Dan Kessarin entered West Lecture Hall 2B as if the room had been waiting for him. The door swung open without protest, and the conversations inside faltered before he had even crossed the threshold.
It was the first morning of the new term at TROP, yet there was nothing tentative in his stride. His steps were measured, perfectly spaced, the sound of his shoes on the polished floor sharp enough to cut through the lingering chatter. A slim, unmarked binder rested in his left hand; his right remained in his coat pocket, a habit that somehow looked intentional rather than idle.
Dozens of cadets were already in their seats, their uniforms crisp, their faces still carrying the trace of morning fatigue. Dan's gaze swept across them in a single, unbroken pass. It carried no warmth, no flicker of recognition, only the steady weight of someone who was not merely looking, but quietly assessing.
He reached the front of the hall and placed the binder on the desk. The motion was slow, precise — too precise. There was an odd stillness to him, a kind that belonged less to the living and more to a finely tuned mechanism.
Tall and lean but not fragile, Dan carried his height in a way that made the space around him seem smaller. His posture was impeccable, shoulders set just so, each movement measured as though it had been rehearsed to the millimeter. He looked to be in his late twenties, but his demeanor seemed to belong to someone who had lived far longer. Ash-gray hair, neatly combed back, caught faint glints of the morning light, the color matching the controlled chill in his pale eyes. Even the way he adjusted his stance seemed calculated, as if every breath and shift of weight was an act chosen rather than instinctive.
For a moment, he simply stood there, the pale morning light outlining the sharp planes of his face. The silence stretched. Nothing in his expression shifted, yet it felt as though the room itself was being arranged around him, drawn into some quiet order that had nothing to do with authority and everything to do with presence.
It was dignified. It was cold. And it was just wrong enough that no one could put a name to why their shoulders felt a little heavier under his gaze.
Dan let the silence stretch just long enough for the last few whispers to die. Then, without raising his voice, he began.
"Good morning. My name is Dan Kessarin. I am your instructor for Space Theory this term."
He paused, not for effect but as if measuring the weight of his own words before continuing.
"By now, you should have some understanding of where you stand, if you were paying attention in your last class. For those of you who don't yet grasp the scale of where you stand… TROP is not simply an academy. It is the crucible in which the best of the best are tempered. Those who graduate here are not merely scholars or soldiers — they are humanity's front line against the Devils."
The last word landed with a quiet precision, the faintest shift in tone making it heavier than the rest.
"You will hear that word many times during your training. Some of you already think you understand it. You do not. Not yet. The Devils are not an enemy you can outmatch through brute force or clever theory alone. To stand against them, you must think and move in ways they cannot predict. You must become more than what you are now — sharper, faster, unwilling to break no matter the pressure."
He let his gaze move across the room, pausing just long enough on each student to make it feel as though he was speaking to them alone.
"You are not here because you were lucky. You are here because someone, somewhere, saw in you the potential to stand where others could not. Every decision you make in the years ahead — every drill, every class, every battle — will shape not just you, but the future of humanity itself. What you learn here will decide whether the line holds or collapses. And if it collapses… there is nowhere left to fall back to."
He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. His eyes began a slow sweep across the room, meeting each cadet's gaze for just long enough to leave them feeling examined. No flicker of approval or disapproval passed his face, only the measured stillness of someone taking inventory of far more than appearances.
When his gaze reached the right-hand row, it stopped briefly on Jack. Dan's expression didn't change, but there was a faint narrowing in his eyes, as if he were turning over some silent calculation. Then his attention shifted, falling on the Core Four seated together near the center. The pause was subtle, but there was a precision to it — the kind of moment where the air seemed to cool by a few degrees. He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze steady, unblinking, before moving on without a word.
Only then did he turn toward the board, uncapping a piece of chalk. His hand moved with a mechanical steadiness, each stroke exact and without hesitation. The letters took shape in crisp, clean lines:
SPACE THEORY
He set the chalk down and faced the class again.
"Who can tell me what Space Theory is?"
A young woman in the second row raised her hand. "It's the branch of applied mana mechanics that deals with spatial dimensions — how to map them, calculate transitions, and maintain stability during displacement."
Dan gave a small, precise nod. "Spatial dimensions. Mapping. Calculation. Stability," he repeated, his voice flat but steady, as though affirming a foundational principle.
"Does anybody agree or disagree with that explanation?" he asked, his gaze sweeping the room.
A boy near the back lifted his hand. "It's also the framework for advanced space magic — teleportation, folded supply routes, warp shielding. Without it, you can't start training in the higher branches."
"Framework for advanced magic," Dan echoed. "Teleportation. Folded routes. Warp shielding."
He let his eyes move again. "Other perspectives?"
Another cadet spoke up from the right side. "It's the mathematical structure behind spatial spells. The equations that make them stable in combat situations."
Dan's gaze settled briefly on the speaker. "Mathematical structure. Stability under combat conditions," he repeated, before looking back to the class as a whole.
Then, after a pause just long enough to feel deliberate, he spoke again — this time as if delivering the official definition. "Space Theory," he said evenly, "is the mathematical framework that governs the mapping, calculation, and stabilization of spatial dimensions, serving as the basis for advanced applications such as teleportation, folded supply routes, and warp shielding — all adapted for operational stability in combat."
There was no acknowledgment that every word had already come from the students. It sounded, in his voice, like the distilled product of experience.
He let the definition hang in the air for a moment, then stepped away from the desk, his hands loosely clasped behind his back.
"If that is what Space Theory is," he said, his tone unchanged, "then tell me this — why is it the first subject you are learning at TROP, and not the last?"
Several students exchanged glances, caught off guard by the sudden shift.
A hand went up in the third row. "Because… without it, higher-level magic in other branches can't be stabilized."
Dan repeated, "Without it, higher branches cannot be stabilized." His gaze slid to the far left row. "Other views?"
"It's the most adaptable," another cadet offered. "The same theory works in teleportation, barrier construction, even in Devil containment protocols."
Dan nodded slightly. "Adaptable. Works across applications. Containment protocols."
He looked over the class again, his eyes sweeping the room with the same slow precision as before. "So," he asked, "is Space Theory simply preparation for greater things… or is it the thing itself?"
Silence followed, the kind that felt less like confusion and more like the class was trying to answer a question they hadn't realized they needed to think about.
A few students glanced at each other, and more than one leaned back slightly in their chair, surprised by how the question reframed their earlier answers. Whispers stirred in the corners of the hall, quickly cut short when Dan's gaze passed over them.
"Let's go deeper," he said, moving toward the board again. "If Space Theory is both preparation and application, what does that imply about its limits?"
A girl in the second row hesitated before speaking. "That… there might not be any? That it could scale infinitely if the equations allow it?"
Dan repeated her answer, each word clipped and deliberate. "No limits. Infinite scale. Dependent on the equations." He turned slightly. "Disagreements?"
A boy in the back straightened. "Everything has a limit. It's just that we might not have reached Space Theory's yet."
Dan's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than was comfortable. "Everything has a limit. Unreached… for now."
The cadets seemed to take his repetitions as careful, deliberate affirmations — a way of chiseling their words into something sharper. They didn't notice that he never actually gave his own view, only returned theirs to them with an authority that made them sound wiser than they had when they'd spoken.
Dan's gaze swept the room once more. "If Space Theory governs space itself," he said, "then tell me — is it a weapon, or is it a shield?"
For a moment, no one moved. Then Jack leaned forward in his seat, his voice carrying quiet confidence. "It's both. A weapon when you control the space your enemy stands in. A shield when you keep them from controlling yours."
Dan gave a single, measured nod. "Both," he agreed. "Control theirs, protect yours." The repetition came with a faint emphasis, as if confirming the statement as fact.
Before he could prompt for another answer, Eva Sol of the Core Four spoke from the center row. "It's neither, if you use it right. The strongest space-user doesn't need to fight or defend — they decide where the fight even happens."
Dan's eyes shifted to her, and for the first time there was the barest flicker of interest. "Correct," he said. "Neither. Control the battlefield before it exists."
The cadets around her shifted in their seats, some casting sidelong glances her way. Dan's calm affirmation made it sound as though she had just voiced an unshakable truth.
The silence that followed was broken by a sharp knock on the classroom door.
No one moved at first, expecting Dan to ignore it — but after a pause, he turned and began walking toward the door. His pace was unhurried, the same deliberate cadence he had kept since entering the hall.
Another knock came. Louder this time.
By the time Dan was halfway to the door, the knocks had turned into three sharp raps in quick succession.
Then a voice, muffled but with an edge of nervous urgency, came through the wood. "Uh—hey, could you open the door? I'm—uh—kind of late here."
There was a pause, followed by a muttered, "For fuck's sake… hurry up," said low enough that the speaker clearly thought no one could hear.
Every cadet in the room heard it perfectly.
A ripple of quiet amusement passed through the seats. Dan reached the door, expression unchanged.
On the other side, Kez's muttering grew more frantic. "Come on, come on… Wait— is it actually unlocked? Maybe it's just… stuck or something." He jiggled the handle twice, frowning. "Yeah… stuck. Alright, bit more force should do it… just ease it—no, forget that, we're going in harder."
The wood shuddered as he gave it an impatient shove — and at that exact moment, Dan turned the lock.
The door swung inward faster than either expected, catching Dan squarely in the face with a thud. The impact knocked him off balance, his shoulder striking the doorframe before he hit the floor. The sharp sound echoed through the hall, followed by a collective intake of breath from the cadets.
Kez froze in the doorway, baffled. His gaze darted from the fallen instructor to the rows of staring cadets. He spotted Jack, Allexis, Stricoss, and the rest — every single one of them motionless, their eyes locked on him as if the entire room had been caught mid-breath.
His throat went dry. The silence pressed in, every heartbeat stretching longer than it should.
So he did the only thing that came to mind — he raised one hand in the air, forced a nervous smile, and said,
"…victory?"
Silence. Only silence ensured.