Chapter 255: The Starlight Banquet. (4)

The four colossal holographic crests hanging beneath the vaulted celestial ceiling cast distinct, competing auras over the two-thousand-strong assembly.

To the far left, the House of Hearts radiated a deep, pulsing crimson light that smelled faintly of burning cedar and alchemical draughts.

Next to it, the House of Spades flickered with an obsidian-purple gloom, its edges constantly bleeding away like shadows slipping into the cracks between floorboards.

Beside it, the House of Clubs projected an azure beacon so solid and dense that the ambient air beneath it felt pressurized, humming with tectonic weight.

And dead center—hovering above the highest dais, outshining every other crest with blinding, crystalline arrogance—hung the House of Diamonds.

Its emblem was a double-pointed, multifaceted jewel pierced through its core by a vertical greatsword and a halberd.

It didn’t just cast white light; it cast sharpness. Students standing directly beneath its halo felt their skin prickle with cold, phantom cuts.

Director Kaien stood motionless on the floating silver petal, his robes—dark as the void and traced with the constellations of the Dawn Accord—settling around his boots like smoke.

"For two centuries, the Ambassadors Academy has eschewed the arbitrary divisions of blood, family rank, and personal fortune," Kaien’s voice rolled across the ballroom, every syllable carrying the profound, bone-settling density of a continental shift.

"A House is not an honor club. It is not a fraternity of mutual congratulation. A House is a tactical unit. It is the crucible where your specific frequency of martial violence is refined until it can withstand the horrors lurking beyond our Bastions."

The Director raised his right hand.

In the center of the grand ballroom, the polished obsidian floor groaned.

Humm-krrrk.

A colossal circular platform, forty meters wide and carved from a single slab of milky-white Prismatic Resonator Stone, rose smoothly from the depths of the palace’s subterranean mechanisms.

Embedded along its perimeter were thousands of microscopic runic channels that pulsed in synchronization with the four banners above.

"The Orb of Aptitude has assessed your entrance scores, your preliminary survival metrics, and the baseline resonance of your three Fundamental Sources," Kaien announced.

"Step forward in cohorts of ten. When the pedestal claims your presence, your allegiance shall be carved into your academy record."

The murmuring in the hall reached a fever pitch.

"Here it comes..."

"Please, heavens, don’t put me in Clubs. My spine can’t handle forty-kilometer rucksack marches with the shield vanguards."

"I heard Diamonds only took fourteen freshmen in last year’s intake! Fourteen out of eleven hundred!"

The first cohort of basic-class students was ushered onto the platform by two senior proctors clad in silver armor.

As their boots touched the white stone, the runes flared.

A red beam struck a boy with an alchemical satchel—House of Hearts!

An azure pulse claimed a broad-shouldered youth carrying a two-handed tower shield—House of Clubs!

A shadow-cloaked girl vanished beneath a column of dark purple—House of Spades!

One by one, the students were divided, led off toward the four elevated dining tiers flanking the ballroom where the senior members of each respective house sat like feudal lords reviewing new levies.

Then came the middle batches.

Pascal stood three paces ahead of Creed, his floor-length golden dragon robe rustling noisily as he shuffled his boots, his hands nervously clutching his golden silk fan.

The high-gloss shine on his bald scalp caught the fluctuating red and blue lights, turning his head into a rhythmic, multicolored beacon.

"Cohort Twenty-Four," the herald’s voice bellowed. "Step forward."

Pascal squeaked. His stubby legs locked up for a fraction of a second before he puffed his chest out with manic, desperate theatricality, throwing his sleeves back as he waddled onto the white stone pedestal.

"Observe, Elder Brother!" Pascal hissed over his shoulder toward Creed. "The heavens are about to witness the true affinity of the Golden Sovereign! When the white light of the Diamonds descends upon my magnificent brow, try not to weep with envy!"

"If Diamonds takes you, Pascal," Creed muttered under his breath, arms crossed casually over his chest, "I’m formally demanding a recount of the entrance exams."

Pascal planted his boots in the exact center of the stone. He held his chin high, closed his eyes, and assumed the posture of an ancient immortal awaiting a divine mandate.

The pedestal hummed.

The runes beneath Pascal’s boots swirled—a chaotic soup of blue, gold, and white. For three agonizing seconds, the machine seemed to genuinely struggle with what to do with a round, bald boy wrapped in five yards of shiny dragon silk who possessed the combat power of a bruised turnip and the ego of an emperor.

Then—

FWUMP.

A blinding, overwhelmingly intense column of pure rose-crimson light erupted from the stone, completely swallowing Pascal’s silhouette!

The runic crest of a ruby heart materialized above his shining head, pulsing with the soft, soothing warmth of high-tier restorative herbs and medical springs!

"PASCAL!" the automated herald chimed across the ballroom. "HOUSE OF HEARTS! SPECIALIZATION: SUPPORT AND LOGISTICS!"

Inside the red pillar, Pascal froze. His golden fan slowly dropped, dangling from two numb fingers. His eyes bulged out of his head, his lower lip trembling with profound, cosmic outrage.

"Hearts?!" Pascal whispered, his voice cracking into a high-pitched shriek that echoed off the glass chandeliers.

"HEARTS?! I am a front-line offensive dragon of destruction! I am the spear that pierces the heavens! Why am I being assigned to the nurse’s ward?! I demand to see the diagnostic logs! The machine has been corrupted by dark magic!"

Two burly, red-robed senior enforcers from the House of Hearts stepped onto the platform, completely ignoring his dramatic protests.

One of them grabbed Pascal under the armpits like an oversized sack of grain, hoisting the golden-robed boy off the pedestal while his short legs kicked wildly in the empty air.

"Let me go! My sovereign dignity! Creed! Save me! I cannot spend three years brewing mint tea for wounded swordsmen! CREEEEEEED!"

Creed smoothly turned his gaze toward the ceiling, whistling a light, cheerful tune under his breath while admiring the architectural geometry of the skylights.

"Never seen that guy before in my life," Creed murmured to Amara, who was burying her face in her hand, her shoulders shaking with violent, silent laughter.

"You’re a terrible friend, Walden," Amara snickered, brushing a stray lock of silky blue hair behind her ear.

"I am a pragmatic survivor, my lady," Creed corrected with a grin. "And right now, the primary survival objective is not being associated with a screaming stick of butter."

As Pascal was hauled off toward the southern tier—where several senior alchemical maidens immediately began giggling and pinching his chubby cheeks—the herald’s voice cleared the air with a sudden, deafening chime.

GONG.

"FINAL COHORT: THE ELITE CLASS."

The atmosphere in the Astral Grand Palace instantly snapped taut.

The casual chatter of the distinguished alumni died. Up in the highest eastern balcony, the Academy Appointments—the top ten third-years, led by Ryan Griffith and the stone-faced Victor Vance—leaned forward over the gilded railings, their sharp, predatory gazes locking onto the remaining thirty students.

The Elite Class. The top thirty survivors of the Pyramid of Dominion. The ones who held the future military standing of the Hope Alliance in their palms.

"Elite Class, step forward," Instructor Varien’s voice barked from the perimeter of the dais. The Gold-ranked instructor stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his grey eyes locked directly onto Creed, a faint, sardonic smirk curling the corner of his scarred lips.

Creed adjusted the lapels of his midnight-navy Astral Vanguard coat, felt the comforting, cool weight of the Pale Horizon resting securely between the magnetic ports on his back, and strode forward.

Amara walked beside him, her frost-silk gown whispering against the marble floor, her posture radiating that cold, untouchable majesty that made the basic-class boys swallow their breath.

To their right, Nicholas Grey stepped onto the platform with smooth, aristocratic precision, his charcoal-and-silver three-piece suit without a single crease, his silver hair catching the starlight.

Flanking Nicholas was Emerald, moving with that silent, lethal grace that suggested she was already calculating the quickest way to sever the jugular of everyone on the high platform.

Behind them walked Damien Blackthorne, his broad shoulders stiff, his jaw set in stubborn defiance as he tried not to make eye contact with Creed.

All thirty elites gathered upon the Prismatic Resonator Stone.

The moment their combined presences—their dense Natal Auras, their refined Force signatures, and their heightened Wills—touched the array, the platform didn’t just hum.

It screamed.

The runic channels along the rim turned blinding white, drinking in the concentrated aura of thirty apex prodigies.

The assignments fired like a rapid-fire salvo:

Flash!

Emerald was engulfed in an obsidian pillar that seemed to physically swallow the surrounding light.

"EMERALD! HOUSE OF SPADES!"

Flash!

Damien Blackthorne was hit with a massive, brilliant white beam that made his heavy frame vibrate.

"DAMIEN BLACKTHORNE! HOUSE OF DIAMONDS!"

Flash! Flash! Flash!

Over twenty of the elite class students were claimed in rapid succession. And to the collective awe of the surrounding audience, nearly three-quarters of the entire Elite Class were bathed in the same blinding, diamond-white radiance!

It was a statistical massacre. The other three houses received a few specialized scouts or support specialists, but the overwhelming lion’s share of the freshman vanguard was being channeled directly into the premier combat house of the academy.

Then came Nicholas.

The silver-haired prodigy stood calmly with his hands clasped behind his back. When the pedestal flared beneath his boots, a majestic, double-pointed jewel of pure, unblemished crystalline white materialized directly above his head, accompanied by the distinct, mirrored chime of his signature Reflective Ward Art.

"NICHOLAS GREY! HOUSE OF DIAMONDS!"

Nicholas didn’t smile. He merely gave a small, composed nod toward the high balcony, stepping to the side as his gray eyes flicked back toward Creed.

Beside Creed, Amara took a single step forward.

The stone under her delicate heels didn’t just glow white; a sudden, frost-laden gale swept across the platform, coating the perimeter runes in a thin layer of glistening ice.

The white light of the Diamonds descended upon her like a royal mantle, blending seamlessly with the icy sapphire jewels resting against her pale throat.

"AMARA OF THE FROST BASTION! HOUSE OF DIAMONDS!"

She turned slightly, offering Creed a subtle, radiant smirk that promised endless trouble. "Looks like you’re stuck with me for the next three years, Walden."

"My condolences to my future sanity," Creed whispered back with an easy grin.

And then... only one person remained on the pedestal.

Creed Walden.