The following morning, the overcast sky pressed down on Sanctum Magna like a lid, the clouds thick and unmoving. Rain drizzled against the high windows, misting the academy grounds in a cold, grey haze.
Kyle barely registered the weather. He hadn't slept well—again. Every time he closed his eyes, smoke and flame clawed their way back into his dreams.
His nightmares were becoming more frequent.
Still, classes didn't stop for nightmares.
Kyle walked alongside Orin and Mirai through the South Corridor, heading toward their next joint class—Magical Control and Application. Professor Owl had made it clear: this subject was fundamental to every other branch of magical study. Mastering one's mana wasn't just about power—it was about discipline, restraint, and finesse.
"You okay?" Orin asked, nudging Kyle gently. "You look like someone stuffed you in a furnace, then dragged you back out."
"Thanks," Kyle muttered. "That's the look I was going for."
Mirai glanced at him briefly, her expression unreadable. "Sleepless night again?"
He didn't answer. Not directly. Just shoved his hands into his coat pockets and walked faster.
They arrived at the practice atrium—a vast indoor space lined with reinforced stone, glowing warded runes, and high balconies where upper-year students sometimes observed. Professor Owl was already there, standing on the central platform in his midnight-blue robes.
Mirai, having entered with the two boys, stood next to Professor Owl, somewhat answering the unspoken question about why she was always close to the lower-class students—aside from Kyle and Orin.
"Today's lesson," Owl said in his usual brisk tone, "will focus on controlled projection. You'll be partnered as usual. Controlled output, minimal collateral. Precision over power.
And before anyone asks—Mirai here is a teaching assistant for both mana theory and practical lessons, which is why she spends so much time with underclassmen."
Kyle nodded, appreciating the information he hadn't bothered to ask about before.
Back to the lesson. He didn't have to guess who he'd be paired with.
Chris Malloran approached from the opposite end of the atrium, eyes steady as ever, gloves already drawn tight. No smirk. No smugness. Just that maddening calm. He clearly understood the pattern by now.
Kyle rolled his shoulders and stepped into the dueling circle.
This time, I'll land something. Just once.
Professor Owl raised his wand to signal the start.
Chris moved like a whisper. A flick of his wrist sent a focused burst of wind toward Kyle, who dodged and retaliated with a flare of raw mana—not shaped, not clean, just raw force.
The result was predictable.
Chris angled his palm, deflecting the blast like water over stone. He countered with a pulse of concussive pressure—not even a proper spell—but enough to knock Kyle back a step.
"Breathe," Chris said quietly.
"Shut up."
Kyle pushed mana into his legs and lunged, swinging an arc of mana toward his opponent's left side—but it was sparking, unstable.
Chris didn't dodge—he absorbed the heat with a quick glyph, transmuting it into kinetic force and releasing it behind him in a flash that sent him sliding backward out of reach.
"I said breathe."
"Stop—talking—like—you know me!"
Kyle's next blast was clumsy, but faster. Chris barely batted it away, leaving a burn on his arm; he stepped inside Kyle's guard and lightly tapped Kyle's chest with his knuckle—just enough to send a gentle shockwave through his ribs.
Kyle stumbled back, gasping.
"Match over," Mirai announced from the sidelines.
Still out of breath, Kyle simply stared at Chris in frustration. His thoughts were a mess—so much so that you could almost see the gears grinding behind his eyes.
Damn it all. I can't keep blanking out like this. But that bastard—he acts like everything is fine, despite that burn.
Later, as the students returned to the lockers, Kyle sat alone on a bench, a towel draped over his shoulders. His jaw ached—from gritting it, not from any blow.
Chris walked by without saying a word. He only paused for a second, gave Kyle a sidelong glance, then kept walking.
Kyle hated that more than anything.
"Still no hits?" Orin asked, sitting beside him.
"Shut up."
"I mean, to be fair, he's got ten years of advanced magical training and you've got, what, two months of village-level spells and trauma?"
Kyle glared at him.
Orin raised both hands in surrender. "Hey, just saying. You're catching up faster than anyone else would."
Mirai joined them as they walked to lunch, tucking a loose strand of black hair behind her ear. "You know," she said softly, "Chris isn't trying to humiliate you. He could've gone harder. He didn't."
Kyle snorted. "He doesn't need to. Being perfect is humiliating enough."
"Is being a Malloran all that important for you to hate him like that? Professor Owl keeps matching you on purpose—and as much as I'm a TA, I'm also your friend. But you're failing him miserably every time he expects growth."
Kyle stopped walking, hands in his pockets but fists clenched.
"You have no idea what that bastard Duke Malloran has done, Mirai. I get where you're coming from, and I appreciate the sympathy." He paused, breathing sharply.
"But the day your family burns under the Malloran name, Mirai... is the day you'll understand the rage I feel."
He turned and walked toward the dorms.
"Where are you going?" Orin asked, a hint of worry in his voice.
"I need to calm down before I say anything more hateful. I'll see you guys later."
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Kyle sat through his remaining classes, but the words barely registered. Every lesson, every face, even Orin's attempts to joke things off in-between—it all felt distant.
The sting of frustration clung to him, and beneath it, something deeper: shame, and anger. Chris's voice echoed again in his head, not the words, but the maddening calm behind them. Breathe. Like it was that simple.
When the final bell rang, Kyle didn't go to the dining hall.
Everything feels so offbeat today.
Not feeling like socialising, Kyle simply grabbed a snack from the cafeteria and left. He didn't go back to the dorms—rather, he kept walking aimlessly in the academy halls. With no goal in mind.
The academy halls were quieter after dark—and that suited him just fine. Unknowingly, his feet led him back to that place again. The east wing. Drawn back despite himself. Despite the memory of whispers. Despite the cold.
This time, he used a light spell—just a faint orb of glowing mana hovering above his palm. A good form of practice for mana control.
He walked past the sealed archway again.
And stopped.
There was something scratched into the floor that hadn't been there before. A symbol—crude, hasty, but unmistakably magical.
Kyle crouched, frowning. It wasn't a glyph he recognized. It looked… old. Primitive. Not from any spellbook he'd seen.
As he reached to touch it, a cold jolt lanced through his fingers. Not pain. Not mana. Something else.
He pulled back.
Then he heard it again.
Whispers.
Low. Rhythmic. Like chanting.
They echoed from beyond the archway.
This time, he didn't lean closer. He stepped back, hand already forming a flare spell. The orb above his palm flickered… then dimmed.
And the whispering stopped.
He wasn't alone.
Kyle turned on his heel and bolted down the corridor, light forgotten. He didn't stop running until he reached the inhabited halls, breath ragged, spine crawling.
Back in the dormitory, Kyle tried to sleep.
He failed.
The rune. The whispering. That feeling—like something watching him through the stone.
It wasn't a dream this time.
If someone was using the academy's old wings for forbidden rituals…
He needed to know what.
And he needed help.
But from whom?
The next day, Kyle approached Mirai during breakfast. Orin was already deep in conversation with a first-year who had set her toast on fire.
"Hey," Kyle said quietly.
Mirai looked up from her slate.
"I wanted to say sorry for yesterday. I've been on edge lately… despite it only being the first week."
"It's alright, Kyle. I shouldn't have pushed your buttons. Curiosity isn't always a good thing, remember?" she said, smiling faintly.
"Well, I need a favor," he said. "Something's happening in the east wing. I think someone's been down there—doing something. Magical."
Mirai's expression didn't change, but her grip on the slate tightened. "Describe it."
He did. The rune. The whispering. The cold.
When he finished, she was quiet for a long moment.
Then she said, "Don't go back there alone."
Kyle blinked. "Wait. You believe me?"
Mirai stood. "I've seen that symbol before. Not recently. Years ago. It's… not from any modern spellcraft."
"What does it mean?"
She glanced around, lowering her voice. "It's associated with an old sect. Forbidden magic. Ritual binding. They were thought to be gone. The school purged them a long time ago."
Kyle's stomach turned. "You think they're back?"
"I think someone is trying to bring something back."
"And the professors?"
"They won't act without proof."
Kyle nodded. "Then we'll get some."
Mirai hesitated. "Be careful, Kyle. Some things… shouldn't be disturbed."