Laia's mouth twisted into a glum little frown. She did not know much about the finer points of advancement, but she had heard the common wisdom: the faster a subject race grew in strength, the shallower their innate talent ran. If hers were climbing this quickly… were they simply dull-witted? Low-grade stock?
She sighed softly to herself.
Well, what had she expected? She had scrawled their existence into being by hand, cobbling together divine scripts from old textbooks and half-remembered fragments of ancient memory. That they existed at all was a miracle. It was foolish to compare them to the carefully bred, life-seed-born subjects of wealthy noble houses.
What she did not know was that the path she had stumbled onto was the oldest one of all—the path walked by the first generation of gods, back before oracle cards existed, back before kingdoms came with built-in shelter. Those ancient deities had gambled everything on survival, letting their people grow strong in the crucible of constant void assault. A void tide every seven days, even by the standards of that brutal era, was almost unheard of. It forged kingdoms that burned brighter and harder than any card-bred realm ever could.
Lyra Voss knew none of this.
To her, Laia was nothing short of extraordinary.
She came from one of the empire's greatest noble houses, and even she could not fathom advancement this fast. If not a great sovereign house… then one of the fabled hidden clans? The ones that traced their bloodlines back to the old primordial gods? How deep did Laia's talent and lineage run?
She stared at the other girl, her eyes wide and shining with open admiration. Laia was incredible.
Lyra carried a million divinity crystals on her person at any given time. She commanded top-tier pure-blood elven subjects. And she still felt like she was fumbling in the dark compared to Laia. The gap between one noble house and another, she thought dazedly, was wider than the gap between a god and a street cur.
She would never say it out loud, of course. If Laia ever heard that, she would probably have some very polite, very sharp words to say.
After a moment, Lyra shook herself out of her reverie. She was starting to realize Laia's cultivation methods would never work for her own kingdom. Laia hoarded every scrap of resource like it was the last one on earth, planned for every disaster, squeezed every drop of value out of every bad situation. For someone like Lyra, whose kingdom overflowed with more resources than she could ever use, most of that advice simply did not apply.
"Hey, Laia," she said, tilting her head. "If you don't mind me asking… what races are your subjects? You don't have to say if it's private!"
Laia's brow furrowed slightly.
The question made her think. Subject races were often a dead giveaway of a house's standing. Lyra's own people were pure-blooded high elves, blessed with immense natural affinity for nature and unmatched archery skill—perfect for a forest kingdom. She supplemented them with treants to hold the front lines, a classic, well-balanced setup.
Most deities stuck to one or two subject races, tops. Too many different peoples bred conflict and unrest. A kingdom with six separate races, all balanced against each other? That was practically unheard of.
She thought about it for a long moment, then shook her head.
"They're nothing special," she said. "Really. Not worth talking about."
Lyra pouted a little, then perked up.
"Wait—do you have dragons? I thought I saw dragonblood trees in that little patch you showed me. What kind are they?"
Laia went quiet for a beat.
She did have dragons. Technically.
If you could call a bunch of lazy, magicless lizards who tried to stone her on sight "subjects."
She knew the official quality grades, same as everyone: nine tiers, from gray at the bottom, through white, green, blue, purple, gold, orange, red, all the way up to chromatic at the very peak. Even common mixed-blood dragons usually rated blue at minimum, and they were born with innate command over elemental magic. Her lot? She would have guessed green, if she was being generous.
High-grade subjects were simply out of reach. Gold-tier life-seeds or oracle scripts were tightly controlled by the great houses, never sold openly. Lyra's pure-blood elves were easily purple tier, with a handful of gold-tier elders among them.
"We have dragons," Laia said at last, flat and unenthusiastic. "Mediocre bloodline. Stubborn as mules. Not worth discussing."
Lyra said nothing.
Her mind was already racing.
Mediocre? If those were mediocre…
Dragonblood trees only grew in the presence of dragon aura strong enough to seep into the soil. That required at least gold-tier dragons. If Laia considered gold-tier dragons mediocre, what in the world did her high-end subjects look like?
She grinned and leaned in closer, chatting easily as they walked. The academy banned talk of family status, yes, but casual discussion of kingdom craft was allowed—encouraged, even. It was how the heirs of the great houses networked and built alliances.
Laia was so quiet, so steady, so willing to help when asked, and so plainly hardworking. It was no wonder half the year group had already noticed her.
They reached the lecture hall a minute before the bell. Laia slid into her seat and pulled out her notebook at once. Basic divine theory was trivial for any god; a single glance was enough to memorize it. What mattered were the underlying rule-structures the instructor laid out—the way different forces interlocked, the formulas that turned raw intent into working oracle scripts.
That was the knowledge that had kept her alive. That was the knowledge she had used to rewrite her broken D-rank kingdom into something that could breathe. She could not afford to miss a single lecture.
When the classroom door swung open, though, it was not their usual instructor who stepped through.
A tall man with silver-white hair walked in, sharp-featured and easy-smiling, his robes embroidered with faint, glowing sun motifs. The room erupted in quiet murmurs at once.
Laia's frown deepened.
Their old teacher had always carried a faint, acrid tang of void corruption about him—old wounds from a research expedition, people said. Reassigned? she thought. Or could he no longer keep it contained?
The void was supposed to be terrifying. Deadly. She had never really felt it, not when it came knocking every seven days like a tedious neighbor. Her clans had even taken to cheering when the mist rolled in. Praise the void, they would joke. More meat for the larder.
It was a joke born of desperation, of course. But it had made her complacent. Seeing a teacher removed for void exposure was a cold reminder: the world outside her little broken kingdom was far more dangerous than she liked to think.
"Good morning, everyone," the man said, his voice warm and clear. "Your regular instructor has been reassigned. For the remainder of this term, I will be taking over your kingdom cultivation studies."
He paused, glancing over the room with a faint, easy smile.
"My name is Valerion Voss. I hold the rank of God Monarch. I look forward to working with all of you."
Laia's head snapped up.
Voss.
She glanced sidelong at Lyra. The other girl's face had gone tight, her shoulders stiffening just a little. There was no mistaking the connection. House Voss was one of the most powerful clans in the empire, their family name synonymous with the high-tier resource card trade.
Valerion set his notes down on the lectern and laced his fingers together.
"Let us start with a simple survey, so I know where everyone stands. Show of hands—who in this room has already broken through to the Third Rank?"
Three hands went up.
A quiet girl in the front row. A lazy-looking boy slouched in the back.
And Laia, sitting perfectly still in the middle of the room, her face calm and unreadable.
A low murmur rippled through the classroom. Whispers passed back and forth. Everyone had known about the other two. No one had expected a third.
Valerion's gaze swept slowly over the three raised hands.
He paused on the girl in front. He paused on the boy in back.
Then his eyes settled on Laia, and stayed there.