The first class began earlier than expected.
The academy didn't announce schedules with bells or horns. Instead, doors opened on their own, and instructors simply appeared—as if time itself had adjusted to them.
The classroom was wide and tiered, stone desks rising in gentle steps. Mana-lit windows lined the walls, filtering pale morning light into something softer. The air felt… trained. Like it had been conditioned to hold spells without resistance.
I took a seat near the middle.
Aeldir listened.
Every movement. Every breath. He cataloged without comment, quietly building a map of faces, habits, and intent. I let him. Observation was his strength—endurance was mine.
The instructor arrived without introduction.
An older man. Broad shoulders. Calloused hands. A faint scar running across his jaw.
"Ignis Draken," he said simply. "Former A-rank. You don't need my résumé."
Some students straightened. Others swallowed.
"Books won't save you here," Ignis continued. "This academy teaches application. If you want memorization, leave now."
No one moved.
"Good."
He paced slowly. "Tell me—how many ways can magic be used in combat?"
Silence.
Lysandria raised her hand. "Two. External spellcasting and internal reinforcement. Either overwhelm the enemy or become something they cannot overcome."
Ignis nodded. "Incomplete. But intelligent."
He turned. "Magic is not an element. It's permission. Mana allows you to interfere with things your body cannot."
He stopped.
"Blood. Bone density. Thought transmission. Muscle timing."
The room stiffened.
Aeldir's focus sharpened.
"Anyone without restraint will become a monster," Ignis said calmly. "Anyone without imagination will remain mediocre."
The lesson continued—mana flow, internal resistance, failure cases. Not once did he mention spell ranks.
When class ended, I didn't stand immediately.
Fatigue crawled behind my eyes.
Aeldir noticed.
You're pushing it, he said quietly.
Not yet.
---
By noon, Lysandria had already registered for six disciplines.
Creature Studies.
Combat Training.
Potion Crafting.
Mental Fortification.
Discipline Theory.
Spell Construction.
Kael stared at the list. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"
She smiled politely. "No. I'm trying to avoid wasting time."
I said nothing.
Spell Construction was held in a smaller chamber, warmer than the rest. The instructor was a half-elf woman, golden hair tied neatly behind her back. Her presence was gentle—but precise.
"Spells are not commands," she began. "They are negotiations between imagination and mana."
She drew a simple sigil in the air. It shimmered—and vanished.
"Rank is not power," she continued. "It's complexity sustained."
I raised my hand.
"If imagination is the source," I asked, "why aren't there more S-rank spells?"
She smiled. "Because most minds cannot hold detail under pressure. Color, texture, velocity, resistance, aftermath—lose one, and the spell collapses."
A student asked, "Why can't mana be adjusted freely?"
"Because if it could," she replied, "S-rank wouldn't exist. One S-rank spell holds more refined mana than ten D-rank mages combined."
That day, I gave control to Aeldir.
"Stay awake," I told him. "I'll rest."
He hesitated. "You're shaking."
"I know."
When I woke again, it was midnight.
The lake was quiet.
Nyx slept on the dock, curled tightly.
I called to the Curse Weaver.
Permission came with conditions.
One hour.
Restricted output.
Debt enforced later.
I accepted.
Standing at the center of the lake, I began crafting.
Not a spell I remembered—one my body recognized.
Water answered first.
Then vapor.
Failure followed. Again. And again.
On the one hundred and tenth attempt, the domain stabilized.
A pulse.
Condensed vapor sharpened, launched—and struck me.
Pain bloomed.
The hour ended.
Control snapped back.
I collapsed, vision dimming.
Somewhere above, someone watched from a window.
They said nothing.
By morning, the lake was calm again.
And no one mentioned what shouldn't have been possible.