A week into academy life, and Lucian had already caused an uproar.
Waved at the Flame Queen. Ate lunch with her. Got dragged out of class by the hand.
Now, whispers followed him like enchanted perfume. Speaking of her, they hadn't studied together in a while.
But that wasn't what caught his attention today.
No—today, it was a different kind of whisper.
A Year 1 Class D student.
Nicknamed the Broker.
Rumored to get you anything—spells, gear, secrets, forbidden snacks.
Even a copy of last year's exam for Intro to Magical Ethics.
"If you've got coin, the Broker's got connections."
Lucian filed the rumor away.
Took less than a day to track the source.
A rooftop garden – Tuesday, during break
An unused greenhouse above the eastern dorm tower.
Overgrown ivy coiled up rusted rails. Magical plants blinked lazily in the sun.
Someone had drawn containment runes in fading chalk along the garden beds—barely holding the flora in check.
Lucian stepped over a twitching vine.
And there he was.
The Broker.
Cross-legged on a crate. Silver-rimmed goggles pushed up on his head. An enchanted pipe smoldering gently between his fingers.
His robes were mismatched, one sleeve torn, boots scuffed like he'd sprinted through ten cities.
Lucian had expected a hulking, trenchcoat-wearing criminal.
This guy looked twelve.
"You're not dumb enough to want a love potion," the Broker muttered, not even glancing up. "So what's your poison, lad?"
Lucian snorted, stepping closer.
Lad? Look at you!
"Excuse me, but you're the actual Broker, right?"
"…."
"Never mind. I need dungeon gear. Light. Flexible. Quiet."
Now the Broker looked up.
Sharp eyes. Crooked grin.
"Oho. Quiet gear. You're planning a dungeon run?"
Lucian shrugged. "Not right away. But I like being prepared."
That earned a raised brow.
"Prepared and reckless. Lovely combo."
The Broker stood and tucked the pipe away.
"Alright. Hit me."
Lucian handed over a neatly written list.
The Broker skimmed it—eyes pausing halfway.
"…Custom sword?" he asked, smirking.
Lucian smiled faintly.
"Balance-tuned. Channel-lined. No magic edge. Just good steel.
And a grip that won't slip when things get bloody."
The Broker gave a slow whistle.
"Ballsy. I like it. I'll have everything ready by the end of the week. Friday or Saturday—depends."
Lucian nodded, then hesitated.
"…One problem."
The Broker rolled his eyes. "Lemme guess—you're broke."
Lucian sighed.
"Temporarily liquid-less."
"Mhm. Figure it out by Friday, storm-eyes."
He handed the list back—now stamped with a silver sigil.
"This is your claim slip. No gold, no gear. No exceptions."
Lucian pocketed it, already cycling through his options.
He'd figure it out.
Somehow.
As he walked away, the wind rustled the ivy. A student on a broom floated overhead, dropping an enchanted school newspaper page mid-air. It hovered, glittering slightly.
"FLAME QUEEN CAUGHT BLUSHING?
Mystery Mage Strikes Again!"
Below the headline: a dramatically inked sketch of Nerida, blushing, hand near her cheek...
And in the background?
Lucian, holding a mana apple like a rose.
He tilted his head.
"…They really got my good side."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wednesday – After Class
Golden light slanted through the tall windows of Class 1-A, catching dust motes and forgotten chalk notes in its glow. Tomorrow was a holiday. Most students were already gone—off to clubs, sparring sessions, or sleep.
Except two.
Lucian Valemire lounged in the front row, leg kicked up, rune-scroll floating lazily in the air. Across the room, Nerida Virellia stood at the board, chalking flame runes with razor-sharp precision.
"This right here," Lucian pointed, "is where you're losing pressure. Your ignition thread's flaring too early—like someone lighting fireworks indoors."
Her eye twitched.
"It's calculated flare. For punch."
He shrugged. "If by 'punch' you mean spell instability and the occasional boom… then sure. Very punchy."
Through clenched teeth, she muttered, "You might've been a better person if you shut your mouth more often."
Her inner flame surged—normally steady, now raging.
Lucian blinked.
Then grinned.
"Still a compliment. I'm keeping it."
Nerida didn't reply. But the chalk in her hand was visibly heating.
The room settled into quiet tension—magic, smoldering irritation, and the scratch of chalk—until students began filtering back in to grab their things.
Lucian gathered his scrolls and made his way to the back.
Then she spoke. Loud. Clear.
"Solstice Hall. Room 54. Left wing. Tomorrow night."
The room froze.
Gasps. Audible ones.
Even Lucian paused.
Then smiled, slow and smug. "Got it."
Someone near the door whispered, stunned:
"Bro. She gave him a location and a schedule."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Later That Night
Lucian sat cross-legged on the dorm room floor, surrounded by scrolls, notebooks, and rune-marked papers. The mana lamp beside him flickered, casting a lazy blue glow that lit up the words around him like floating stardust.
His research materials had formed a sort of orbit—Aether diagrams, dungeon theories, caster compression math, and now...
The gods.
At the center of it all, his black notebook lay open. Two lines freshly penned across the top of the page:
To-do:
– Develop short-channel burst spells for confined casting.
– Dig deeper on the gods. Might all connect.
He thumbed through a thin volume he'd borrowed on divine cosmology. Most students skimmed these for history class. Lucian read between the lines.
"There were five."
"Each tied to a dungeon element."
• Ignivion, the Flame God
• Terranos, Earth
• Aqualis, Water
• Zephyros, Air
• Voltrex, Thunder
But it wasn't that simple.
The Flame God, for example, wasn't always called Ignivion. In different regions, different times, different needs, he had worn different names:
• Vaelran, the God of War
• Thessar, the God of Survival
• Mellis, the God of Festivals
• Aurex, the Flame of Rebirth
Same god. Different face. Different flame.
That pattern repeated across the pantheon. Worship shaped their masks. Roles changed with kingdoms, cultures, and crises.
Lucian ran a hand through his hair, brow furrowed.
"Everyone says dungeons are curses left behind. But…"
He glanced at a sketched artifact—an ornate ring retrieved from a Water-type dungeon, said to grant breath in liquid mana.
"…Curses don't come with gifts."
He added a note to the margin:
"Possibly divine trials. Blessings twisted by Aether exposure?"
"Or… balance? Curse and gift?"
But there were no records of how the gods died. No myths explaining the Silence. Just echoes. Cracks. Aether spills that warped the world.
And dungeons that kept appearing like open wounds.
Lucian sighed, flicking his fingers. He summoned a Tier-One force compression spell—his sixth attempt tonight.
The mana gathered. It pulsed.
Then hissed out like a sigh.
Soft. But controlled.
"Better," he murmured. "Still weak. But at least it listens now."
He leaned back, rubbing his eyes, mind racing between gods and glyphs, power and pressure.
He didn't believe in divine wrath—not entirely.
But he did believe in patterns. In symbols. And something about these dungeons felt less like punishment...
And more like a puzzle.
He looked down at the notebook in his lap.
Then whispered, half-laughing:
"…If this ends with me talking to a dead god, I want a refund."
His eyes drifted shut.
Progress.