Kyle's morning began like any other.
He pulled on his uniform, tied the jacket loosely, and swept a comb through his tangled hair out of sheer obligation. Outside his window, the cold light of morning crept over Ardenhall, throwing long shadows across the eastern spires of Sanctum Magna.
He arrived at Magical History on time. The lecture hall was already half-filled with students shuffling parchments and muttering spells to keep their ink from freezing. Professor Malloran stood at the front, fussing with his lecture orb, his spectacles perched precariously on the tip of his nose.
Kyle slid into his usual seat near the middle—within earshot, but far enough from the front to avoid being noticed.
But today, no one noticed him.
Or rather—they went out of their way not to.
The seats around him, usually crowded, remained empty. Conversations stopped when he got close, only to start again in a different direction, as if his presence sucked the warmth out of the room. Even the students who had once shared notes with him, laughed at his clumsy jokes, or partnered with him for class assignments now refused to meet his eyes.
Malloran was the only one who offered any acknowledgment. A glance. A brief pause in his lecture when he noticed Kyle's expression. Then the professor cleared his throat and resumed his talk on the use of enchantments in pre-cataclysmic architecture.
By the end of class, Kyle had written two full pages of notes and absorbed nothing.
The bell chimed.
Chairs scraped back. Students filed out.
None approached him. None spoke.
Except Mirai.
"You're not invisible to everyone, you know," she said quietly, stepping beside him. Her voice carried enough sympathy to bruise.
Kyle stood slowly, jaw clenched. "They're treating me like I've got a curse."
She hesitated. "There are... rumors. Ugly ones. Someone claimed they saw dark mana swirling around you during the duel."
He turned away, eyes fixed on a crack in the tiled floor. "Figures. One freak accident, and now I'm cursed and inhuman."
"You're not," Mirai said. "And you didn't use dark mana."
"They don't care. For all I know, maybe I did."
The two walked through the corridor in silence. From nearby halls, Kyle caught the low murmur of students whispering behind walls and doorways.
"...disgusting commoner..."
"...Voidspawn. Should've stayed where you came from..."
"...how is he still allowed to be here..."
Each word struck like a cold slap.
Kyle stopped walking. His fists were clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms.
"I didn't ask for any of this," he said, voice trembling.
"I know," Mirai whispered. "But that doesn't matter to people who need someone to blame. You scared them, Kyle."
He turned to look at her, something sharp flickering in his expression.
She placed a hand on his shoulder, firm but warm. "Then give them something to respect instead."
Kyle didn't reply. Why should I accommodate their lack of a brain?
But he nodded.
At the same time, two people found themselves in the basement level of the Sanctum—around the alchemy tower.
The walls of the old chamber were etched with runes and cluttered with arcane equipment that pulsed with a low, amber light. The smell of scorched herbs and volatile ingredients hung thick in the air.
Professor Tepes stood at his worktable, sleeves rolled high, hands stained with ink and alchemical grime. His face—always pale—was lit by the ghostly glow of a crystallized mana bulb overhead. Sharp cheekbones cast sharper shadows.
Behind him, the iron door creaked open.
"You're late," Tepes said without turning.
"I was being watched, as always. You know they don't trust me since I'm around you so much," Luwen replied smoothly, stepping in.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Tepes kept his back turned as he funneled a thick, glowing fluid into a narrow-necked vial. "Well? Speak. What do you make of our unstable little prodigy?"
Luwen's eyes gleamed in the low light. "He's interesting. Resilient. And raw. He doesn't know what he is—but something in him scares the others. That alone makes him useful."
Tepes finally turned, vial in hand. He studied Luwen carefully, his black eyes unreadable.
"He's more than useful," the professor said, voice a quiet snarl. "He's a splinter in the eye of the academy. The kind they can't ignore. The kind they'll regret underestimating."
"You think he'll break?" Luwen asked.
Tepes smirked, a grim, joyless thing. "No. I think he'll evolve. And when he does... he might burn this whole rotting institution down with him."
He set the vial aside and moved to the far wall. A hidden panel slid open with a gesture, revealing a locked cabinet. Inside: documents, journals, maps. A long-dormant project.
"My work was revolutionary," Tepes whispered, pulling out a battered ledger. "Decades ahead of their pathetic councils. They paraded me in front of donors, claimed my research as academy property, then discarded me like spoiled fruit when it threatened their control."
His hand tightened around the spine of the book.
"I gave them blood. Innovation. Vision. And they gave me silence. Obscurity."
He looked over his shoulder at Luwen, voice low with conviction.
"But Veylan—he was the worst. That traitor wore my ideas like a crown. Used my spell theories to ascend to Dean of Thaumatics, and now principal, while I was locked away here… a ghost in the basement."
Tepes reached for another vial—this one darker, its contents swirling like ink in water.
"No more. The time for waiting is over."
He held the vial up, shadows dancing across his face.
"Sanctum Magna will choke on its arrogance. And Veylan..." His lips curled into a quiet snarl. "The time for that fool to reap the fruit of his betrayal is near."
He turned to Luwen.
"Keep watching the boy. Nurture him, if you must. We'll need him strong... and angry."
Luwen nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"And if he doesn't cooperate?" he asked.
Tepes placed the vial down carefully, eyes glinting like flint on steel.
"Then he'll still serve his purpose—one way or another."