Elizabeth rose with all the dignity of someone who absolutely knew she was above the rest of the room.
She handed me her textbook, spine aligned, page folded, like she was offering the royal decree to a mildly competent butler.
"Here, Professor," she said smoothly, her gaze flicking toward Zeke like she was passing him a live grenade. "I'll be reading with Zeke—if he doesn't find that problematic."
Zeke gave a grunt. The kind of grunt that said, I'd rather swallow glass, but I fear social consequences. Which was, frankly, the foundation of most aristocratic etiquette.
"Very considerate of you, Elizabethe," I said, with just enough grace to sell the illusion that I wasn't mentally cataloguing all the reasons she was a walking fire hazard.
Because sure—I may be a chaotic disaster of sarcasm and unresolved trauma on the inside, but on the outside? I'm a glowing paragon of professional mentorship. Or at least a vaguely responsible adult. That's the minimum bar in this dimension.
I took the book from her hand, thankful that I'd remembered this morning we were starting a new book today. A rare win for my scatterbrained survival schedule. At least now I wasn't being tossed mid-flight into some arcane theory chapter with zero context. Starting from page one? That was practically a luxury in this world—especially when demons might be watching you through your ceiling tiles.
"Alright, class. Open to Chapter One," I announced, dragging my voice into something approximating academic enthusiasm. "Today's topic: The What of Essentia. What it is. How it works. And why it's the one thing between you and magical organ failure. A recap of what I gave you earlier—only now with more diagrams and fewer jokes."
A chorus of rustling pages followed.
I lectured for about an hour — which is a long time when you're 40% caffeine, 30% existential dread, and 30% improvisation. I broke down the basics: what Essentia is, how we connect to it, and how it flows through our meridian points. Covered internal vs. external flow, basic diagrams, and why pulling raw Essentia without a filter is a one-way ticket to burnout. Touched on how we manifest it — intent, focus, will — and how the Grimoire channels that into actual spells.
Of course, this little textbook was barely more than a pamphlet with delusions of grandeur. A shallow, sanitized theory primer meant to give the kiddies just enough confidence to burn their eyebrows off.
It didn't hold a candle to the one I read in Jacob's collection—that thing read like the mad ramblings of a sleep-deprived genius who'd fought myths and won, then decided to write a user manual in his spare time.
Still, I had to give myself credit: it only took me a few hours to piece together a functional understanding of this world's magic dynamic. Not bad for someone who, less than a day ago, was transmigrated.
As the last fifteen minutes of class ticked down, I closed the textbook with a theatrical sigh.
"Alright, we've got fifteen minutes left before next period. Questions? Comments? Existential dilemmas?"
A chair scraped. A boy stood up.
He wasn't tall, wasn't short—just average in a way that almost made him disappear into the background. Probably fifteen. Definitely the youngest in the room. His uniform, while technically standard-issue, had that unmistakable tailor-didn't-make-this quality. Slightly too large, faded around the cuffs. The kind of clothing that said: hand-me-downs, not heirlooms.
His eyes were a sharp, almost luminescent green. The kind that usually came with prophetic dreams or tragic backstories. His hair—dark, a little messy—completed the look of someone who might accidentally trip into greatness or madness, depending on who trained him.
He raised his hand. Then spoke.
"Professor… why can't we channel Essentia without a medium?"
I looked at him—astonished.
Not because he spoke. Not because he was bold enough to ask a question.
But because out of everything I expected—a clarification on internal flow, maybe a recap of the structural models I just droned on about—he came out swinging with a question that veered so sharply off-road, it landed somewhere between forbidden theory and heresy.
"Why can't we channel Essentia without a medium?"
That wasn't a textbook question. That was a Jacob question. A "tear apart the framework of magical education and build something uncomfortably honest" question.
And the worst part? I didn't have a damn answer.
I knew, or at least I thought I knew, that the Grimoire was the bridge—your first spell, raw and reckless, works through sheer intent. After that, the spell's etched into the pages, becoming part of your personal magical lexicon. From then on, the Grimoire handles the heavy lifting. That's how it was explained. That's how everyone did it. Without question. Without deviation.
Except… me.
Except I never needed mine the first time. Or the second. Hell, I just willed things into being, and it obeyed, like reality itself forgot to argue. I figured I was a fluke. A bug in the magical matrix.
But now?
Now, a fifteen-year-old just poked a hole through the status quo like it was made of paper—and I didn't know how to patch it.
I smiled, even as my thoughts scrambled for something vaguely intelligent. I straightened my robe, adjusted my sleeves, and tried to look like someone who wasn't seconds away from openly Googling magic philosophy mid-lecture.
"Wonderful question," I said, voice crisp, clear, professorial. "Stand firm and state yourself once more for the class—since today, you did what others fear."
Was it performative? Absolutely.
Did I require him to say his name because my transmigrated brain still hadn't restored my memory buffer? Also yes.
He looked uneasy—not shy like Noelle, but not nearly as stage-hungry as Elizabeth. He had the quiet presence of someone who thinks before they speak, which, in this room, made him a unicorn.
He tugged at his uniform, tried to fix the crumpled collar, and stood a little straighter.
"My name is Luke Hamilton," he said, with a small bow. "I'm honored to be complimented by you, Professor."
A few students near the back exchanged glances. Someone hissed under their breath, "Commoner."
Lovely. Classism in stereo.
I ignored it and focused on Luke.
"Well, Luke," I said, stepping into my Harvard-academic-who's-seen-some-things voice, "your question is one that even great scholars avoid. Not because it's invalid, but because it's inconvenient. It's like asking why we don't breathe through our hands instead of our mouth and nose. The answer isn't in the biology—it's in the assumption. No one questions it, so no one looks deeper."
To be perfectly honest, everything I did know was courtesy of Jacob's writing. May god bless that mad bastard—his brilliance practically resurrected my magical IQ.
"I'm sure you've heard of Jacob," I said aloud. "The scholar."
Luke nodded. Several others followed suit, but one kid toward the back decided to contribute unfiltered commentary:
"Wasn't he stripped of his mage title and banned from practicing?"
Ah. Good. Let's all just shout rumors now.
I exhaled, slow and quiet, and answered with all the grace I could muster.
"Yes, he was. But he still retains the privilege to publish his work. And next time, please refrain from speaking without permission."
A few students giggled. Nervous laughter, the kind that blooms when authority sharpens its tone. Not that there was much to laugh about—unless, awkward tension was now comedic gold.
I cleared my throat.
"Anyway. The only author I've ever found even hinting at your question—at that level of magical theory—was Jacob. He's the only one brave, or reckless, enough to question the nature of the medium itself."
Not a total lie.
Just... editorial truth.
"So," I began, shifting my weight slightly and locking eyes with Luke, "if I were to answer you through the lens of every mage and scholar who's ever scribbled their name into magical history books—then no. Your question would be considered utterly ridiculous."
I let the pause hang for dramatic effect.
"In fact," I added dryly, "I wouldn't be surprised if the Inquisition came knocking right about now—dragging you away for some crime they made up on the spot. Those bastards do love their accusations."
That got a laugh from the class.
Even Luke, bless his bold little heart, gave a small smirk. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. But behind it, I could tell—he wasn't satisfied. Not yet.
He wanted a real answer. Not a punchline.
"Ah-ah, don't look away now, Luke," I said cheerfully, pointing at him like I was casting a spotlight. "That was only half the answer. And unfortunately for me, thanks to your question, I'll now be spending the next week buried in theory books trying to meet the absurd standards of this job."
A few students chuckled again. They thought I was joking.
I wasn't.
Not completely.
Being a nuclear physicist with absurd pattern recognition had its perks. Maybe I had photographic memory, maybe I didn't—but I did know I was frighteningly good at understanding things quickly. It's how I got a Nobel Peace Prize at thirty. And now here I was, being stumped by a kid in a uniform with threadbare cuffs.
So I straightened my posture, dropped the sarcasm, and spoke firmly.
"But," I continued, my voice clearer now, resonant, "if I were to answer you from my perspective... and from the perspective of Sir Jacob, and all the innocent scholars who dared to challenge the narrative..."
I looked him dead in the eye.
"Then yes."
Dead silence.
It rippled through the room like a dropped match in dry grass.
Even Elizabeth, who never stopped fidgeting or whispering, went still. Her expression twisted into something unreadable—half intrigue, half fear, like she was seeing me for the first time. Zeke's eyes were wide, fixed on me like I'd sprouted horns and begun speaking prophecy. No one moved. Not even to breathe.
And then—
Luke smiled.
A big, full, honest smile.
Not one of amusement, not polite, but the kind of smile that said: Finally. Someone else who sees the cracks in the world too.
A hand rose.
Not abruptly, not shyly. Gracefully—deliberately. As if the air itself had been waiting for permission to part around her.
A girl sat tall, composed, with her posture so perfect it could shame architecture. Her dark green hair shimmered faintly in the candlelight, every strand disciplined into a braid that suggested violence if tampered with. Her uniform, flawless. Her gaze? Cool, assessing, like she was already three counterarguments deep.
I blinked. Of course.
"Yes?" I said.
She stood only after I spoke. Not a second before.
"I am Aria Van Seraphin of House Seraphin," she said, tone calm and clipped, every syllable sharpened by years of courtly expectation. "And while I respect your perspective, Professor Viktor… I must wholeheartedly disagree."
I arched a brow. Of course she disagrees. Of course the tall, sculpted noble with silk in her voice and steel in her spine wants to challenge my entire philosophical stance fifteen minutes into our first class.
"Proceed," I said, motioning casually, though my mind was already half-preparing to dodge rhetorical daggers.
Aria stepped forward slightly, hands folded with scholarly elegance. She wasn't showboating like Elizabeth—this was different. This was someone who believed she was right because she had never been wrong.
"Essentia, by its nature, is abstract," she began. "It is not raw energy like fire or wind. It is not material like earth or water. It is the breath between thought and will. The force behind manifestation. That kind of energy cannot be shaped, directed, or released by human effort alone."
She paused, scanning the room. Noelle looked intrigued. Zeke looked like he was ready to pounce with a counterargument of his own. Luke? He was watching intently, jaw slightly clenched, but curious.
"A grimoire is not merely a 'medium,'" Aria continued, voice rising slightly with conviction. "It is a stabilizer. A regulator. A translator between the chaotic storm of Essentia and the fragile frame of the human caster. Without it, the body has no structure to handle the current. You cannot channel what you cannot hold."
Her gaze shifted to me. Calm. Measured. "Even you, Professor—and Sir Jacob, and whoever else came up with those theories—they're fascinating, sure, but they're anecdotal at best. The vast majority of humanity can't survive a direct connection to Essentia without backlash, degradation, or worse. It's not laziness. It's limitation."
I didn't interrupt her. I probably should've. But honestly? It was a damn good speech.
She folded her hands behind her back, her green eyes fixed on mine.
"Magic without a grimoire isn't enlightenment. It's recklessness. And worse—it gives false hope to those without the talent or constitution to survive the attempt."
The room was silent. Not stiff or awkward—charged. Like they all knew something important had just been said, even if they didn't fully grasp it.
Even I was impressed. Aria had just respectfully tossed a metaphorical glove at my feet.
I gave a low, appreciative nod, then smiled.
"Very well-argued, Miss Seraphin," I said, voice smooth and disarmingly pleasant. "You're wrong, but you delivered it beautifully."
A few students stifled laughs. Luke didn't. He was still staring at me, not mockingly—but expectantly. Waiting to hear what I'd say next.
And he would. Oh, he would.
Because now I had to explain why I'd broken the rules of reality, and why—despite all odds—I hadn't shattered under the weight of Essentia.
I let the silence stretch.
Aria Van Seraphin stood tall, unshaken, as if her argument had ended the conversation. Her answer had elegance, logic, and the type of certainty only centuries of tradition could buy.
But it wasn't truth. Not the whole of it.
I stepped away from the desk. No more barrier between me and them. The class hushed even more than it already was.
"Miss Seraphin," I began, my tone soft—calm, almost sympathetic. "If I still lived in your world, I'd be applauding."
A few students chuckled. Luke cracked a grin. Aria didn't move a muscle.
"But let me tell you something about laws written in gold," I said, my voice slowly tightening. "They look beautiful. Unbreakable. But sometimes, they're nothing more than old rope holding up a broken chandelier."
I paced slowly in front of the rows. Step by step. Thought by thought.
"You said casting without a Grimoire is impossible. That the body can't handle raw Essentia without a medium. That to do so is suicide. Madness. Myth."
I turned.
"But there are those who cast without one."
No more laughs. Even the air stopped moving.
"No ink. No script. No page to burn. Just will. And pain. And belief so raw it could slice space."
I looked her in the eye. "Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they are just the exception. But exceptions are just the start of new rules, aren't they?"
I walked toward the center of the room. "And let's not forget something the esteemed historians of Essentia conveniently gloss over—"
I raised a single finger.
"No one can fully explain where Grimoires come from."
Now they were listening.
"No documentation exists about the exact moment they became a necessity. No records of the first caster binding Essentia to paper. No texts from the early eras that say, 'Here, this is how we make magic readable.'"
I looked over my shoulder at the class, then back to Aria.
"Why do we need a Grimoire to control something that existed long before ink and script? You see the flaw? We act like the Grimoire is essential when it's the very history of magic that fails to prove why."
Aria opened her mouth—ready to counter.
I raised my hand with a subtle smile.
"But, unfortunately, the clock's blessed us with mercy. Class time is up."
She blinked, lips still parted. The argument paused. For now.
"We'll return to this discussion," I said, sweeping my gaze across the students, "when we next cover magical theory and the manipulation of raw Essentia. What we've discussed today—remember it. Think on it. But—"
And now my tone darkened, quiet but heavy.
"Let it stay here."
Some students stirred.
"I don't want to hear whispers in the room or outside. I don't want to hear your voices bouncing through the dorms like fire in a dry forest. Some ears—especially in this era—are prone to evil. Gossip is how eras burn. Don't be the spark."
They stilled again. Even Zeke, for once, didn't roll his eyes.
Now. Take out your next books for this period—Foundations of Elemental Discipline. I'll be gone for five minutes. When I return, I expect silence, readiness... and no talk of ghosts or whatever."
And with that, I turned toward the door, walked to it, and left—my robe trailing behind me like smoke from a dying flame.
Holy shit, that was one hell of a moment.This all ties back to my beloved savior—Sir Jacob. I got a good read on it while I was working on Zenos's Domain. I spent hours diving into theories—specifically those on Dark and Air elements, But I also read through several of Jacob's works on magical philosophy and theory.
I don't want to brag, but this guy right here? Exceptional memorization. Yeah, yeah—no need to compliment me. I know.
As I headed down the hall, intending to take a short breather outside, a sudden pain stabbed through my chest—sharp and searing, like a hot blade. I collapsed to my knees, clutching at my chest.
"Shit… where the hell did that come from?"I collapsed onto the floor. My eyes started bleeding excessively, twitching violently as they changed—morphing into the same damned eyes that eldritch, glowy freak gave me.
"Ahhh… shit, what's happening?!"
Suddenly, everything around me turned gray. Time itself seemed to freeze—nothing moved. Then, a figure appeared before me.
A man, clad in crimson attire like some kind of ominous uniform, stepped forward. Black, curved horns crowned his head like a symbol of dread. Two swords were sheathed behind him, crossed neatly across his back.
His hair was dark blue, and one of his eyes remained shut. A mask covered the lower half of his face. As he slowly approached, his voice rang out—deep, heavy, and full of mockery.
"Well, well, well... if it isn't my dear friend Viktor Eisenberg. Reciting heresies to innocent little children. You do realize, don't you, that if they so much as accidentally repeat your words in public… heads will be rolling across the ground?"
He sounded almost pitying, though the pain in my chest flared worse. I writhed on the floor, gasping, clutching at the heat stabbing through me.
"Who are you?" I rasped. "What did you do to me?"
I forced myself to lift my head and meet his gaze, but my body betrayed me. I tried to rise, only to collapse again.
"Oh, playing the fool now? Denial?" he sneered. "Have you already forgotten the deal you made with us?"
He took another step closer, drawing one of his blades with a chilling hiss. The steel gleamed as he leveled it at me.
"We gave you an ultimatum, and we are still waiting for your answer… Future Apostle."
Great. What kind of eldritch contract did past Viktor sign this time?
(Author's Note: If you're wondering how Viktor already seems this knowledgeable about the world—remember, the guy's got a sharp memory and spent hours last night studying magic, Essentia, and crafting, well… you-know-what spell. )