Damien woke with a groan, rubbing his eyes before he even bothered to sit up. The pillow felt slightly damp beneath his cheek, and his first coherent thought was one of disgust.
"Ugh… why the hell did I sleep like this?" he muttered, peeling the blanket away from his body. The stale, clammy feel of dried sweat clung to his skin like an insult. His shirt—still the one from last night's training that he stripped away—was twisted halfway around his torso and carried the sour scent of hard work.
A grimace pulled at his face. Sleeping on the floor had been one thing… but sleeping covered in sweat? That was a new low.
Shaking his head, Damien pushed himself up and removed the damp shirt twisted around chest. The pillow and sheet were no better, both marked with faint, darker patches where his sweat had seeped in.
"Great. Now my room smells like me," he muttered under his breath. With a sigh, he moved to tidy up—rolling up the sheet and pillowcase and tossing them into a corner for laundry later. He gave the room a quick once-over, straightening anything out of place. The habit was old and automatic—an easy way to make the space feel livable.
Once his room looked decent enough, he grabbed a towel and made his way to the common bathroom.
The air inside was warm and faintly scented with steam. A couple of other early risers were already there, but Damien paid them no mind. He stripped down and stepped under one of the showers, letting the hot water crash over him.
It felt like life itself was flowing back into his body. The soreness from yesterday's training was still there, but muted—evidence that the system's aura revolution had done its job. The heat worked at the tight knots in his muscles, and for a moment, Damien just stood still, eyes closed, letting himself breathe.
By the time he stepped out and dried himself, he felt human again. He dressed in the dark red suit uniform neatly laid out in his wardrobe, straightening the crisp lines with a care he didn't usually bother with. The red tie added a final touch of formality, and in the mirror, he looked exactly like what he was supposed to be—one of the academy's first-year students.
****
The Great Hall was already lively when Damien arrived. Long tables stretched down its length, and the air was thick with the sound of conversation. Students were gathering in clusters, chatting animatedly.
Damien picked a spot near the end of a table, away from the densest crowd, and began filling his plate. Bread, eggs, a bit of roasted meat—simple but satisfying. He sat alone, quietly eating while the noise of the hall washed over him.
Snippets of conversation drifted from nearby groups.
"I heard Professor Alen will be teaching elemental control this year—he's a High-rank Mystic!"
"Do you think we'll get to choose our own elective courses? My brother said there's a class on spirit beasts."
"What if we have morning training every day? I'm not a morning person…"
Damien chewed slowly, half-listening. The excitement was palpable. For many here, this was the start of their dream—the first real step on their path to power. For him, it was… different. Necessary, yes, but not something he intended to romanticize.
He caught sight of a familiar figure a few tables away—Virelius. The man looked exactly as sharp as he had the day before, dressed perfectly, posture precise, not a single hair out of place. There was nothing—absolutely nothing—in his expression to hint at what had happened last night.
To look completely normal after breaking into a student's room last night and torturing him..., Damien shook his head as he thought, before returning his attention to his own plate.
As he ate, he noticed something else—the hall was filled only with first-year students. No older students in sight.
Maybe they eat separately… or maybe they're already in classes. Hmmm... I remember hearing somewhere that except first-years, all other three years are given a lot of freedom. Either way, it meant the Great Hall was a purely first-year space.
He was halfway through his meal when the sound of footsteps, sharp and deliberate, cut through the noise. A woman had entered from the far side of the hall.
She was striking—tall, with blonde hair pulled into a high knot, and eyes the color of molten gold. The cut of her dark robes suggested authority, but it was her presence that made the hall quiet.
Without saying a word, she simply stood there, gaze sweeping the room. The nobles among the students reacted almost instantly—shoulders straightening, postures snapping into perfect alignment. A few even lowered their eyes in a display of deference.
Damien caught the subtle fear in their movements. Or maybe it was respect. Either way, they clearly knew her.
The commoner students, in contrast, remained their usual selves, still chattering or eating without a clue. Damien smirked faintly at the contrast.
When she finally spoke, her voice was cool and precise."You have 10 minutes to finish your breakfast. After that, you will follow me."
There was no argument. Soon chairs scraped back, trays were set down, and the students fell into an uneven line behind her. Damien followed at the edge of the crowd, curiosity prickling at the back of his mind.
****
They were led across the academy grounds to a vast, imposing building. Inside, the main hall was cavernous, its high ceilings and polished stone floors giving off a faint echo with every step. The woman stopped at the front, turning to face the sea of students.
"This will be your primary classroom building," she said. "There are ten sections in the first-year division—nine for Mystic cultivators, one for Body cultivators."
Damien's gaze swept the crowd automatically. Out of nearly a thousand students, only about a hundred wore the dark red uniforms of the Body Path. The rest were dressed in the dark blue of the Mystic Path. The disparity was stark, but not surprising.
Guess we're the minority, Damien thought, filing the observation away.
A student raised their hand. "Will Body and Mystic cultivators be taught together?"
"For some lessons, yes," the professor replied. "But core training will be separate. Each of you will have two classes per day, one hour each, for five days a week. In your first year, you will study five main subjects. Beyond that, you may choose up to five additional elective courses—one class per week each."
Damien considered that for a moment. A relaxed schedule, at least on paper. But the way she spoke, it was clear they were expected to spend their free time cultivating or practicing techniques. For him, the choice was simple—stick to the five mandatory subjects. He wasn't talented enough in other areas to spread himself thin. Nor did he have any interest in being a craftsman, researcher or a spirit beast contractor.
But it seemed all other Body cultivators were usually talented in atleast one of these professions, which resulted in them being selected in the Great Academy. He concluded this based on how surprised Albert was at the will of Gravemont Academy selecting him just for his talent in the Path of Strength.
"First-year courses are balanced to build your foundation," she continued. "But your progress will depend on how you spend your time outside the classroom."
She moved on, describing other resources available."There is a central library. Every student may choose one book per month to read. I recommend selecting a cultivation technique if you do not already have one suited to your Path."
A low murmur passed through the crowd at that. Even Damien felt a flicker of interest—access to techniques was no small privilege.
"And," she added, "you may join or create factions. Every six months, there will be a competition between all factions. Winners will be rewarded with resources, Body Arts, Weapon Arts, and Spells."
That made the crowd stir in earnest. The word competition always did.
Damien, however, didn't let himself get carried away. He wasn't here to join the academy's social games. His goals were simpler for now: grow stronger, understand the system better, and control his own pace.
The professor's golden eyes scanned the crowd once more."That is all for now. Your schedules will be delivered to your dormitories by this evening. Until then, you are free to explore the campus. Dismissed."
The crowd began to disperse, small groups forming immediately to chatter about electives, potential factions, or the mysterious figure of the professor herself. Damien slipped away quietly, preferring to observe rather than join the noise.
In the back of his mind, a thought lingered:A thousand first-years. A hundred Body cultivators. And in six months, we'll all be fighting for resources. This place isn't just an academy—it's a proving ground. And in a place like this, those who didn't prove themselves wouldn't last.
And Damien intended to prove himself.