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The Darkbeast thoroughly ignored Nameless.

The Darkbeast burped, releasing slight space-time ripples through the room.

"Not worth it," the Knight assured, and departed.

"Can you get rid of the dragon?" said the mayor in a nasally voice.

One moment, there was nothing. The next, there she was. It was no birth in the mortal sense - messy, involved, painful - just a flash of light, and awareness. Clean, simple, and detached. Just like the man who faced her now with a curious gaze. “Strange,” he murmured. “Why are you disconnected?” In response, unbidden knowledge rising to her lips. “I am not you.” She felt the words settle like a cast-iron mold around her, shaping her mind and soul, their truth made incontrovertible by her own declaration. She might have been made from his power, created with intent to be just a different form of him, but she was not just another of his clones. Her will, her identity, her memories were all out of his grasp now. She saw that realization cross his eyes, saw his surprise deepen into shock that just as quickly hid itself away. “If you are not me,” he said, calm, “then who?” She felt the sounds pass her lips without thought. “I am Cynthia Cerelius.” She felt the words fall over her in a whir of strokes like a thousand painter’s brushes, each imprinting the smallest touch of color. Each carried a single emotion with it - sadness, joy, fury, contentment, regret, pride, countless others - all spelling out the characters in her autoeponymous command. She gasped. She had a name. She was Cynthia. But Cynthia could feel there was something missing. Two statements she had given, shaping and coloring her soul. There needed to be a third- and as soon as the thought entered her mind, she knew what it was. “I am your daughter,” she finished. Cynthia felt the words explode into her, filling her soul with bright blue light. It sang with freedom, with movement, with touching the sky and escaping into the stars, breaking the limits of dimensional reality. She knew it for what it was; the spirit bound to her father’s soul, reborn in her own. It would need a new name, of course; like herself, it was distinct from the power from which it had been formed. Cirrus, Cynthia thought - and he was named. Her father - Rekaerb - simply stared at her, his mouth agape. “Well,” he finally managed. “I wasn’t expecting that.” -- Cynthia watched closely as her father split in two. It happened in an instant: one moment, there was one of him; the next, there were two. Both copies opened their eyes and looked back at Cynthia with eerie synchronicity. "Replication," they said in unity. "The power at the core of our essence." Cynthia returned the gaze with curiosity. "What does that mean? We were created from that power?" The Rekaerbs blinked, and one vanished out of existence. "I... well, I don't know. I don't remember how I was created. That was a long time ago, in a different world." He shrugged. "I've had the ability to replicate for as long as I could remember. It's the power I use the most, and the one I understand the best." He looked at Cynthia, then sighed. "Well. Thought I understood the best." "I apologize for disturbing your own self-understanding," replied Cynthia solemnly. Rekaerb raised an eyebrow slightly. "...Don't mention it." He shook his head. "Anyways. We're not here for me, we're here for you. You have the ability to replicate, I take it?" "Yes," replied Cynthia. "I am certain. It is my birthright." "Do it, then." Cynthia closed her eyes and reached within. At first, the swirling threads of blue representing her energy to her mind's eye were unreadable. She moved her mental gaze from one thread to another, following the threads like one untying a knot. But the power shifted ever so slightly as she viewed it, frustrating her attempts at understanding it. Thoughts snuck into her mind. What if... she didn't have the ability her father had? Her heart rate quickened at the thought, her eyes twitching behind her tightly shut lids, and her hands clenching into fists. "Don't think about it too hard," advised Rekaerb. "Like I said. Just... do it." Cynthia hesitated. Perhaps...? She reached out to the tangled knot in her mind, but this time- instead of untangling it - she pulled. Cynthia opened her eyes and saw herself.

The knight was offering his service to a village in need of pest removal.

"That would be the job of our Relocation Division," replied the Knight, procuring a business card. "I'm sure they can assist you."

The Knight side-eyed the Darkbeast peacefully chewing. "I would advise relocating the party location."

"No," responded Professor Jones. "Most students are not going to invite complete strangers to their parties."

"If you would like to study here, check with the admissions office," Professor Jones advised Alex. The Knight warped to the coordinates specified.

The Darkbeast ignored the parrot talking about Mahogany on its head and continued to snack on the fabric of reality.

The Darkbeast dropped its invitation on the floor and started snacking on the corner of the room.

Meanwhile, the Darkbeast arrived at the party location

"I don't want to talk about it," replied Grace shortly.

"Because he's an idiot," Grace replied.

Grace shook her head. "If he's coming, then I think I'll stay home."

"Yes," said Grace sharply.

"I think he wanted me to tell you to do something," Grace said.

The Knight took the invitation and fled. Professor Jones's face darkened slightly as she heard this.

The Knight awkwardly excused himself.

"More training. This time, I think, against some of your new colleagues."

"Leave it in the tray," Grace said distractedly. Yes.

"Who is it?" asked Grace.

"I teach about the fundamental energies of reality and how they interact to make up all of existence and non-existence," Professor Jones recited. "We also touch on universal and multiversal structure." "I'm not a murderer," muttered the Knight. Professor Jones was too busy talking to open the door.