The Runic Alchemist

"Welcome, Maximus. We're celebrating the end of exams as well. This is the last meeting before the vacation begins," Maelor said, approaching Damian and shaking his hand.

"Nice, nice. Though, our presence here is still unanswered. Surely you guys know your way around the academy by now," Damian replied, his tone laced with rudeness. The three of them stood alone before others began to approach behind him.

Damian was curious to see how far he could push the princeling before any signs of displeasure emerged. Naturally, his own natural annoyance towards him didn't help the situation much either. They were all being extra "nice" to him since he had shown his spells in the exam. Maelor, though, had yet to break his character that he carried from the start of the academy year.

Maelor, however, just smiled, ignoring Damian's comment entirely. "We're holding the meeting, and I invite you to join. You'll understand the reason once it starts."

As Maelor spoke, Einar, Evrin, Grace, and a few Dawnstar and Eldoris supporters approached. Damian and Sam engaged in small talk with them for a while. He wouldn't normally bother, but he endured it for the sake of giving face to his Evrin and Grace's supporters. Besides, he might need to deal with some of them later, so it wasn't entirely in vain.

The students scattered throughout the opulent room soon gathered around the massive round table as Maelor and his followers signaled. The table Damian observed was a masterful creation, seamlessly crafted from various high-quality woods joined together with a wood style spell. Damian and Sam were offered seats near Grace and Lucian on one side, and Einar and Evrin on the other. The arrangement struck Damian as a bit odd, but he chose not to dwell on it.

Maelor, the elected leader of the community, addressed the group of 67 to 70 students—about 30 of whom were fifth-years, with the rest from various other years. Damian even spotted some pugilists among them. Your next read awaits at empire

Pugilist noble houses were rare but still numbered good across the five kingdoms. Most commoner pugilists preferred self-training or expeditions to discover new dungeons and monsters. Unlike mages and spellswords, who refined their scholarly skills, pugilists thrived on battle. The border skirmishes and monster hunts across the kingdoms ensured they always had work.

At last, Maelor reached the crux of the meeting. "As decided in our last gathering, we've invited the famed 'Morph Vialist,' better known among us as Maximus, and one of the strongest fifth-years, Samuel, to our community. The purpose of this meeting is to welcome you, Maximus—if you wish to join us. It is my wish to welcome both of you into our community. The strength and capabilities you've demonstrated deserve at least that much respect."

"Wasn't this reserved for nobles only?" Sam interjected, the atmosphere in the room growing tense.

Even after witnessing his rejection of Highsword's invitation, they were still asking him to join. Damian had to admit, they certainly had guts. However, the confidence Maelor displayed wasn't shared by everyone; most seemed ready to shrink back at any moment, bracing for a reprimand.

Maelor responded, "There are no restrictions on joining this community. While it's called a high noble community, one doesn't need noble blood to become a member. Most people simply choose not to join."

"Yeah, because you people make them feel unwelcome," Sam retorted, tactfully addressing the bullying less-noble students faced when trying to join. Damian remembered that's what had happened to Elias. Alex snorted, Sam shot him a glare. A few people noticed, but most couldn't have cared less.

It was ambitious of them, but such was the life here. They were already lowering themselves by inviting him to join in such a way. He could show them attitude, but aside from a fleeting moment of satisfaction, it wouldn't serve much purpose.

If he wasn't mistaken, some of the more cautious brats likely had indirect ties to powerful figures from the Five Kingdoms—and perhaps even from Highsword's side. Whether he accepted or not, Damian knew he'd need to keep a close watch on who wanted what from him and how far they'd go in offering their support. Having contact through this community would give them a chance.

Lucian and others watched Damian, doubt flickering in their eyes. His friends knew his disdain for such gatherings, yet his response surprised them.

"Fine," Damian said. "I'll accept. But there are a few things I need to make clear."

Sam eyed him questioningly, but Damian reassured him with a glance.

"Of course. We invited you. If there's anything you need, feel free to ask," a noble girl from Damian's spellcasting class said with a polite smile.

"I have many commitments that will keep me busy, so I won't be present at most meetings. My squire will act as my proxy. You should know him—he's one of your own. His name is Elias Sunblade."

Many tried to avoid his gaze, struggling to mask their discomfort. Damian didn't relent.

"I don't want to hear anything about mana cores. For other matters, I'll consider them. And just to be clear, I don't make weapons, so don't even entertain that idea."

The students nodded, though unease lingered. Their attention shifted to Sam, who seemed visibly annoyed. After a brief exchange of glances with Damian, Sam understood he was free to decide for himself. He looked toward Grace, who smiled encouragingly.

Slowly, Sam nodded. Grace's gesture didn't go unnoticed. These brats had been raised to observe and scheme, capable of inferring much from subtle cues. Well, some of them at least—not all 15-year-olds were already preoccupied with their house and future.

The "celebration," as the Prince of Dawnstar called it, was little more than people sipping fancy drinks and chatting in groups. After exchanging a few words with some and dismissing others with a polite "perhaps another time" because he was "tired," Damian found himself standing among familiar faces, wine glass in hand. He had learned his lesson, though, and kept his drinking to no more than an occasional single sip.