The world watched.
But Vanila chose to leave the noise behind.
Not the village. Not his friends. Not his strange, orbiting fate.
But the eyes. The questions. The titles. He needed clarity, control, and somewhere to focus. So he did what no champion, no priest, no noble expected.
He returned to school.
Dormis Arcana, the oldest magical academy on Varn Island, was carved into the cliffs of the east coast—half monastery, half fortress, all legend. A place where spell-cores were refined, where bloodlines dueled for pride, and where first sparks of magic were honed into mastery.
Vanila had enrolled there a year ago. Before the Cores. Before the gods stirred. He never finished the semester.
Now, he walked through its enchanted gates again, a different boy.
Students turned to stare the moment he passed.
Some bowed out of instinct. Others whispered like lightning behind his back. A few, wide-eyed first-years, followed him with open awe. The rumors had grown mythic.
"That's the Godbearer.""He walks with divine cores in his soul.""He killed a whole platoon of mercenaries in his sleep.""They say he's a living temple."
But Vanila said nothing. His uniform was plain. Crest covered. Hair bound back. He carried no staff, no tome, no badge of power.
Only himself.
He entered the old dormitory tower—Dorm Six, Third Floor, where magic fluctuations had earned him a room alone even before his awakening. The door creaked open as if remembering him.
Inside: dust, warmth, and silence.
The bed was still made.The walls still bore the faint marks of his first spell tests.And above his desk, the silver shard of his shattered mana stone—the one that cracked during his first day here—still sat where he left it.
He placed his hand on the wood.
"Back to where it all paused," he murmured.
Later that night, he stood under the arcane skylight in the Grand Study Hall, letting the starlight filter down over old tomes and echo-lamps. Serra had come by earlier, bringing his favorite mushroom-bread. Kael had left him a sketch of the fused crest, noting how its orbit patterns resembled ancient god diagrams.
He was surrounded by books now—some ordinary, others ancient and sealed in whisper-locks—studying, reading, preparing. Not for war. Not for ascension.
For understanding.
Because for the first time… Vanila wanted to choose his future, not be dragged by the weight of it.
But peace, even in study, is temporary.
That night, as the moons crossed over, a scroll arrived at the academy.
Marked with the sigil of the Royal Court of Solarion.
A summons.