Queen

Instability is a tool.

The fake episode had achieved its goal, bringing me directly to the heart of Fravikveidimadr. The West Wing Medical and Research Facility stretched out around me like a sterile graveyard, white walls and humming machines. They thought they had locked me in. Every cage has its weaknesses. Every guard eventually falls asleep.

The Grand Plan of the Hundred requires intelligence before action. Not just the Chimera Project, not just Silas rotting in his cell two floors below me. I need to understand this organism as a whole, who pulls the strings, who harbors dangerous ambitions, who can be persuaded, or who must be eliminated. Every soul in this academy exists as potential leverage, whether they understand their role or not.

In the early days, I perfected the art of compliance. Fragile obedience, or even shattered submission. Elias and his white-clad team tested and probed while I fed them carefully measured bursts of abnormal energy. Enough to maintain their interest. Never enough to reveal true capability. As night fell and the facility sank into its usual activities, I released threads of Essence, not to explore as usual, but now only to listen. I could hear things like the rotation of guards, the patterns of patrols. The precise thickness of the energy field protecting Silas's confinement. Everything mapped, cataloged, stored for future use.

A week of performance earned me the label "stable but unpredictable." They allowed me to return to class, with conditions. Return to the facility every night. Grisa Rash monitors every step I take. I accepted their conditions without protest. The freedom to move among the students was more valuable than the discomfort of surveillance.

The dormitory welcomed my return with a silence that still felt odd to me. Roshtov looked up from his book as I entered, staring at me for exactly three seconds, then returned to reading without a word. He knew about my transfer; he might have theories about what happened in that sterile bunker. Sharp minds often operate under the radar, and I noted him as an "unknown variable" that could be potentially valuable, or potentially dangerous.

My reputation had changed. I was no longer just a student with questionable academic performance. Now I carried the burden of being a "mental patient," and indirectly, they knew I might be the one behind the incident. Other students created a cautious distance as I passed by. Whispered conversations cease as I approach. Some look at me with pity, others with disgust. The isolation is perfect for my purpose.

But one person remains unaffected by the invisible barriers around me, a person named Irene Cheva, perhaps? According to rumors, she was a newcomer like me. She oddly wore a different uniform amidst the uniformity of the academy's gray life, like a splash of forbidden color. She had brown hair, whether rare or not, but it suited her perfectly, and she had green eyes that matched her appearance. Her posture suggests noble lineage, yet I saw her alone in the library, biting her nails while reading, a habit that shatters the elegance she projects, whether intentionally or not.

She chooses solitude rather than being forced into it. When our eyes meet in class or the hallway, I find no pity or disgust in her gaze. Only the same curiosity I recognized in myself. She observed me with the same intensity as I observed her. That awareness should have made me more worried than it actually did.

His role in my plan remains unclear. Ally or enemy, tool or obstacle, it's too early to determine. For now, she exists as another subject requiring further observation.

...…

In the library's shadows, William Salwors continued his meticulous documentation. The Essence-lamp above his table cast harsh light across the pages of his notebook, where careful handwriting recorded every detail.

Day 48 of observation of Subject W-01.

The subject had returned from the West Wing Medical Facility. Surface behavior unchanged, continued self-isolation, maintained mediocre academic grades. However, shifts subtly indicate some heightened alertness. Environmental scans every few minutes now occurred with conscious deliberation. The assigned supervisor, Lieutenant Grisa Rash, does not look professional even though she is a trusted lieutenant. Her focus on physical threats may have blinded her to psychological maneuvers.

New development: The subject has identified an additional observer, Irene Cheva. Both subjects exhibited parallel patterns of behavior (deliberate isolation, passive surveillance techniques). Interaction remains limited to distant visual contact. Data is insufficient to determine relationship dynamics.

The main concern remains the Symbology class incident. Analysis strongly suggests an engineered incident designed to gain access to the facility. Unknown purpose. Unknown invention. The sophistication of planning and precision of execution far exceeds the expected parameters for the subject's age group. It surpasses known natural human aptitudes, with this, the subject demonstrated an operational mindset consistent with long-term strategic thinking.

William stopped writing and looked around the reading room. Welt Rothes sat immersed in an ancient history book. Irene Cheva occupied a table nearby, occasionally stealing glances at Welt when she was sure he wasn't looking. And William watched them both from the shadows. Three points in a triangle of surveillance, each unaware of the true purpose of the others.

William's obsession went beyond mere academic interest. Years earlier, his exceptionally brilliant and gifted sister, skilled in Essence manipulation, had experienced something similar: the "Resonant Backlash Reaction." Fravikveidimadr had promised a cure, taking her to the same sterile facility, but she never returned. Official records mention "Essence disintegration due to inherent instability." William never accepted that explanation. They had exploited her, or rather, experimented on her. Discarded her when she was no longer useful.

Welt Rothes was someone who reminded him of that tragedy. The same abnormal readings, the same institutional secrecy. Whether he was a victim or a perpetrator remains unclear, but William will uncover the truth. This child holds the answers to the questions that have haunted him all this time, and that will also bring him some "peace."

...…

The social dynamics of the academy inevitably caused a little "heat." One afternoon, a large senior from a minor noble family tested my patience by deliberately bumping into my shoulder as I walked to class. My books fell to the floor, scattering in a pile of open pages and bindings.

"Watch where you're going, weirdo," he muttered, met with laughter from his friends behind him.

This provocation was standard… even cliché. I didn't offer anger, didn't give a reaction he could enjoy. Just a blank stare as I knelt to gather my scattered belongings, completely ignoring him. My indifference left him unsatisfied. Frustrated by this, he suddenly spat and left, dragging his audience with him. Some witnesses merely shook their heads slowly before continuing with their own affairs.

The incident felt orchestrated, likely the work of Lian Valerius, who still harbored old grudges, or another party testing my control. I memorized the senior's name and face. A small piece for now, perhaps useful later.

Roshtov presented a different challenge. He grew more reclusive, more careful to hide his activities. One night, when I "accidentally" dropped a pen near his bed, I found a hidden collection of books while picking it up. I briefly glanced at one of the titles, "One Thousand and One Hermits," before standing back up. Clearly not curriculum material. He was conducting personal research and becoming more meticulous about hiding it. The distance between us grew wider day by day.

Yet amid the pressure and surveillance of that day, silly moments occasionally emerged, reminding me that this world, though cruel, is still filled with foolish people.

One afternoon, a pale-skinned poetry student with a dramatic flair approached Irene's library desk. He began reciting verses of a poem he claimed to have written specifically for Irene, about "emerald eyes in a milk ocean" and "chocolate waterfalls in a porcelain valley." The metaphors were truly at an extraordinary level of awfulness.

Irene listened patiently until he finished reciting his poem. She didn't laugh, nor did she mock his efforts. Instead, Irene looked at him with her striking green eyes and replied in a diplomatic tone.

"Thank you for your appreciation. Your metaphors involving dairy products and tableware are truly original. Perhaps you could submit this work to the alchemy journal. They might appreciate your material references more."

The poet froze, unsure whether he had just received praise or a subtle jab. After bowing awkwardly, he retreated with a red face. And from my desk a few rows away, I almost let myself smile. Almost…

Another absurdity arose after the Applied Herbology class. Irene and I happened to be walking down the same corridor in unintended silence. Finnian, the boy who had unknowingly become a catalyst in my plan, ran toward us with a panicked expression.

"Welt! Irene! This is urgent," he said, panting. "Professor Sirius is summoning both of you to his office. He said it's about the potential synergy of your power paths!"

Irene and I looked at each other for the first time directly. Her eyes reflected the same confusion as mine. Synergy between my unstable Oneiric path and whatever her ability was? This must be an enormous misunderstanding.

"I think it's just a mistake," Irene said with her usual calmness.

"No, no, I heard it myself," Finnian insisted. "Some students saw you two often together in the library and assumed you were secretly training as partners. They reported it, and now Professor Sirus is convinced you're some kind of secret collaborative team."

I closed my eyes for a moment, processing this development. This is the reality of life filled with high-level conspiracies and shadow games, of course, there are silly rumors born from boredom and misunderstandings. A different kind of stupidity, not arising from someone's malicious intent but from ordinary human foolishness. Sometimes more troublesome than an actual enemy.

Finally, we managed to convince Finnian that the gossip didn't require an official response, that meeting Professor Sirus wasn't urgent. But the incident left a mark. New rumors now linked me to Irene. Whether it was a distraction or a useful cover-up, it was unclear.

That night, back in my room, I began to organize all the information I had gathered today. The incident I had orchestrated was successful, but it also gave rise to complications I hadn't anticipated. William's surveillance intensified. The hostility from Lian's faction hardened. And now there were also ridiculous speculations linking me to Irene.

This giant board is far more dynamic than I had anticipated. Additional players have begun moving their pieces in unpredictable patterns. My Grand Plan of Hundreds can no longer be a blueprint limited to a few possibilities; I must transform it into something fluid, meaning adaptive to changing situations.

I lie down, my consciousness sinking into the aperture. The internal sea has reached forty-five percent capacity. Power is gathering slowly but steadily, elemental beings forming in the depths of dreams half-forgotten by this body.

I am not ready.

But I will be ready.

Information gathering will continue. Mapping alliances, cataloging competition, carefully placing pieces across the board. When all the seeds I've planted begin to take root, when every investment matures, I will reap the harvest. This academy, as well as Fravikveidimadr, the entire Cledestine Kingdom, all will transform into something that serves my purpose.

Something delightful.