Sylas Vermund had several working theories.
Theory One: The world was conspiring against him.
Theory Two: He was too charming for this dimension.
Theory Three: He had joined a cult.
Accidentally. Kind of.
It started, as all terrible ideas do, with curiosity.
The mysterious note left on his desk—"We're watching"—was exactly the kind of ominous nonsense that should have been burned immediately. Instead, Sylas kept it under his pillow. Because what if it was cool?
(He also considered framing it, but that felt a little desperate.)
Anyway. A week passed. No explosions. No kidnappings. No additional notes.
Sylas began to think it was a prank. Maybe from Eren, maybe from some secret admirer who appreciated his twitchy, death-defying persona.
Then, at midnight on a foggy Thursday, someone knocked on his window.
Let's pause there.
His room was on the third floor.
He did what any self-respecting coward would:
Yelled.
Tripped over his own boots.
Considered pretending to be asleep.
But then the knock came again. Rhythmic. Precise. Like Morse code. Only creepier.
Eren snored in the next bed, completely useless.
Sylas grabbed his wand (mostly for emotional support), approached the window, and peeked through the curtain.
A girl stood on the other side. On thin air. Hovering three stories up like that was normal.
She wore a half-mask made of onyx, a cloak with constellations embroidered in silver thread, and her hair—dark as ink—floated unnaturally around her like she was underwater.
She lifted a hand and pointed at him.
Then vanished.
"Nope," Sylas said, backing away. "Nope. Nope to everything."
But later, under his blanket, he grinned.
Because as terrifying as it was… he was finally getting somewhere.
The next morning, things got weirder.
During Professor Marrin's lecture, his scroll glowed.
This was unusual, because Sylas hadn't even activated it. Mostly because he didn't know how. He was planning to learn, eventually. Maybe. Probably not.
Words wrote themselves across the parchment in glowing ink:
"Midnight. Clock tower. Come alone."
"Okay," Sylas whispered to himself. "So either I'm about to be murdered, or this is a secret club. Possibly both."
"What?" Eren asked from beside him.
"Nothing. Just being stalked by eldritch goths again."
"Sounds like your type."
Sylas arrived at the clock tower five minutes late. Fashionably mysterious.
The top floor was abandoned—dusty gears, old wood beams, and enough echoes to start a horror novel.
There, waiting in a semicircle, were seven masked figures. All in variations of cloaks, each bearing a symbol: a star, a scale, a wand, a mask, a sword, a heart, and—concerningly—a coffin.
The masked girl from earlier stepped forward.
"You came," she said.
Sylas nodded, heart hammering. "Was this optional?"
"Not really."
"Cool, cool."
Another figure—a tall one with a voice like sandpaper—added, "You made waves, Vermund. The duel. The stunt. The twitching."
"You saw the twitching?"
"It was convincing."
"It was real," Sylas said solemnly. "Mostly."
Laughter. Dry, restrained.
The girl spoke again. "We are the Arcanum Obscura. A society of outcasts, theorists, and the morally flexible."
"Wow. Do you guys meet on Fridays or just whenever the moon is creepy?"
"You're annoying."
"I'm aware."
She sighed. "We want to offer you an invitation."
"To… what, exactly?"
The tall one stepped forward. "To join us."
"Are there snacks?"
"No."
"Then I demand at least symbolic power."
They didn't say no.
The initiation was… unnecessarily dramatic.
They made Sylas recite an oath in Old Tongue (he butchered it), swear silence (which he immediately broke by asking for clarification), and touch a crystal orb that scanned his intent.
It glowed purple. Apparently, that meant "chaotic neutral with potential for disaster."
Perfect.
"You'll go by the title Jester," the masked girl announced.
"Not Fool?"
"That's already taken."
Sylas grinned. "Figures."
He had no idea what he'd just gotten into. But it beat being alone.
And honestly? Secret societies were great resume boosters. Especially if he lived long enough to have a resume.
Back in the dorm, Eren was waiting.
"I know that face," he said as Sylas snuck in.
"What face?"
"The I-just-made-a-life-altering-decision-without-reading-the-terms-and-conditions face."
"…I joined a club."
"Oh gods."
"They're mysterious. They wear masks. They gave me a code name."
"Cult."
"Possibly. They called themselves Arcanum Obscura."
"Definitely cult."
"They accepted me."
Eren groaned. "Why do I get the feeling this ends with you leading them?"
Sylas smiled. "One step at a time."
The next few days were oddly peaceful.
No more challenge notes. No cryptic stares from professors. Even Caelan avoided him, probably worried he'd join a second cult and throw another magical tantrum.
Sylas focused on training.
Marrin's lessons got harder, but also more interesting. Glyph theory, anchor matrices, mana logic—stuff Sylas was surprisingly good at when he actually tried.
Also, Arcanum Obscura gave him access to books from the restricted section. Stuff students weren't supposed to read. Like "Hexes for Diplomats" and "How to Fake a Prophecy and Still Get Paid."
He was thriving.
Terrifyingly.
And then, naturally, everything went wrong.
During lunch, a loud crack echoed through the Great Hall.
A duel. Again.
This time, between two seniors. Sparks flew, tables overturned, people screamed.
Sylas tried to ignore it. He was on dessert. Important priorities.
But then a voice rang out:
"Sylas Vermund!"
Oh no.
He turned.
Caelan Dren stood at the edge of the duel circle, shirtless for no reason, glowing with mana and ego.
"I challenge you!"
Sylas blinked. "Why?"
"You humiliated me!"
"I lived. That's not humiliation. That's survival."
Caelan pointed dramatically. "Coward!"
"Yes," Sylas said immediately. "One hundred percent. Fully certified."
The crowd laughed. Even a few professors smiled.
Caelan fumed. "Then duel me properly, Vermund! No tricks. No faking."
Sylas stood.
Paused.
Then smirked.
"Alright," he said. "But I get to choose the battleground."
Caelan sneered. "Anywhere, any time."
"Then I choose… a battle of charisma."
The hall fell silent.
Someone snorted.
"What?" Caelan said.
Sylas stepped forward. "Let the student body decide. You want a duel? Prove you're more likable than me."
"You manipulative snake—!"
"And yet, somehow, people cheer when I enter the room and wince when you open your mouth."
The crowd exploded with laughter.
Caelan turned red. "You'll regret this."
Sylas winked. "I already do. But you're still losing."
And just like that, Caelan Dren stormed off.
Score one for Team Disaster.
That night, Sylas reported to Arcanum Obscura.
"Did you provoke a duel and escape it with words?" the masked girl asked.
"Yes."
"Did you humiliate a noble?"
"A little."
"Did you survive?"
"Barely."
She tilted her head. "You'll fit in just fine, Jester."
Sylas smiled.
Villain? Maybe.
Hero? Doubtful.
Cult mascot with style?
Absolutely.