Information

The first ripple of resistance came not from outside forces, but from within.

Three days into the extended assignment, the once-efficient system Alex had orchestrated began to fray at the edges. His attendants, guards, and staff—loyal, competent, and previously terrifying in their efficiency—were now juggling a workload that could humble most intelligence networks. Tracking faction politics, reverse-engineering academic gatekeeping, and gathering intel from a city that spoke in half-truths was already enough.

Then Alex had added: "Now find the forgotten ones."

By the next evening, the drawing room felt less like a command center and more like a war camp with snacks.

Davor stood near the wall, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like someone expecting to be attacked by paperwork. As head of Alex's royal guard and longtime enforcer, he had the stoic air of a man who'd once wrestled a troll and then demanded a refund. His loyalty was bone-deep, though his tolerance for political nonsense was always measured in seconds.

Marell was halfway through organizing notes when she just gave up, holding two conflicting reports in either hand and glaring at them like they'd personally insulted her lineage. Officially, she served as an academic guidance liaison to Alex, a subtle euphemism for "keep the heir from torching anyone." Formerly of the Academy's top data-logic division, she'd left after exposing a few too many inconvenient truths.

Orin was scribbling something with the kind of intensity that meant it was either a breakthrough or a breakdown. Technically a scholarly aide and magical theory consultant appointed to support Alex's curriculum, Orin had a knack for finding secrets in footnotes and disasters in fine print. Their reputation as a conspiracy magnet was only partially exaggerated.

And Pallen… Pallen was still muttering to himself while repeatedly poking a map of Arcana with a quill as if the ink would reveal secrets under pressure. As Alex's personal attendant, Pallen had the unenviable job of translating royal directives into human speech, managing wardrobe disasters, and occasionally setting fire to bureaucracy with a smile. Also a linguist and minor illusionist, which helped—sometimes.

"We've found some names," Orin finally said, rubbing his forehead. "A few promising ones. Very off-grid. One works out of a potion stall near the northeast square. Swears by self-taught resonance theory. Might actually be brilliant, or entirely unhinged. Possibly both."

"One girl's name keeps coming up at the forges," Marell added, barely looking up. "No House. No mentor. But apparently she's improved mana-metal bonding ratios by instinct. They say she talks to steel."

"And we've got a kid from a peripheral district," Davor added gruffly. "Low-tier prep school. Shows up in dueling records—wins with no flair. Just efficient. Doesn't even celebrate."

"So basically," Orin muttered, "we're assembling the gifted misfit squad before we even know if they want to be assembled."

"Which is fine," Pallen interjected, finally lifting his head, "except most of them don't even know they're misfits yet. Or gifted. Or tracked. Or worth anyone's attention."

Alex, standing near the hearth, finally spoke. "What about methods? Anyone complaining? Noticing?"

Marell shrugged. "We're careful. We're not knocking on doors, but a few of the city contacts are getting twitchy. Asking if we're doing recruitment. Or surveillance. Or plotting an uprising."

Orin smirked. "I told one informant we were researching a dissertation on subterranean cultural emergence in tiered meritocracies. He stopped asking."

Pallen snorted.

Alex crossed the room and lowered himself into the seat at the table, resting his arms across it. "Alright. You're stretched, I get it. This ask is huge, and vague, and inconvenient—but it matters."

Davor gave a subtle nod. Marell sighed and finally dropped the two conflicting reports into a growing pile marked "Recheck When Sanity Returns."

Alex leaned forward. "Look, the obvious prodigies already have eyes on them. I want the ones who fell through the cracks. But more than that... I want the ones who were pushed there. Not all of them will be ready. Some might never be. But those who are? They'll be the difference when the time comes."

He paused. "We're not just gathering allies. We're redistributing chances."

No one said anything immediately. Not because they disagreed—but because it was finally, really clear what Alex was trying to build.

Not just power.

Infrastructure.

Orin flipped through a smaller bundle of parchment he'd tucked into his coat. "Also—some of the newer study material we've been digging up? Not officially circulated. Found in auxiliary training centers, tutor halls outside the Academy. Almost like alternate learning streams—modified fundamentals, emphasis on practical mana applications, not the standard syllabus."

"So someone's teaching the 'real stuff' outside the approved system," Marell muttered. "Which means the official curriculum is either behind… or carefully curated."

Pallen leaned forward. "And I've got a whole stack of reports from the docks—rumblings from the mermaid communities. A lot of them are protesting outside the main records halls. Some issue about faculty-level racial restrictions. Apparently, the Academy keeps denying their higher-form applications outright. Calls it 'incompatibility with classroom environments.'"

Davor snorted. "What, do they think a tail's going to knock over a cauldron?"

"Wouldn't be the worst accident we've heard about," Orin said dryly.

"It's bigger than that," Pallen said. "They're being systematically blocked from advancement. No sea-based specialization programs, and no high-tier potion crafting despite their natural advantages. One scholar had her paper seized before it could be published."

Alex's jaw tightened slightly. "Keep tabs on that. Discreetly. I want names, dates, and anyone connected to those decisions."

"And..." Davor hesitated, flipping through one of his side reports, "this one's weird. There's a spike in disappearance reports. Commoner Onis and Yokai-born kids. Supposedly 'leaving the city' or 'pulled into family business,' but none of the paperwork lines up. The pattern is inconsistent—but statistically crooked."

Orin looked up. "Crooked how?"

"Like someone's fudging the reports just enough to make each one look isolated," Davor replied.

"But the numbers over the last year? Too clean. Disappearances that don't provoke investigation."

Marell leaned back, folding her arms. "And you wanted us to sleep."

Alex didn't speak immediately. He let the weight settle again, felt the shape of the problem spread wider.

They weren't just mapping a school anymore.

They were brushing against something else.

Something designed to stay hidden.

Information kept coming. More charts, more data. Each page weighed a little heavier than the last. The walls of Alex's study, once precise and intentional, were now cluttered with overlapping diagrams, conflicting timelines, scribbled annotations that had started to blend into one long string of impossible questions.

Everyone was stretched. Even the best-laid plans had limits—and they were nearing them.

Orin had already started throttling the use of external city contacts. "We're overexposing our channels," he said one evening, voice low but firm. "They've helped a lot, but one more request and they'll start asking why we haven't dropped a name for who's behind this."

That's when Pallen brought up the oddity—a contact report that had come from someone not in their usual web.

"Courier didn't drop a name. Just passed a note through one of our informants. Said if we're serious about information, there's someone we should talk to."

"Who?" Alex asked.

Pallen flipped open a folder, revealing a hand-drawn profile. Young. Slim. Sharp-eyed, with the kind of grin that made you check your pockets before they opened their mouth.

"Goes by Kael. No surname listed. Not enrolled in any official program. Self-taught, supposedly.

Works between courier routes and message-guild drop spots. City dwellers in small groups calls him a 'runner'—not just for delivery, but for acquiring... sensitive intel. No House. No patron. Not entirely legal, but not entirely criminal either."

"And this Kael decided to offer his services to us?" Davor asked, skeptical.

"Apparently," Pallen said. "He tracked down our request tree. Backtracked how we were routing questions. That alone makes him either reckless or brilliant. Possibly both."

Orin was already nodding. "We've been pushing hard through tight channels. If we take Kael in, even on limited terms, he could become an asset. Fast, unaligned, and already used to operating in the cracks."

Alex didn't hesitate. "Arrange a meeting. Quietly. If he's for real—he might be exactly the kind of chaos we need."

The team exchanged glances. They all felt it—the exhaustion, the weight, the momentum of something they couldn't stop now.

But with someone like Kael? They might just be able to run faster.

Kael, for all the mystery wrapped around his name, was barely more than a whisper in the right corners. No academic record. No formal residence. Just stories—of impossible message routes, missing files reappearing in the wrong hands, and nobles who learned too late that certain backdoors were never as secure as they thought.

He wasn't famous. He was useful.

And that made him dangerous.

Not everything came on parchment or in dusty tomes. This was Arcana, after all—magic met machinery, and data didn't always live in scrolls. Much of what Alex's team had gathered came through encrypted channels, borrowed constructs, and magically secured vault-links. But even that had its risks.

"We're storing too much digitally," Orin warned one morning, pulling a projection slate from his coat. "If we're breached once, half of this vanishes or worse—ends up in the wrong hands."

Alex nodded, already thinking. Within minutes, he opened his system's Inventory—a subdimensional storage interface only he could access. With a series of sharp gestures and quiet commands, he uploaded key documents and encrypted intelligence notes directly into the inventory.

Then, as a precaution, he selected several volatile digital records—ones that couldn't be risked under any circumstances—and with a single flick of his hand, marked them for destruction.

Data vanished. Secure. Irrecoverable.

"Some things," he said to no one in particular, "aren't meant to survive outside a mind prepared to carry them."

The team didn't argue. There was something sobering about watching information be reduced to sparks.