"Wait! Wait! I just—"

Princess Iskara snaps upright with a sharp breath, and she reaches for the garments folded at the foot of the bed. Cloth slides over her skin with a soft hiss, and metal clasps click shut one by one.

Four Royal Guards fix me with the kind of stare that invites death, and hands settle on hilts in a quiet rhythm that tells me how fast they can move.

Eliskar moves faster.

He steps into the space between me and the blades, and he speaks before anyone tries to separate my head from my body.

"Princess, Your Highness, this human just saved your life. He used Ancient Infernal to cast a spell I've never seen before. How are you feeling?"

For a heartbeat, she looks past all of us and inward. Her white hair falls across one shoulder like a spill of frost, and she touches her sternum with two fingers as if she tests the pulse of a storm. Her brow creases and then smooths. She draws a slow breath that settles into her belly.

"I can't feel my mana going haywire anymore."

Her voice sounds like honey and spice, and it warms the room even though the air still holds the bite of spent mana.

Do you think I realistically have any chance with her? I ask King Baalrek.

I swore not to get you killed, Jacob Cloud. So, no. You have no chances of courting Infernal Royalty… well, maybe if you reincarnated a thousand times and you were way less unpleasant to look at and listen to. Perhaps, then. You should start reincarnating; you might get it done in a few million years.

Emotions cross Princess Iskara's face like quick weather. Relief loosens her shoulders, and duty tightens her jaw, and something like curiosity settles in her eyes. She turns to me and bows, and every guard shifts because that move shocks them more than a blade.

"You saved my life, it seems. And you… cured me. May I know your name?"

"Cloud, Jacob Cloud," I say, and the hesitation rides my tongue because my head still spins.

"Cloud, would you mind explaining how you have a Royal‑grade Infernal Skill?"

"Me? Huh, well. Isn't that a fun story? See—"

"Jacob Cloud, you saved my life. None in my retinue shall question your Skills. Whether they shouldn't belong to you or not," Princess Iskara says, and her gaze flicks to the translucent horns that still hover above my brow.

Tell the Princess, you will Tutor her. It will be me, of course. But I can't show myself. I don't have a body or a real way to communicate unless I destroy your soul to break out of it and get into hers.

Let's not do that, I frown.

"Princess, huh, this may sound a bit too forward. But… my master kinda wanted me to Tutor… you."

She takes me in without flinching. One eyebrow lifts, and the line of her mouth does not tilt toward anger. She has a curious streak, and it shows in the way she waits for more instead of cutting me off.

"Your master?"

"Yeah. I was taught by… an Infernal. That's why I have this Skill. I'm sorry if it offends you guys."

"Offends?" Princess Iskara laughs, and the sound rings clean like crystal on stone. "Your master committed treason, Jacob Cloud. I'll intercede for you. Your contribution to our people is greater than your offense. That alone should earn you the right to cultivate whatever path you're following."

"Thanks, that's swell of you."

"But Tutoring me? Explain yourself."

Yo. What do I say?

I don't know. What am I supposed to say? You can't say my name. They'll actually kill you on sight. The fact that I was the one who left that Skill in a heritage she shouldn't have been able to access—oh wait, it was talent‑based, not level‑based. Huh. My bad.

"My master is a very secretive person. But he told me that if I were to meet a beautiful princess, I would have to teach her."

My brain trips because of how beautiful she looks, and I only hear what I said after the words land.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to say beautiful."

"Because you don't find me beautiful?" Princess Iskara raises an eyebrow and shows me her pearly teeth with a large smile.

"No, no. You're gorgeous. Listen, I've seen it all. You're definitely—"

"You haven't seen anything." A massive hand clamps my shoulder, and Eliskar's voice rumbles in my ear.

"Yeah, no. Definitely. I haven't seen anything. I'm actually kind of blind, really."

"Eliskar, don't scare the boy," Iskara says.

"Well, I prefer young man," I say, and I clear my throat while I step out of Eliskar's reach.

"Jacob Cloud," Princess Iskara says, "you have rendered a service to my people whose value is impossible to estimate. I wonder, what can I do for you?"

"Well, let me just Tutor you," I say.

Oh, you're finally listening to me, Jacob Cloud? Good. Your human idiocy is slowly receding.

Well, also, if I Tutored her, I'd get to spend more time with her.

"Your knowledge seems… interesting. But Tutor me, Jacob?" the beautiful Infernal woman asks.

I shiver when she says my name because her voice wraps it as if she owns it.

"I mean, it's because of my master."

"Oh, because you would loathe doing that if it were up to you?"

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

"WELL, I DIDN'T SAY THAT."

She covers her mouth with her fingers and laughs again, and the guards exchange looks because they do not hear that sound often.

"You're funny. On account of the fact that you just saved my life, I'd like to talk about it. But now, I must send word back to my family. I'll also draft an exemption for you. You shall be able to use Infernal Skills, Jacob Cloud. However," Iskara says, and her breath leaves in a slow sigh, "no one will be able to sell them to you. Those are rules outside my control. We will not sell Skill Crystals that belong to Infernal Classes. I am very sorry."

I think about Elder Karl's talk about the Hidden Market, and I fix my face so that it shows polite regret and not plans.

"That is so regretful. I'll perhaps, like, change Class. Maybe I'll be a Dragonkin or something."

"Don't you like being human?" she asks, and the question holds honest interest.

"I mean, yeah. But in my free time, I don't mind trying something else," I say, and I wink because my mouth acts before my brain can stop it. Then I slip out before protocol turns into an execution.

* * *

"Yo," I say under my breath. "How strong is she?"

I walk alone toward my dorm, and the question keeps pushing until I let it out. The corridor runs long because Ytrial folds space for fun, and ward‑lamps mark the way with still fire. A pair of students passes with heads down and hands full of books that glow dull blue, and their steps echo with the hollow sound that old stone loves.

Child, you're asking how much stronger than you she is—possibly the strongest person in your year, maybe the most talented individual in the entire Academy right now.

I hear pity in King Baalrek's tone, and it rubs my pride the wrong way.

Yo, I have a Rainbow Skill too.

Cloud… she has a Rainbow Skill AND she's Infernal Royalty.

Yeah, so what? I ask, and I hear how close I sound to being offended.

Is it that important to you, to be stronger than everybody else?

I guess not? I lie. It's… maybe I'm just competitive. So, how much stronger right now?

Right now? She could kill you without using one Skill.

I laugh because I expect him to follow with the real number.

Wait, are you serious?

She has Lucifer's Veins. Her constitution is among the best in the world. And her base talent is likely a hundred times yours. Training can only do so much, Cloud. You better start praying for miracles.

I shut up and walk with a frown that tightens my forehead. A draft moves through the stairwell, and it smells like soap and oiled wood because the dorms sit over the laundry rooms. I count steps to steady my thoughts, and I put one hand on the rail because my legs feel light from the drain of the ritual.

After a few minutes, King Baalrek speaks again.

Are you ok?

I mean, yeah? I'm just thinking how hard it's going to become the best.

* * *

King Baalrek listens to Jacob Cloud's answer, and if he had a face, he would frown until the lines became permanent. Absolute talent humbles people with eyes. It cuts away pride from those who built it on easy victories. It snaps spines in those who never met a true monster. He has watched it break grown warriors who thought they were mountains until a real mountain leaned over them.

He expects the boy to fold into a pile. Stupor should freeze him first, and depression should sit on his chest next, and surrender should creep in after with soft feet. That would be normal.

Jacob Cloud comes out of a nowhere village that does not show up on maps unless the cartographer grows sentimental. He reaches Clearwater, and he climbs to the top of the heap among his age, and he does it fast because the Grimoire puts ladders where other people see walls.

And THAT Rainbow Skill, of all of them.

He has seen it before. He has seen the book that teaches craft rather than comfort. The Grimoire Extraordinaire does not give out power. Instead, it offers the chance to earn it. The book opens doors that appear to require work, not miracles, and people hate that until they love it.

Jacob Cloud does not despair. He believes he can still climb. He believes he can stand next to a girl who holds Lucifer's Veins and not break. The odds that he ever bests her sit near nothing, yet the Grimoire never chooses giants. It chooses the skewed ones who will not quit. It chooses the stubborn and the strange.

Thrice King Baalrek meets a user of the Grimoire. He remembers each one the way men remember their first wounds. He has crossed paths with many Rainbow Skills. He never forgets the mad few who bind themselves to the book that offers opportunity instead of gifts.

A Skill that doesn't gift you power. It only gifts you OPPORTUNITY.

He snickers, and if he could, he would shake his head and let the motion bleed out a laugh.

It must be destiny that I meet the Skill again. And that I get to teach its user this time.

* * *

Two Weeks Later

I spent most of the last two weeks training alongside Fatty, refining his and my Skills. I've upgraded most of mine and tried refining them with the Grimoire, but the lack of real combat, I must admit, made me stagnant real fast. The Skills have leveled up, but I can already feel that without the right pressure, it's getting harder and harder to move the scale. I know what the flaws in each Skill are, of course—the Grimoire tells me, but without any first-hand experience, my mana feels sluggish and useless.

Finally, though, the opening day has arrived. And it's time to meet all the other students.

I've also consulted with Elder Lioren, who will give me the final list of my courses later today. I've also earned quite a bit with Elder Karl, with whom I compiled about ten complete guides on Runic Notation addressing all the flaws in Gold Rank Skills. They're selling rapidly, especially since Elder Karl's name is associated with them. So far, that has earned me about two diamond coins. That should be enough to not worry about money for a while and to support Fatty's eating habits.

Fatty, despite all the exercise, hasn't lost one kilo. I've run him through laps, physical training, and drills in Skills. He… doesn't give up. I must admit, he does complain a lot—like, a lot—but he's not given up.

Finally, the opening day arrives. Ward‑bells roll across Ytrial and banners rise as if the city inhales. The sky holds a clear blue that looks polished. Courtyards fill and drain like lungs.

"It's time to meet the other students," I tell myself, and I dress in the Academy black that never fits the first week because tailors like to guess. I smooth the front, and I bind my hair so that it stops in the right place, and I grab the notes I cannot afford to lose.

"Are you ready?" I say, as we step into the main courtyard and a sea of first‑year Apprentices swallows the stone.

"I was born ready," Fatty says, and he pulls out a giant turkey leg with a flourish.

"What are you doing?" I frown.

"Stress‑eating, comfort food," he says between chomps. "It's meat, don't worry, it's good for you."

I draw a slow breath because nerves always show up when crowds press in. Despite all the training, I've started to realize just what kind of monsters roam the halls of Ytrial. And I've yet to talk with Princess Iskara again, so—that's not good for my future romance prospects.

"You said you were born ready, and you need comfort food?"

"You wouldn't understand," Fatty replies.

"I definitely don't," I nod.

We push toward two open seats on a lower tier, and we sit with our knees almost touching the row in front of us because the place fills to the edges. The stage rises on the far side with banners that show sigils that hum if you stare too long. Twelve chairs sit in a line, and every chair holds someone who makes the air push against my skin. Power hums through the boards under their boots, and it crawls into the stone.

"Are those the Deans?" I ask Fatty, and I scan the faces because I want to see the Dean of Admission. I do not.

"The Deans?" Fatty snorts. "Those are the Vice Principals. The seconds in command. Each one of them could topple a kingdom on their own."

Wait, that woman looks very familiar, I think, and I squint at the woman seated two from the left. Her gaze moves across the crowd like a blade that does not need to cut to draw blood. I chase the memory, and it refuses to stand still.

A thin man with round glasses steps from behind the curtain at the back of the stage. He looks like a scholar. The Vice Principals rise to their feet in the same instant, and the motion cracks like a whip. Silence falls over the courtyard so fast that you hear the last cough left over from the noise.

That piece of shit is still alive!? King Baalrek screams in my head.

The man walks to the front with an easy smile that reaches his eyes. He sets his hands on the lectern as if it belongs to him and as if it always has. He looks over the crowd, and his gaze lands without hurry, and the corners answer with quiet that shows respect more than fear. He draws breath in a way that appears ordinary and then fills the space effortlessly.

Then he starts to speak with the most resonant voice I have ever heard.

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