The transition from the Academic District to the Red Tower territory was a physical slap to the senses.

The white marble and ivory towers of the West gave way to structures of dark basalt and reinforced iron. Here, the air did not smell of old parchment and jasmine. It smelled of hot metal and the acrid tang of sulfur. This was the Vanguard, the section of the Academy designed to mimic the brutal efficiency of a border fortress.

Vane walked through the heavy iron gates, his eyes scanning the architecture. While the Blue and White Towers celebrated the elegance of the Aurelian Empire, the Red Tower felt like a compromise between industrial utility and Eastern grit.

He didn't have to look far to find the source of the tension.

Near the main training hall, a group of Blue Tower students had stopped to observe a group of Red Tower cadets performing synchronized martial forms. The nobles were dressed in their finest magic-threaded silks, their fingers adorned with mana-capacitors that shimmered with stored potential. They looked at the sweating warriors with the kind of detached pity one might show a beast of burden.

"It is fascinating, really," one of the nobles said, his voice carrying clearly over the sound of the cadets' rhythmic breathing. He was leaning against a statue of a winged lion, watching a young woman from the East practice her internal mana circulation. "They still rely on the old ways. Internal cultivation. Martial forms. It is like watching a museum exhibit come to life."

"It is a wonder they didn't learn their lesson four hundred years ago," his companion laughed. He looked at a passing worker carrying a mana-powered welding torch, his expression full of disdain. "The Great Continental War proved that no amount of physical tempering can compete with high-tier Aurelian magic. The only reason we didn't turn the Xing continent into a province was because the Emperor found the logistics of ruling such a scorched wasteland to be tedious."

The noble looked down at the mechanical tools the mana-less laborers used to maintain the district. To him, technology was the crutch of the weak. Those with high mana ranks didn't need machines; they were the machines.

The Red Tower cadets didn't stop their forms, but the air around them spiked. Vane saw the knuckles of the Eastern girl turn white. The history books in the West called the war a victory for superior mana arts, but the ruins in the East told a different story. It was a stalemate of blood and fire that had left the Xing continent fractured and economically strangled.

"Step aside," Vane said, his voice cutting through the noble's laughter.

The Blue Tower student turned, his expression shifting from amusement to irritation. "Ah, the Rat. Still lost, I see."

"You're blocking the thoroughfare," Vane said. He didn't slow down. "And your history is as flawed as your mana control. The Empire didn't win that war because they were better. They just had more land to burn before they felt the heat."

The noble's face flushed red. He opened his mouth to reply, but his friend grabbed his arm, whispering something about Vane's Rank 3 standing. They stepped back, giving Vane a wide berth.

Vane continued into the heart of the Red Tower hub.

If the rest of Zenith was a palace, this place was a foundry. There were no gas-lit lamps here; the halls were illuminated by glowing mana-crystals embedded in the iron walls. Students didn't walk; they marched. In the open courtyards, people weren't studying abstract theory. They were hitting stone pillars with their bare hands until the rock cracked, reinforcing their bodies with mana until their skin was as hard as the iron walls.

This was Ashe's world. A world where tradition and the "Old Ways" of the East were preserved under the shadow of the Empire's magical dominance.

"He's here," a voice called out.

Vane stopped. Standing by a rack of heavy claymore-style swords was a tall, broad-shouldered student with the tan skin and sharp features of the Eastern borderlands. He wore a Red Tower vest that was stained with sweat.

"The one Ashe is obsessed with," the student said, looking Vane up and down. "You don't look like much. A bit of muscle, sure. But no internal heat. No focus."

"I am looking for the Oni," Vane said.

"She is in the pits," the student replied, gesturing toward a staircase that led deep into the bowels of the fortress. "But a word of advice, Westerner. We don't like Aurelian arrogance here. We remember the Scorched Earth. And Ashe? She remembers more than most."

"I am not here for a history lesson," Vane said.

"Good. Because down there, the only thing that matters is how much weight you can carry before your spine snaps."

Vane headed down the stairs. The temperature rose with every step. The sound of clashing metal and guttural roars grew louder. He emerged into a massive subterranean arena filled with students engaged in full-contact sparring.

In the center of the largest pit, Ashe Razar was fighting three opponents at once.

She wasn't using a sword. She was using her bare hands. She moved with a frightening, fluid speed that defied her heavy build. She caught a spear thrust with her palm, redirected the force, and sent the attacker flying into the wall. Then she spun, her leg connecting with another student's shield, shattering the reinforced wood into splinters.

She stopped the moment Vane reached the edge of the pit.

She was covered in sweat, her white hair matted to her forehead. Her red horns seemed to throb with a dull, rhythmic light. She looked up at him, her chest heaving, a wild and terrifying grin on her face.

"You're late, Rat," Ashe shouted, wiping blood from her lip with the back of her hand. "I almost had to start killing these idiots just to keep from getting bored."

"You sent me a note," Vane said, looking down at her. "I am here to settle the debt."

Ashe laughed, the sound echoing off the iron walls. She jumped out of the pit in a single, explosive movement, landing inches from him.

"The debt is lunch," Ashe said. She leaned in, her eyes burning with that same predatory hunger he had seen in the library. "But I think I would rather have a sparring partner who doesn't break when the wind blows."

"I told you before," Vane said, his voice steady. "I am not your toy."

"We will see about that," Ashe said. She grabbed a towel from a nearby bench and threw it over her shoulder. "Come on. The mess hall here has food that actually tastes like something. Not that refined slop they serve in the Blue Tower."

As they walked through the halls of the Red Tower, Vane noticed the way the other students looked at them. It wasn't the fear he saw in the Academic District. It was a grim, silent respect.

In this place, the 1,542 years of Aurelian history meant nothing. The mana-capacitors and the high-tier spells were just tools. All that mattered was the strength in your core and the will to survive.

Vane realized that Ashe wasn't just a student here. She was the ideal. The daughter of a Warlord from a continent that had refused to die.

And she had just decided that he was the only thing in the West worth her time.

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