(POV: Orien – Vice Principal)

The sun hadn't fully risen, but the Port of Valmara was already choking with breathless awe.

Crowds stretched across the upper terraces and loading towers. Uniformed cadets stood in formation atop arcane metal platforms. Foreign ambassadors and high-ranking officials watched from the crystal-viewing balconies.

High above the central dockyards, a thousand murmurs twisted into a single breathless silence. Flags of every continent flapped in practiced order, lining the marble viewing platforms and skybridges, each glinting with their respective sigils.

Delegates, nobles, officers, and scholars filled the arena-like terraces that encircled the harbor — an audience of the world's most powerful, most feared, and most curious.

And beneath them, encased in shadow and fog, the drydock gates remained closed.

Orien stood with his hands behind his back, his ceremonial coat falling in sharp lines down to his boots. His eyes were fixed on the far end of the water at the closed gates.

He adjusted the collar of his coat slightly as the mana-speakers began to hum — a high, crystalline tone—

"This moment... is not merely for the history books."

The voice echoed across the port —The sky shimmered faintly as dozens of floating crystal-orbs formed a perfect ring above the crowd, projecting the speaker's voice without flaw.

"This moment is a cornerstone. A quiet threat to war. A louder promise to peace."

No one moved.

Orien glanced sideways. A group of dragonkin nobles from the Eastern Fractals had their scales polished, tails still. Even the Elven emissaries, typically disinterested in craftsmanship, watched the stage now with veiled interest.

"For decades, the sea was shared. Watched. Feared. But not owned. Today, that changes."

A low metallic groan stirred beneath their feet.

The waters of the harbor trembled — not in waves, Slowly, deliberately, the sea gates began to part. Aether lines traced themselves along the mechanisms, forming runes that pulsed with radiant blue.

There was no fanfare. No fireworks. Just the slow scream of shifting metal and the unveiling of something.

From the blackened mouth of the drydocks, a shape emerged.

Not all at once — it crept forward like something alive, half-submerged, half-hovering. For a heartbeat, Orien thought it might be a building. Then he saw the etched armor. The integrated spell turrets. The living glow of its command spires.

It was a ship.

Orien's gaze lingered on the prow — a blade-like structure that extended well past what should have been aerodynamically sound. Inscribed upon it was an array of seals — His eyes narrowed.

"You are witnessing the unveiling of the Leviathan."

The name hung in the air.

"Leviathan is the first of her kind. A vessel designed to operate across every element — sea, sky, and, if necessary... the fractured Dead Zones and ruined Continent."

Murmurs swept through the audience like a ripple. Orien felt the silence behind him shift into discomfort. The Dead Zones weren't mentioned often. Not in formal announcements. Not in public.

"She houses twelve combat layers, six mobile magic-gate arrays, and a celestial-class arc-core reactor powered by stabilized godflame."

Orien's gaze rose toward the underbelly of the ship, where rows of circular mechanisms began rotating — enormous constructs made of interwoven gold and obsidian. A heartbeat later, rings of energy burst outward from them, splitting into dozens of smaller orbs that hovered around the vessel like a guard of spirits.

He noticed several of the foreign representatives stiffen.

Even they couldn't mask it.

"To those who seek peace — Leviathan is a shield."

"To those who seek conquest — Leviathan is a mirror."

"And to those who dare challenge the sovereignty of the Accord…"

A pause. One calibrated to the edge of a blade.

"...Leviathan is the cost."

No one clapped.

The ship continued to move forward, silently slicing through the sea without leaving a wake. Its massive hull displaced the ocean without friction. Mana anchors and gravity suppressors floated just below the surface, glowing with dull heat. One of the crystal-viewers zoomed in — showing a series of uniformed personnel walking along a skydeck the size of a football field. Their steps were light, balanced — assisted by runic stabilizers embedded in the plating.

Orien exhaled.

The Leviathan crept silently into the harbor behind him, but Orien was no longer watching.

He exhaled — slow and deliberate — letting the announcement settle over the gathering storm of politics and power.

A whisper of footsteps behind him broke his momentary stillness.

"Sir," a voice murmured —"There's news… urgent. Should I say it here?"

Orien didn't turn.

"Speak," he replied.

The young man leaned closer, his breath shallow.

"Codename Kismet... has escaped." A pause. "Last night. From the central Ruined Continent facility."

Silence.

A gust of wind tugged at Orien's coat. The harbor's hum faded into the background, the Leviathan's monstrous size now forgotten.

Orien slowly turned. His eyes — once thoughtful, almost distant — sharpened like drawn steel.

"What did you just say?"

The subordinate straightened, but his voice wavered. "I— I confirmed it twice. Surveillance lost contact with the inner perimeter at 02:31. No breach. No signs of external rescue. He just— vanished. Cell 9-Alpha was empty by the time the second sweep arrived."

Orien didn't shout.

He blinked once.

Then he looked out past the port — toward the storm-heavy clouds that always hung above the Ruined Continent's northern cliffs.

"He can't leave," the subordinate said quickly, trying to reassure him. "The continent's still sealed. Mana storms. No sky routes. No teleportation nodes. He's trapped there."

"No," Orien said. Quietly. Firmly. "You don't know him."

He turned fully now, his jaw clenched.

"If it's Kismet, he won't run."

Orien took a step forward, speaking more to himself than anyone else. "He doesn't flee. He

"If he's free…" Orien's voice dropped to a near-whisper, "…then there won't be a Ruined Kingdom left to lock him back inside."

A long pause.

Then Orien's hand shot into his coat pocket. He pulled out a slim, rune-lined communicator, flipped it open with a flick of his thumb, and dialed a secure frequency — a soundless dial tone vibrating through the crystal weave.

It connected.

"Enforcer command, code 301-A — this is Vice Principal Orien " he said, voice sharp and cutting through the noise like a blade. "Kismet is loose. I repeat — Kismet is out."

Muffled static responded, followed by a shaky, "Sir? Are you—"

"I don't care how you confirm it. Double the wards across every gate from the central mainland to the outer skylines. I want full magical surveillance reinstated on all portals within the academy grounds — effective immediately."

Another voice tried to interject. "But sir, this is still—"

"I don't care if it's protocol. This isn't a drill, this isn't speculation. This is the worst-case scenario — and you will treat it as such."

The communicator crackled with startled affirmation.

Orien's voice rose — not to shout, but to strike.

"I want the entire Central Continent under Class-A lockdown before dusk. No unregistered magic. No teleportation. No academy students outside sanctioned territory."

"Understood—!"

"And," Orien added, lower now, almost like a growl, "get me eyes inside the Ruined Continent. I want every satellite array and mana scry focused on the outer perimeter. If he so much as blinks in the wrong direction— I want to know about it before he exhales."

He ended the call.

Silence returned, heavy and stifling.

"Back to the Academy," Orien muttered to his subordinate, already walking. "Now."

"Y-Yes, sir."

As they moved through the crowd, the audience still fixated on the Leviathan's slow emergence from sea and shadow, Orien's mind had already shifted.

It wasn't the ship that haunted him now.

It was a boy