Chapter Text
Hidden deep within the emerald forests of coastal British Columbia, where the mountains dissolve into mist and the ocean murmurs against the cliffs below, Saint Dominic's Preparatory Academy is not a school that one applies to. One is summoned.
Founded in 1892 beneath the guise of a devout Catholic academy for the children of privilege, Saint Dominic Prep has always been more than it appears — a crucible for the true elite, not those flaunted by headlines, but those who shape them. Here are gathered the royal descendants without crowns, the inheritors of shadow dynasties, and the prodigies of global cartels, covert agencies, and unseen empires of wealth — young adults chosen to be refined into something far greater than themselves.
If the heirs of fortune and fame are sent to places like Institut Le Rosey, Beau Soleil, or Eton, then those who understand where real power lies — the quiet, enduring kind that moves nations without being seen — send their bloodlines to Saint Dominic's.
Beneath its polished reputation of academic prestige and moral discipline, however, lies the academy's true curriculum: risk, power, and psychological warfare. Every lesson, every examination, every conversation is a calculated game — and every game has stakes. Students gamble with money, but far more importantly with status, influence, and command. A single triumph can elevate one to near royalty within the halls, while a single defeat can strip a name from the ledgers entirely.
The faculty do not interfere; they observe. The academy itself enforces its own balance — a system older than any of its masters. It is said the tradition began as a method of testing will and foresight, a way to reveal who could wield power without ever appearing to. To outsiders, it is legend. To those inside, it is law.
At Saint Dominic's, if entry is granted by blood and privilege, power is earned at the tables. Success here is measured not only in grades, but in skill, strategy, and influence.
At the top of the hierarchy sits the Student Council, a small body of the ten most formidable students. Membership is gained entirely through gambling, where every challenge tests psychological acuity, manipulation, and mastery of risk. These students are not merely competitors — they are the rulers of the student body, their word shaping privileges, reputations, and opportunities.
At the very top sits the Student Council President — a title both coveted and feared, a figure more monarch than leader. Their word shapes alliances, wagers, and every whispered intrigue within the academy. They answer only to the unseen Board, and within Saint Dominic's, their authority is absolute: rivalries pause, disputes yield, and even the most cunning students bow to their presence. Rumors follow the office like a shadow: whispered tales of unmatched cunning, strategic brilliance, and the ability to see through every deception — a reminder that, within Saint Dominic, true power is never given; it is claimed, maintained, and feared.
And yet, beneath the precision, the wagers, and the rigid hierarchy, a tremor stirred — an unseen force waiting to arrive, ready to unravel the order that had endured for over a century.
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A nightmare tore her from sleep. The car erupted in a ball of fire under the bright afternoon sun, metal twisting and shattering around them, sparks spitting across the asphalt. Screams were swallowed by the deafening roar, the acrid scent of smoke and burning rubber filling her nostrils. She saw them clearly — her parents laughing softly, waving cheerfully at her as they drove off on a routine business trip, unaware of the catastrophe about to unfold. And then the flames surged, consuming the car, the street, the day itself. The heat seared her skin, smoke clawed at her lungs, and the sickening groan of twisting metal echoed in her ears, as if the world itself had imploded.
Then the world snapped back, and she gasped, clawing for air, as if she had been thrown from that burning car herself . She lay on the thin futon, pressed to the tatami, staring at the ceiling as if it might hold answers. Her body was hot, drenched in sweat, slick at the roots of her black brownish hair, every muscle trembling. Fingers curling around the small necklace beneath her collar — a poker chip her mother had pressed into her hand that morning — she drew a quiet reassurance from its smooth weight, a fragile tether to safety in the chaos. The nightmare clung to her ribs, the roar of the explosion, the flames, the smiling faces of her parents — a drum she could not silence, each beat echoing in the hollow of her chest.
A soft, measured voice cut through the haze of her terror.
"Yumeko-sama, your morning meal is ready. Kawamoto-san is waiting for you in the dining room."
The words anchored her to the present. The tatami beneath her, the paper sliding doors, the faint scent of incense — it pressed around her like a calm after the storm, and for a moment, the nightmare felt distant, almost unreal.
She swung her legs over the futon and rose, the tatami cool beneath her bare feet. Moving with careful, practiced grace, she slid into her kimono, the fabric brushing against her skin, familiar and grounding. Passing the polished wooden walls of the house, she felt the weight of silence, the quiet watchfulness of its rooms, each step carrying her farther from the nightmare and closer to the day ahead.
The sliding door whispered open, and she stepped into the dining room. Kawamoto-san stood quietly beside the low table, hands folded, eyes lowered in deference. The table was set with a typical Japanese breakfast: grilled fish glistening with a light sheen of soy, steaming rice, miso soup, pickled vegetables neatly arranged, and a small cup of green tea. The morning sunlight filtered through the shōji, casting pale grids across the tatami, and the scent of the food mingled with the faint incense still lingering in the air.
"Good morning, Kawamoto-san," Yumeko said softly.
"Good morning, Yumeko, did you sleep well ? " Kawamoto-san replied
Yumeko groaned, her body slouching as she sank onto the tatami.
Yumeko groaned, slumping exaggeratedly onto the tatami, arms flopping by her sides. "No... as always..." she added, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips.
Kawamoto-san smiled at her with quiet compassion. "Eat something. We have a long day ahead of us."
Yumeko picked up her pair of chopsticks, her fingers still slightly trembling, and lifted a piece of the rolled egg to her mouth. The soft, warm texture grounded her, she chewed slowly, savoring it then glanced up at Kawamoto-san. Her guardian sat with quiet poise, black hair streaked with silver neatly pulled back, eyes warm yet attentive, and the gentle lines of age tracing her face. There was kindness in the way she held herself, tempered with a firmness born of decades spent guiding and protecting, a steady presence that made the room feel safer, more anchored. Kawamoto-san sipped her tea with deliberate care, the faint aroma mingling with the food and incense, and Yumeko felt a fragile sense of calm threading through her chest.
Kawamoto-san's eyes flicked up from her cup, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "It's rude to stare, Yumeko."
Yumeko's cheeks flushed lightly. "Sorry, Kawamoto-san... I was just admiring your beauty. I hope to be as poised as you when I'm your age."
Kawamoto-san let out a quiet chuckle, though her eyes remained sharp. "Child, drop the charming act. I know you're deflecting. You know we have to talk about your education."
Rising gracefully, Kawamoto-san moved to the sliding door and opened it, revealing the garden bathed in morning light. She rested a hand on the frame, her gaze steady. "Yumeko, you celebrated your twentieth birthday six months ago. I've watched you for years, preparing, training... for what's coming."
Yumeko's hands tightened slightly around her chopsticks, the poker-chip necklace beneath her collar pressing gently against her skin. The calm of the garden contrasted with the storm her mind had carried through the night.
Kawamoto-san's gaze softened, her hands resting lightly on the frame of the sliding door as she looked at Yumeko. "I raised you as my own daughter, taught you everything I know, and watched you face every challenge thrown at you. You remind me so much of them — the cunning of your mother, and the kindness and resolve of your father."
Yumeko lowered her eyes, a mix of pride and lingering sorrow flickering across her features. The words wrapped around her like a fragile comfort, yet beneath them lay the unspoken weight of what was expected of her next.
She paused, letting her eyes linger on Yumeko. "But you stay their daughter, not mine. They wanted you to follow in their footsteps in case something happened to them".
Her voice grew gentle, tinged with both pride and resignation "You've been accepted to Saint Dominic's, as a mid-term transfer. The first trimester has already started early — about two weeks ago".
She sighed softly. "It's what you wanted, even though I don't want you to go. I would have preferred you continue to attend Todai or any other school, but I cannot stop you... you are just like your mother."
A small, knowing smile curved her lips, a mixture of admiration and inevitability, as she watched Yumeko absorb the weight of her words.
Yumeko set her chopsticks down, the clink against the table sounding unusually loud in the quiet room. She rose gracefully, moving to stand beside Kawamoto-san, her gaze drifting through the open sliding door into the garden beyond. Sunlight warmed the moss and stone paths, the gentle sway of the trees a stark contrast to the storm in her chest.
"Sorry, Kawamoto-san... I have to." Her voice was steady, but soft, carrying the weight of years she had spent preparing for this moment. "My path was decided the day my parents were murdered." A small, wistful smile tugged at her lips, as if the words themselves were a quiet acceptance of fate.
Kawamoto-san remained silent for a moment, watching her with a mixture of pride and sorrow, the lines of age and care deepening around her eyes. The faint breeze stirred the papers of the shōji, carrying with it the scent of tea and incense, grounding them both in the stillness before the inevitable.
Yumeko's fingers subconsciously grazed the poker-chip necklace beneath her collar. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the garden, the warmth of the sun, and the unwavering gaze of the woman who had raised her.
Then, with a deep inhale, she straightened her shoulders, feeling the pull of what was to come — the threshold between the life she had known and the shadows she was about to enter at Saint Dominic's.