The Grand Assembly Hall of the Senior Elite Sector was a monument to absolute, unyielding order. Outside, the early morning fog still clung to the stone spires, but inside, the atmosphere was crisp, sharp, and charged with a strange new energy.
For the first time since their secret formation, Cassian's private underclassmen militia stood in the open light. They were no longer a disorganized collection of talented outcasts, brilliant commoners, and neglected noble bastards receiving tutoring from him.
Under a decree signed by Headmaster Alistair and stamped with the imperial seal of Emperor Cedric himself, they had been given a name, a budget, and a purpose.
They were The Crimson Vanguard.
To ensure total operational mobility and to distinguish them from the rest of the school's rigid hierarchies, Cassian had completely done away with the standard, bulky academic robes.
And standing in perfect formation were forty junior prodigies, all clad in streamlined combat tunics of midnight-black drake-hide. The uniforms were tailored for high-intensity movement, lined with deep crimson silk trim, and fitted with lightweight silver-alloy gauntlets specifically engineered to suppress localized mana backlash.
At the front of the formation stood Leo and Honda. Leo's chest was squared, his hand resting proudly on the hilt of his newly issued vanguard blade, while Honda stood with his characteristic poise, a leather-bound ledger tucked neatly under her arm.
Cassian stood on the overlooking iron observation deck, his arms casually crossed over his chest. His crimson eyes scanned the rows of students with the cold, demanding precision of a seasoned mercenary commander reviewing a fresh mercenary syndicate.
"Listen well,"
Cassian's voice cut through the reinforced hall, completely devoid of standard academic pretense. It wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that made every student instantly snap to attention.
"Next week, the Academy Championship begins. The high nobility expects you to fail. They expect the third-year factions to steamroll you. I, however, do not tolerate failure from assets I have personally invested in."
He took a slow step along the railing, the heels of his polished boots clicking rhythmically against the metal.
"Our objective for this live-fire field exercise is twofold," Cassian continued, looking down at the sea of black and crimson.
"First, you will be conducting a live-fire tactical raid on the Frost-Grip Spires—a Class-S unmapped dungeon sequence on the northern border that the Imperial Vanguard has deemed too hazardous for standard scouts. Second, beneath the permafrost of those spires lie the ruins of the First Age. You will assist me in locating and retrieving dormant dimensional artifacts. These artifacts contain the raw, unrefined data necessary to decode the absolute roots of this empire's modern magic system."
"Understand this: we are not going there to play student games. We are going to strip that dungeon of its wealth and its secrets."
Leo stepped forward, his silver gauntlet slamming against his chest in a crisp, thunderous salute.
"The Crimson Vanguard will not allow a single shadow to cross your path, Lord Cassian! We will clear the spires or bury ourselves in the ice!"
"We will not fail you, Your Highness!" the forty students roared back in perfect, chillingly brainwashed synchronization, their voices echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
Cassian's left eyebrow twitched slightly.
'Geez these lambs...I told them to act like a disciplined reconnaissance unit, not a fanatical cult,'
'Haa!, no matter.... given the corporate landscape of this empire, a highly motivated, slightly unhinged workforce is remarkably efficient. So I'll allow it.'
"Excellent,"
Cassian drawled, a faint, dark smirk tracing his lips as he adjusted his pristine white gloves.
"Because if you lose focus for even a second, the defensive traps in that dungeon will turn your mana veins into ice shards. Break formation and load the transports. Move out."
'And in the meantime I'll sneak into Lucien's border headquarters and steal the remaining pieces of the coordinates' map. The Core Artifact of the Cosmos and its corresponding dimensional rift coordinates are the only things I need to retrieve from this expendition so that I can finally go home.'
*****
The journey to the northern border valleys was a masterclass in absolute administrative absurdity.
Cassian had explicitly refused to let his private militia travel in standard, vulnerable wooden carriages that could be easily ambushed by Reinhardt spies or rogue beasts.
Instead, using the budget extracted from his father, he had requisitioned a massive, experimental armored supply wagon powered by a core of high-tier wind mana-crystals. It was essentially an imperial tank disguised as a transport.
While the students rode in the secondary bunks, the primary command cabin was spacious, lined with velvet seats and a heavy mahogany map table.
However, the atmospheric pressure inside the cabin was currently at an all-time high.
"Your posture is a profound disgrace to the imperial martial arts, barbarian," Lucien deadpanned from his seat. The Knight Commander sat perfectly rigid, his silver armor immaculate, his gloved hand resting tightly on the pommel of his fully drawn holy broadsword. His ice-blue eyes were locked onto Thoris with a suffocating, murderous intensity.
"Sit straight or vacate the Prince's cabin immediately. Your massive, unrefined frame is currently taking up exactly three inches of His Highness's designated breathing perimeter."
Thoris let out a loud, boisterous laugh that shook the glass windows of the armored wagon. Completely unbothered, he aggressively threw his large, bare, heavily tattooed legs directly onto the central map table, pinning down a highly complex topography chart of the northern ruins beneath his heavy leather boots. He picked up his jagged greatsword, laid it across his lap, and began dragging a heavy whetstone along the edge.
*Shhhk. Shhhk. Shhhk.*
The rhythmic, scraping sound was intentionally, agonizingly loud.
"You are very loud for a lapdog, Knight Commander,"
Thoris rumbled, his amber eyes flashing with a wild, feral amusement as he glanced at Lucien.
"If I want to stretch my limbs near my promised groom, I will. Cassian hasn't complained. Why don't you go polish your breastplate somewhere else? The glare from your armor might actually make you useful for once."
Lucien's hand tightened on his hilt. The holy blade cleared its scabbard by a single, agonizing inch, a high-pitched, singing note of pure, concentrated mana filling the cabin. The temperature in the room plummeted.
"If you touch that tactical map with your primitive leather boots for one more second," Lucien whispered, his voice dropping into a freezing, demonic vibration of pure executioner's wrath.
"I will format your legs into kindling before this wagon hits the northern gate. I am the legal security of this summit, and you are an active threat to my psychological patience."
"Try it, silver hound!"
Thoris ferally grinned, his sharp teeth completely exposed as a thick aura of tundra-mana began to frost the window glass behind his head. He leaned forward, the whetstone clicking against the iron blade.
"I've been looking for a proper excuse to see if that holy steel of yours actually bends under a real northern strike! Let's see what your blood looks like on the ice!"
Cassian sat at the head of the mahogany table, calmly holding a porcelain cup of hot jasmine tea. His expression was completely deadpan, his posture radiating a supreme, untouchable indifference.
To any outsider, sitting between two towering, catastrophic alpha predators actively threatening to murder each other would be a nightmare. But to Cassian's corporate mercenary brain? This was an absolute victory.
'Mhm just look at them, they're at it again.' Cassian smirked with profound, mocking satisfaction as he took a slow, delicate sip of his tea.
'They are completely, utterly occupied with each other. They bicker like literal toddlers fighting over a toy in a nursery. As long as they are hyper-fixated on their mutual hatred, they aren't looking at my private militia, they aren't plotting against my sovereignty, and they are perfectly primed to act as my ultimate attack hounds the moment we hit the dungeon gates. If I need a mountain leveled, I just have to tell one of them that the other couldn't do it. Turns out it is remarkably cost-effective management.'
"Both of you, quiet down," Cassian drawled lazily, his voice cutting through the thick aura of bloodlust like a razor through silk. He didn't even look up from his tea.
"We are approaching the outer perimeter of the spires. The wind crystals are losing traction due to the localized mana storm. Prepare yourselves."
Both men instantly stiffened.
Thoris slowly pulled his legs off the table, slamming his greatsword onto his shoulder with a delighted, gravelly chuckle.
"Hear that, dog? The Prince wants us ready."
Lucien smoothly sheathed his broadsword, offering a stiff, perfectly measured three-pace bow toward Cassian.
"The perimeter will be secured flawlessly, Your Highness. I will ensure the barbarian does not embarrass your standards."
"I expect a zero-casualty rate for my underclassmen," Cassian added, setting his porcelain cup down with a soft, authoritative sound.
"Which means you two will be clearing the primary vanguard line. If a single Class-S beast breaches the threshold and scratches one of my students' uniforms... I will personally recalculate your rations for the rest of the month. Do not make me repeat myself."
"Understood, my beloved Commander," Thoris grinned, his eyes burning with adrenaline.
"By your command, My Prince," Lucien murmured.
As the heavy armored wagon groaned to a halt against the howling northern winds, Cassian stood up, his gray silk cloak swirling smoothly around his boots. The hounds were hungry, the students were armed, and the dungeon was waiting. It was time to hunt.
*****