I Copy the Authorities of the Four Calamities-Chapter 159: The Table of the Few

The bronze doors of the Grand Refectory groaned.

The sound echoed through the cavernous hall, drawing the immediate attention of every student inside.

Vane stepped through the threshold.

The atmosphere had mutated. Before the winter break, this space had been a riot of noise. A thousand students had fought for calories and social standing, their voices merging into a chaotic roar that deafened thought.

Now, silence ruled.

The purge had done its work. One hundred and fifty names had been struck from the registry. The absence of the lower tier created a physical void in the room. Empty tables stretched out like graveyards of polished wood. The air wasn’t empty, though. It was pressurized.

The remaining students were the survivors. They were the Rank 3 Elites who had clawed their way through the semester by bleeding faster than their enemies. They didn’t shout. They didn’t gossip. They ate with the focused intensity of soldiers refueling between skirmishes.

Vane led the formation.

He walked toward their usual table by the eastern windows. He didn’t look around, yet he cataloged every gaze that locked onto them.

They were a spectacle.

Vane. Valerica. Ashe. Isaac. Lyra. Isole.

Five Sentinels and a high-tier analyst. They moved in a tight, predatory circle. To the rest of the year, this wasn’t a study group. It was a power bloc. It was the ceiling they were all trying to reach.

They took their seats. The scrape of chair legs against the stone floor rang out like a challenge.

Isaac pulled his tray closer.

He stared at the plate. Steam rose from a mound of grilled chicken and unseasoned white grains. A glass of water sat beside it.

Isaac closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply, pulling the scent of bland starch into his lungs as if it were ambrosia.

"It smells like nothing," Isaac whispered. His voice trembled with genuine emotion.

He picked up his spoon.

"No sulfur," he listed, ticking off the horrors of his break. "No fermented toadstool. No restorative oils that taste like rusted iron and regret. It is just food. Vane, I might weep."

"Keep it together, Isaac," Ashe said. She dropped into the seat next to him, her tray clattering against the wood. "The entire room is watching. We don’t need the Rank 4 Ice Sentinel sobbing over poultry. It ruins the mystique."

"You didn’t live through the winter at the Glacium estate," Isaac countered.

He took a bite. He chewed slowly, savoring the lack of flavor. A smile broke across his pale face. It was the first genuine expression he had worn since the train ride.

"My mother believes health is a product of suffering," Isaac said. "If the medicine doesn’t make you gag, she assumes it’s a placebo. This dry, flavorless chicken is the best meal I have had in six weeks."

Vane cut his own meat. His movements were methodical.

He watched Isaac.

The concept was alien. A mother who cared enough to poison you with medicine. A parent who suffocated you with attention. In Oakhaven, attention was a threat vector. If your mother looked at you too long, it meant she was calculating how much your kidney would fetch on the black market. Or she was trying to hide you from the gangs.

"Appreciate it," Vane said.

He stabbed a piece of grain.

"A mother who smothers you with blankets is a resource," Vane continued. "You’ll miss it when the ground breaks under your feet. Suffering is cheap. Safety is expensive."

Isaac’s smile faded. The playful edge vanished, replaced by a somber understanding. He nodded.

"I know," Isaac said softly. "I complain. It’s my role. But I know she does it because she’s terrified I’ll end up like my father. Broken in a ditch somewhere."

He took another bite.

"I’m still going to enjoy this bland roll more than anything she ever cooked."

Across the table, Lyra ignored the food.

Her tablet was propped against a water pitcher. Her fingers blurred across the glass screen, manipulating streams of data. The blue light reflected in her spectacles. She looked less like a student and more like an inquisitor searching for heresy in the code.

"The layout shifted," Lyra announced.

Her voice cut through the low hum of the table.

"The randomized homerooms are administrative formalities now. The core curriculum for Sentinels has been overhauled. The administration scrapped the generalist education model."

She spun the tablet around.

The screen displayed the new course registry. The familiar titles—Advanced Mana Theory, Combat Praxis—were gone. In their place stood a stark, three-tier structure.

"They split higher education into three primary modules," Lyra explained. "Every Sentinel gets assigned two. The assignment is based strictly on established affinities. We don’t choose. The Academy is refining us into specific weapon platforms."

She tapped the list.

1. Arcanic Lattice Calculus Focus: Mind Aspect. Internal core stabilization. Complex mana-structure architecture.

2. Somatic Mana Synthesis Focus: Body Aspect. Biological mana-integration. Physical enhancement and regeneration.

3. Tactical Kinetic Resonance Focus: Integrated Combat. Mandatory for all high-ranking students.

"The Academy categorized us," Lyra said. "The tracks are locked."

Vane leaned in.

"Where do we fall?"

"Vane. Ashe. Valerica." Lyra pointed to the second column. "You are Body Aspect users. You are assigned to Somatic Mana Synthesis and Tactical Kinetic Resonance."

Vane exhaled.

Tension he didn’t know he was holding released from his shoulders.

He had dreaded the return of Professor Vyla’s lectures. Arcanic Lattice Calculus sounded like a nightmare of chalk dust and abstract proofs. He was a Rat. He understood levers, fulcrums, and where to stick the pointy end of a spear. He didn’t want to calculate the slope of a mana curve.

Being locked into the Body track meant physical work. It meant sweat. It meant mechanics. He could do mechanics.

"Wait," Valerica said.

She frowned. She touched the screen, hovering over her name.

"I am in the Body track? My Authority is a star. A gravity well. That requires immense calculation. I thought I would be Mind aspect for stabilization."

"No," Lyra said. Her tone was clinical. "Your gravity manipulation is a physical force. You crush things. You create density. It is somatic. You are a tank, Valerica. Not a wizard. You belong with Vane and Ashe."

Isole sat quietly at the end of the table.

Her mismatched eyes flickered over the names. She traced the lines of text with her gaze.

"That leaves me," Isole whispered.

"You are in the Mind track," Lyra confirmed. "Isole. Isaac. And myself, once I break through. We are assigned to Arcanic Lattice Calculus and Tactical Kinetic Resonance."

Isaac stopped chewing.

He stared at the tablet. Horror dawned on his face.

"I have to do the calculus?" he asked. "The heavy math?"

"You are a mage, Isaac," Lyra said. "Your ice field requires constant density adjustments. Your mother’s somatic training was useful, but the Academy wants your brain, not your muscles."

Silence settled over the table.

The implication sank in.

For the entire first semester, they had been a single unit. They sat in the same lectures. They trained in the same yards. They suffered through the same exams.

Now, the Academy had taken a scalpel to the squad.

They were being divided. The physical fighters were going to the basement to sweat. The thinkers were going to the towers to calculate.

Vane looked at Valerica.

She was staying with him.

The realization sat heavy in his gut. It meant they would spar together daily. It meant they would attend the same labs. The proximity they had developed at the villa—the domestic quiet, the shared secrets—would bleed into their academic lives. There would be no escape from her gravity.

"It makes sense," Vane said.

He forced his attention back to his plate. He cut another piece of chicken.

"The Academy wants weapons. Not generalists. They are sharpening us into tools that fit together. If we all did the same thing, we would be redundant."

"It is a relief," Ashe said.

She grinned. Her eyes flashed with the promise of violence.

"I was worried I’d have to sit through another semester of theory. Somatic Synthesis sounds hands-on. I want to see if I can push my flicker-speed past the Rank 4 baseline without tearing a ligament."

"Don’t get overconfident," Lyra warned. She adjusted her glasses. "The instructors for the specialized tracks are active-duty Vanguard officers. Or high-tier researchers. They aren’t homeroom tutors. If you fail to synchronize with the new modules, they will demote you to the generalist blocks. You have one month to prove you belong."

"We won’t fail," Valerica said.

Her voice was calm. Authoritative.

She looked around the table. Her gaze lingered on Isole and Isaac.

"We are the highest-ranked group in the year," Valerica stated. "We will master our tracks. We will meet in the Tactical class. This just makes the squad balanced. We cover all angles now."

Isole nodded.

She looked at Vane. Her expression was pensive. She was the one being pulled away. She was being separated from the physical momentum that Vane and Valerica generated. She felt the shift. The Academy’s logic reinforced the bond between the physical fighters while isolating the mages in their ivory tower.

"Lunch is over," Vane said.

He checked the clock on the far wall. The hands clicked forward.

"Today is administrative. No lectures. We need to head back and finalize our equipment for the morning. The specialized tracks will require different loadouts."

The chimes rang.

The sound echoed through the thinning crowd. The group stood up. Their movement was synchronized.

They walked out of the Grand Refectory.

Their boots struck the marble floor in a unified beat.

Outside, the winter sun began its slow descent. It painted the towers of Zenith in shades of bruised orange and cold gold. The wind bit at their exposed skin.

Vane walked at the front.

He felt the silver mana in his chest. It was cold. Precise.

The second semester had begun. The illusion of choice was gone. The reality of their affinities had taken over.