Morning broke through the cracked window of Ansel's dorm room, painting the stone walls in hues of pale gold. He awoke with a quiet determination, the memory of yesterday's bruises still fresh on his body—but even fresher was the fire inside him.
Today was the beginning of his real journey. His first class: Magical Theory.
He washed quickly with the cold water in the basin, dressed in the academy's standard uniform—dark robes with silver threading—and packed a quill, parchment, and the magical basics book his mother had secretly included in his bag. Before stepping out, he ran a hand through his unruly black hair, letting it fall just above his violet eyes.
"Today, I'll prove I belong."
As he made his way across the grounds, the academy bustled with activity. Noble children walked in confident clusters, laughing and gossiping, while the lesser-ranked students trudged behind them, books clutched tightly to their chests. Ansel passed groups that whispered and stared, some mocking his plain robes and unfamiliar face.
He found his classroom—Lecture Hall F, tucked away near the alchemy wing. The door creaked slightly as he stepped inside.
Rows of worn wooden desks stretched across the room. A few dozen students were already seated, most of them from lesser noble houses or servant backgrounds. Some sat stiffly, others whispered nervously among themselves.
Ansel walked quietly to an empty seat near the middle. He paused as he noticed a girl sitting alone, two seats from the edge. Her black hair was tied in a simple braid, and her emerald green eyes glanced toward him with quiet curiosity. Her robes were patched—clearly worn—but her posture was poised.
"Is this seat taken?" he asked softly.
She shook her head. "No. You can sit."
He offered a slight smile. "I'm Ansel."
A hesitant pause, then she replied, "Reena. Reena Kallor."
They exchanged polite nods. Ansel could sense the weight she carried—the same invisible burden of being low-born in a place built for elites.
Before they could speak further, the doors swung open with a loud bang.
A tall figure strode into the room, boots echoing against the stone floor. He had long, rough brown hair tied at the nape of his neck, a scar down one cheek, and eyes like polished obsidian—cold, unreadable.
He slammed a thick book onto the front table.
"I am Professor Halric Grend," he said, his voice gravelly and sharp like chipped stone. "Senior instructor of Magical Theory."
His eyes scanned the classroom like a hawk surveying prey.
"Now, why am I wasting my time teaching the likes of you?" he growled. "Mana readings from this class were pathetic. Some of you barely register above a flickering candle."
He looked directly at Ansel, who met his stare without flinching.
"Especially you," Halric muttered. "I've seen tree bark with more magical potential."
Snickers echoed through the room. Reena flinched, but Ansel remained still.
Halric moved to the chalkboard and scrawled a word in large, jagged letters:
Essentia.
"This is where your journey begins," he said. "Essentia—the source of all magical flow within a living being. Without it, you're nothing more than a breath of air in a hurricane."
He turned back to them.
"Some of you come from noble blood. Don't expect that to carry you far here. Magic cares little for titles."
He paced the front slowly.
"This class will separate those with potential from those wasting time. Fail to grasp the fundamentals, and you will be expelled before your first month ends."
As the lecture began, Ansel wrote feverishly. Halric's harsh tone and cutting insults didn't shake him. He soaked in every word—how mana formed within the body, how it reacted to emotions, and how certain ancient chants could trigger internal flow.
When the class ended, Halric left without another word. Students filed out in silence, some shaken, others indifferent.
Reena glanced at Ansel. "You didn't react. When he called you out."
Ansel smiled faintly. "I'm used to it."
She hesitated. "You're… different from the others."
"So are you," he replied.
She looked away, but a small smile touched her lips.
Outside, the wind rustled the trees along the academy's outer courtyard. Ansel stood beneath the rising sun, his notes clutched tight in his hand.
One step forward. One class down.
The path would be brutal. But he had begun walking it—and he wouldn't stop now.