartermaster, a stout dwarf whose iron-gray hair was elaborately braided into his beard, looked up from his massive leather-bound ledger. His hands, thick-fingered and marked with the permanent calluses of someone who had spent decades crafting before turning to commerce, drummed impatiently against the counter. His deep-set brown eyes narrowed with the instinctive wariness of a man who had spent half a lifetime denying students the tools to cause mayhem.

"For Young Master Leone," Lyra announced, her tone perfectly balanced—respectful enough to acknowledge the quartermaster's authority while carrying the quiet insistence expected from someone representing a noble house, however diminished.

The dwarf's bushy eyebrows climbed toward his hairline as he examined the order. He flipped the slip over with deliberate slowness, scrutinizing the wax seal bearing the Leone family crest—once proud, now faded and slightly chipped at the edges.

"Leone? House Onyx?" He reached for a large rubber stamp, its handle worn smooth from countless uses. "Rank 1 students and below are restricted from purchasing tactical alchemical components. Academy regulations, section twelve, subsection four."

A heavy thump. Red ink bled into the parchment, the word DENIED a raw, gaping wound on the face of their plan.

"But sir," Lyra began, her fingers tightening on the counter's edge. "The order is for educational purposes. Young Master Leone is conducting research for Professor Delacroix's theoretical foundations course."

The dwarf snorted, a sound like steam escaping from a forge. "Research, is it? Tell me, lass, what theoretical application requires flash-powder and quick-fuse?" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I've been running this shop for thirty-seven years. I know the difference between research and mischief."

Heat crept up Lyra's neck, but she maintained her composed facade. "I'll convey your decision to Young Master Leone."

"You do that. And remind him that rank restrictions exist for good reason. These components in the wrong hands..." The dwarf shook his head. "Well, let's just say the infirmary sees enough students as it is."

Lyra folded the denied slip and tucked it into her apron pocket. She offered a shallow bow before turning away, her steps measured despite the frustration burning in her chest. Behind her, she heard the dwarf muttering to his assistant about "ambitious youngsters" and "safety protocols."

The walk back to Room 247 was a silent march of recrimination. Every scrape of her sensible shoes on the stone floor echoed the quartermaster's derisive snort. The denied slip in her pocket felt heavier than a brick of gold.

She had failed her master.

She knocked twice on Kaelen's door before entering. He sat at his desk, surrounded by maps and diagrams, his dark hair falling across his forehead as he made notes in the margins of a warren schematic. The afternoon light streaming through the window caught the silver thread of his rune scar, barely visible beneath his shirt.

"Master." She placed the stamped slip on his desk, the red denial mark facing up like an accusation.

Kaelen's gray eyes fixed on the document. For a moment, his expression remained neutral, but she caught the slight tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. He picked up the slip, turning it over as if the denial might disappear from a different angle.

"Rank restrictions," Lyra said, her voice carefully controlled. "The quartermaster wouldn't budge, even when I mentioned Professor Delacroix."

Kaelen stared at the red stamp, his fingers tracing its edges. The plan had been elegant in its simplicity—create diversions using alchemical components, mask his movements in the warrens with smoke and flash, give himself the tools needed to save Team 7 without revealing his true capabilities. Now that foundation crumbled beneath the weight of academy bureaucracy.

"Thirty-seven years," he murmured, remembering Lyra's report about the quartermaster's experience. "He's seen every trick, every excuse, every attempt to circumvent the rules."

The denied slip joined the growing pile of complications on his desk. Professor Delacroix's investigation, the faculty's mounting suspicions, Seraphina's penetrating observations, and now this—a simple bureaucratic barrier that threatened to unravel everything.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. The movement sent a sharp spike of pain through his healing ribs, but he ignored it. Three steps took him to the window, where he stared out at the academy grounds. Students moved between buildings like pieces on a game board, each following their predetermined paths.

"The system protects itself," he said, his voice carrying an edge of bitterness. "Rank 1 students can't access tactical components because Rank 1 students aren't supposed to need them. They're meant to follow the script, play their assigned roles, die when the narrative demands it."

Lyra watched him pace, her crimson eyes tracking his movement. She'd seen him frustrated before, but this felt different. This wasn't the calculated anger of a plan delayed—this was the raw fury of someone discovering that their cage had more bars than they'd realized.

"We could try other sources," she suggested. "The Shadow Market, perhaps. Or I could arrange to steal what we need from the advanced students' supplies."

"Too risky. The Shadow Market deals in information and favors, not alchemical components. And theft would only draw more attention." Kaelen turned from the window, his expression hardening. "Besides, that's thinking like a criminal. We're not thieves—we're engineers."

He returned to his desk, sweeping aside the maps to reveal a blank sheet of parchment. His hand moved across the page, sketching rapid diagrams and chemical formulas. The engineering knowledge from his previous life as Alex Chen merged with his understanding of this world's magical principles.

"Flash-powder is just magnesium and potassium perchlorate with a binding agent," he muttered, his pencil scratching across the paper. "Niter-dust is refined saltpeter mixed with sulfur compounds. Quick-fuse..." He paused, tapping the pencil against his lips. "Treated cotton fiber soaked in a potassium nitrate solution."

Lyra leaned over his shoulder, studying the emerging formulas. "You know how to make these?"

His pencil moved faster now, adding measurements and reaction temperatures. "The question is whether I can source the raw materials without triggering the same restrictions."

He looked up at Lyra, the frustration in his grey eyes replaced by the cold, clear light of a different kind of fire. Not rage. Calculation. "I need you to map the academy's supply chains. Not just The Agora—the kitchens, the alchemical laboratories, the groundskeeper's storage sheds. Every source of basic materials."

"What exactly are we looking for?"

The denied slip still lay on his desk, its red stamp a reminder of the system's barriers. But now it felt less like a defeat and more like a challenge overcome. The academy's restrictions had forced him to think beyond simple solutions, to dig deeper into the knowledge that made him unique.

"I know exactly what to do," he said, his voice taking on a thoughtful tone. "Come on, follow me."