The academy grounds were alive with the usual midday bustle—students chatting in small groups, a few first-years carrying stacks of books as they rushed between classes, and merchants setting up stalls near the main courtyard. Among them, a heated argument between two traders had drawn a small crowd.
"You dare accuse me of theft, you old rat?" one merchant, a stocky man with a deep scar across his cheek, bellowed.
"Then explain why your cargo matches my inventory list exactly!" the other, thinner and dressed in scholar's robes, retorted, waving a ledger.
Tension rippled through the air. Several city officials had arrived to intervene, their deep-blue uniforms marking their authority. But something was off.
The way the "officials" stood, the way their hands hovered near their belts—it was wrong.
Then the first blade struck.
A flash of silver. A sharp cry. A scholar fell, blood pooling beneath him.
Chaos erupted.
An Ambush in Broad Daylight
From within the crowd, figures discarded their disguises. Traders pulled daggers from hidden sheaths, officials revealed crossbows beneath their cloaks, and even some of the gathered students turned on their peers.
One lunged for Professor Gregor, a dwarven scholar mid-conversation near the courtyard steps. His short stature made him seem an easy target. But the moment the assassin moved, Gregor raised his arm—a sigil flared to life on his bracer, and an invisible force stopped the blade mid-strike.
"You must be new," Gregor muttered.
He flicked his fingers, and the assassin's dagger shattered into dust. Before the attacker could react, Gregor whispered an incantation—a ripple of energy burst from his palm, hurling the assassin through a nearby fruit stall.
Master Rourke was already in motion. A group of assassins rushed him, blades drawn. He sighed, stepping forward.
CRACK!
His fist buried into the ribs of the first attacker—bone snapped like dry twigs. Rourke caught the next one's wrist, twisted it until the dagger clattered to the ground, then kicked them so hard they flew backward into three others.
"The Academy hires better killers than you to train with," he muttered, wiping his knuckles.
A crossbow bolt whistled through the air.
It never landed.
Alaric Vermund, Head of Material Studies, plucked it from midair without even looking up from the scroll he was reading. He gave the bolt a glance before tossing it aside.
"Sloppy," he murmured. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the very stone beneath the attackers shifted, twisting into jagged spears that impaled them where they stood.
Across the battlefield, assassins moved with deadly precision. But Valdris stood still.
His hands were clasped behind his back, his expression one of mild disappointment.
"Fools." His voice cut through the noise like a blade.
One assassin, emboldened by his apparent inaction, charged forward.
Valdris took one step forward.
The air around him collapsed.
A wave of crushing force rippled outward. The charging assassin was flung back so violently his spine snapped on impact. Those within ten meters staggered, their own weight suddenly unbearable, as though gravity itself had turned against them.
Then Valdris moved.
His hand flicked to the side—a wall of invisible pressure caved in around a squad of enemies, reducing them to pulp in an instant. He turned, another gesture—a ripple of force severed a man in half.
Those who survived the first onslaught turned and ran.
"I did not say you could leave," Valdris murmured.
His fingers twitched. The fleeing assassins collapsed, unable to breathe, as the air was crushed from their lungs.
Near the eastern wing, a cluster of assassins charged at Sylvia Moreau, the Academy's Alchemy Head. She stood still, rolling a vial of dark green liquid between her fingers.
"Idiots," she sighed.
She let the vial drop.
The moment it shattered, a thick green mist erupted, curling outward in a slow, creeping wave. The assassins froze in place, eyes wide.
Then they screamed.
Their weapons corroded instantly, armor crumbling away as though decades had passed in seconds. The mist clung to their flesh, boiling it off the bone.
Those who were lucky died fast. The rest thrashed until there was nothing left of them but brittle skeletons.
A shrill whistle cut through the chaos.
Vaelis Thornbloom, the elven Beast Studies head, raised a gloved hand.
The sky darkened.
A massive dire hawk—twice the size of a horse—dived from above, its talons piercing into an assassin's chest before ripping him from the ground.
Simultaneously, a deep rumbling echoed through the courtyard. A massive, scaled beast—something between a lizard and a lion—burst from the academy's gates, trampling through the remaining attackers like a rolling avalanche.
The assassins stood no chance.
Within minutes, the battle was over.
The attackers lay dead, dying, or captured. The faculty stood untouched, their gazes sweeping over the battlefield with practiced ease.
Kalem, who had spent the fight ensuring students escaped unharmed, finally returned to the courtyard. He observed the aftermath—the sheer disparity in power between the faculty and the assassins.
These weren't just teachers.
They were monsters.