"Magic and mana application will be the backbone of your awakened life."
Alexander let the sentence sit, hands in his jacket pockets with a loose posture.
"It decides whether you get to walk away," he continued, pacing the front row. "Whether you protect someone, or watch them die. Whether your desire to achieve something is wishful thinking or an actual possibility."
He stopped near the board, glanced over the class through his sunglasses, then tapped the air above a desk with one finger.
"Observing the way you tackled the entrance of the tower. Most of you are doing it backwards," he said. "You're trying to apply your mana immediately. As if it's a machine. Some of you tried to control it with repetition, like it's a part of your body."
"Here's the annoying part," he went on, mouth curving. "Mana isn't a lever. It's not a muscle. It behaves more like… a living thing."
He curled his fingers once, slow, as if catching something invisible, then opened them again.
"When you try to force it, it does what any sensible creature would do." He shrugged. "It stops listening."
Alexander drifted along the rows, reading our faces.
"Naturally, some genius a few centuries ago decided this meant we needed theories to get the Mana to listen to us", he chucked almost fondly. "Humanity as a whole fell for that. We created complex models and diagrams to map our mana pathways. Began learning magic in a limited way that followed a strict regime, and clung to our intricate spell circles that were completely useless at best and decorative at most."
He leaned his shoulder against the board for half a second, then pushed off again.
"Don't get me wrong. Theories aren't worthless," he added. "They exist because most people can't bridge the gap between technique and intuition. So they rely on theories to do it for them."
His head tilted.
"But doesn't that strike you as odd? We as a race questioned our very nature. Why? A fish never doubts that it can swim. A bird never doubts that it can fly," Alexander shrugged, "Of course, they do need a little push at the start, but don't we all?"
A few people breathed out through their noses.
Alexander's tone softened.
"The conclusion I came to is simple. I won't be teaching you those theories."
"If you want to memorise magic from a book," Alexander added, "you can do that in your own time. The grand library's big enough to swallow you whole."
"Because this class is for the part that no book can do for you. The first thing I intend to teach you is simple. Magic is alive. It reads you," Alexander continued, voice steady. "In an instant, no less. But not your talent. Not your skill. Just you, under the mask you're wearing for everyone else."
"Once magic determines your nature. It either grows closer or becomes distant."
"So." Alexander's gaze moved slowly, and the sunglasses made it hard to tell where he was looking until he stopped.
"What's the qualification that it judges?"
His finger angled toward me.
"You, clever boy", he said. "Your name?"
I was startled and cleared my throat. "Noah Reed."
"Cadet Reed. Could you answer the question?" Alexander waited patiently.
I felt the room pivot; everyone's eyes landed on me. But the boy near the front who'd arrived before the rest didn't move at all. I took a breath to calm my nerves and thought back to the library.
'Initially, the pen was difficult to move. But the reason it had worked was that I had learned to somewhat accept magic.'
"Belief," I said. "It judges by belief. If you don't fully believe it will respond, it won't."
For a heartbeat, the room was still.
Alexander's sunglasses dipped slightly as he looked at me over the top edge, as if he wanted to make sure I hadn't guessed by accident.
Then he smiled, slow and genuine.
"Full points," he said.
Heat crawled up the back of my neck. I nodded once and lowered my gaze. I could already feel the eyes on me.
He straightened and faced the room again. Alexander clicked his tongue, "How lucky. Since one of you got the answer. Now we don't have to spend four hours talking about it. Ah, but I do have something else planned."
Alexander reached towards the lectern on the left side of the room and pulled out a bag of curious items from within its shelf.
Then he let go. The bag emptied, spilling out trinkets, coins, and wooden cutlery into the air. But instead of falling, they all seemed to rise upwards. He flicked a finger, and the objects flew out, scattering themselves evenly, one for each desk.
"For the rest of the four hours," he said. "If one of you manages a proper rotation of the object above your palm, the lecture ends. You all get to leave early and probably catch the lunch rush."
He paused, with a smile.
"Before you ask," he added, "throwing your object and claiming it spun midair doesn't count."
He glanced toward the front row, where the boy who'd been seated before everyone else was sitting with arms crossed.
"Needless to say", Alexander pointed to me, and then the boy, "Noah is exempt from this challenge. So is our early bird. You two are spectators. But try not to look pleased with yourselves."
"Alright," Alexander said, clapping once. The sound snapped through the room. "Less grumbling and start."
He nodded toward the scattered objects.
"Pick whatever object you've gotten and get to practising."
-
Chairs scraped softly as everyone picked up an object and focused their thoughts on making it spin.
Kai chose a spoon, and his focus narrowed on it until the rest of the room stopped existing to him.
Sara sat with her palm open and still, eyes fixed on a coin as if she were waiting for it just to act. Mira held a fork between two fingers first, then set it down and patiently tried again.
The bruised boy ahead of me was gripping what looked to be a wooden block and hissed at his hands, likely trying to channel his anger to make it move.
'That probably won't work.'
I looked across the room, and Nico studied a knife that lay across his palm, handle balanced, blade angled slightly upward. He kept his shoulders loose, gaze half-lidded, as if he was doing this to kill time rather than learn.
My eyes narrowed, I observed him for a little while longer, and eventually sighed and lowered my head to rest it on the table.
The room settled into the sound of effort. Quiet grunts. Low mutters that weren't quite words. There were occasional sharp exhales, but just as I'd look up, nothing would happen.
My eyes finally caught some movement near the front.
The blond boy who'd been seated before all of us yawned into his fist. He turned his head and looked straight at me.
We held it for a second. Then he looked away.
'Looks like he's also bored. But something about him seems...familiar.'
I couldn't quite place my finger on it. And no matter how hard I tried, no recollection of him came.
Time stretched.
Alexander wandered between rows, not hovering over people, not correcting every mistake, letting them struggle until they found what worked for them. When he did speak, it was brief, aimed at correcting someone's posture or the way they were holding their breath.
"Relax your shoulders. You're not lifting a boulder."
"You're staring at it as if it owes you money. Stop. Your eyes can't communicate your intentions."
"Breathe. Mana doesn't like desperation."
An hour slipped by, and just as everyone was still consumed by their own efforts.
I saw Nico's knife lift in the corner of my eyes.
It swiftly rose a finger's width above his palm and began to rotate, steady and clean, the blade turning through the air as if it had found its own axis. But Nico's expression didn't change. His fingers stayed loose, and his eyes barely tracked the motion.
'This guy... he was definitely faking it earlier.' I exhaled through my nose and stretched my arms.
Alexander clapped once, sharp enough to snap heads around.
"Well, well", he said, pleased in that infuriating way. "Look at that. Someone in this room was a bit mischievous."
The knife continued to spin above Nico's hand.
Alexander shot him a glare, but then shook his head. "Whatever. Congratulations. You've all earned yourselves an early exit."
A few students sagged in relief. Others looked annoyed, as if they'd been robbed of the chance to prove they could do it too. Kai's gaze stayed pinned to Nico's hand, studying the rotation intently. Sara's expression didn't shift from her hand, but her attention sharpened.
On her side, Mira and the bruised boy both didn't pay any heed to Alexander's words, still diligently practising.
Alexander lifted both hands, palms outward and cleared his throat.
"Before you all sprint out," he said, "I do have to give you a reminder."
"This exercise looks childish," he continued. "Until you're in a fight and the enemy thinks they've got you measured. But if you can control objects from a distance, even an inch at the wrong time can turn the tide when you least expect it."
His gaze moved across the room, landing briefly on each cluster of students.
"And yes," he added, lighter again, "if you do master this, you'll crawl toward more advanced applications. Slowly but surely. Welcome to your life."
"Lastly. The applications of Magic and Mana are not limited to just battle," Alexander said. "Though that is the primary means of using it, there are many more wonderful and dreadful applications of both that we've seen throughout history."
My attention lifted.
Alexander raised a finger, "One such example would be the restriction on writing down Magical Knowledge."
Instantly, Delkira's warning in the library came back with unpleasant clarity. No notes. No tools. Only reading.
'I'd assumed it was the library being pedantic, but was there more to it?'
Alexander saw the shift in a few faces and nodded, as if he'd expected it.
"Some of you already know why," he said. "For the rest who might be ignorant, here's the short version."
He leaned back against the blackboard with a sombre look and looked up, as if recalling something.
"A hundred years ago, a high-ranking demon cast a curse that changed how humanity shares magic. The demon was called the Archivist.
"The curse wasn't complicated," Alexander continued. "But it was a cruel and shrewd application of magic that shocked everyone."
He tapped his temple once with a knuckle, then dropped his hand.
"The curse was simple. Write down new magical knowledge, and it becomes visible to him. Not immediately. But it leaks one way or the other. Sooner or later, it reaches him."
A quiet unease moved through the class.
"And when the Archivist fully mastered this knowledge", Alexander added, "it stopped being ours. Techniques disappeared. Methods degraded. Whole branches of magical research collapsed because the people who built them had their knowledge stripped from their minds."
Alexander took a pause. His silence alone was deafening; he'd painted a wicked picture, one that the class helplessly conjured in their own minds. Then he lifted his wrist slightly, his band catching the room's light.
"That's why you're wearing these," he said. "Projection. Audio. controlled access. We teach without leaving ink behind."
He rolled his wrist once, as if weighing the object's history.
"After the Archivist's curse, people tried everything. Codes. Invisible inks. Dead languages. Burning pages the moment you read them." His mouth curved wryly. "Those kinds of solutions that admittedly looked clever, but never really worked out."
He tapped the band with a knuckle.
"But two decades after the curse, a man named Lachlon Normon figured out a different application of magic that overturned everything we knew about mana. Through it, he figured out how to project text through mana consistently and without using expensive materials." Alexander's gaze drifted across the class. "His methods left behind no written trail. No ink to leak. The first bands were crude and ugly, but they worked."
He let his hand fall back to his side.
"His invention has grown so widespread that now the Coalition prefers projection, audio briefings, and live instruction through his devices."
Alexander tapped his temple again.
"This means that humanity's greatest crisis and its greatest breakthrough were both brought about by a creative application of Mana. And it goes to show why even the simplest of things, such as mana control, can make the biggest of differences."
Mira raised her hand.
Alexander pointed at her. "Go on."
Mira stood, composed. "I've heard of the curse," she said. "But if we can't write magical knowledge down, why are there books in the Grand Library. I read some yesterday."
Alexander's mouth twitched as if he approved of the question.
"Because the Archivist isn't omnipotent," he said. "The curse has a boundary."
He held up two fingers.
"First," he said, "it applies to knowledge written after the curse was cast. Anything older than a century is safe. Old grimoires, old memoirs, old spellwork notes. They're relics now. Precious because they can't be replaced the same way."
He dropped one finger.
"Second," he continued, "that safety created a habit. Families hoarded old books like weapons. Kept them private. Treated knowledge as inheritance."
'With a world at war, people resorted to hiding what could have saved others.' My brows furrowed, 'It's ironic, but I can see why they tried keeping it for themselves. Perhaps it gave them a false sense of security.'
"That weakened humanity," Alexander said, not accusing, just stating it. "So, twenty years ago, the Coalition opened secured libraries. The Grand Library and a handful of others contain centuries-old grimoires that allow awakened across the continent to share knowledge and learn from the greats."
Mira's eyes brightened as understanding dawned on her.
The rest of the class also gasped in realisation.
Alexander clapped once, lighter now. "Alright, class dismissed. Don't forget to practice in your own time."
As chairs shifted and students began to move towards the door, Alexander waved them off. One by one, students inched across the door and jumped into the Void, stumbling through the modified gravitational field that yanked them down and shot them back up like a spring.