I go to a normal school.
Well, "normal" if you ignore the teleport gates near the front steps, the kid with molten hair in year ten, and the vending machine that dispenses potions if you kick it twice and whisper the right keyword.
The school walls hum faintly if you press your ear against them. Mana—like water in the pipes.
I tried it once. Got weird looks. Never did it again.
Our school's official name is Eidris Grand Reformatory for Mana Advancement, but everyone just calls it EGR High. "High" makes it sound normal. It's not. This place is where the top 0.01% of magical society send their prodigies, their golden children, and their soon-to-be-warriors. Think prep school, but enchanted, reinforced, and probably sentient.
The courtyard is made of runed marble that glows in the rain. The air is always perfectly clean. No trash. No loud announcements. No tension—at least none that shows on the surface.
I walk in through the west gate. Always do. The east one's closer to the teleport circles, and that's where the top kids arrive in style—hover boards, glyph-summoned chariots, even blink-step arrivals with personalized color flares. I don't mind walking. Gives me time to think.
I'm not part of their world. I got in through a favor. A technicality. A miracle wrapped in nepotism.
My uncle, who I see maybe twice a year, called in something with the vice president of the Guild of Verdance. Got me a slot here. No entrance tests, no background checks. Just a quiet signature, a sealed letter, and suddenly I was standing in front of the gates with a slightly-too-big uniform and a mana watch.
No one ever asks how I got in.
They just assume I'm another hidden elite.
I let them assume.
My first class is Mana Flow Theory. The instructor has a cane made of reinforced skywood and a voice like melting gravel. Everyone sits straight. No one dares fall asleep here—not unless you want your consciousness flicked into a pocket dimension for the next two hours. It's happened.
We take notes. We sketch out imaginary circulations. We're told to "feel the flow" of the diagrams.
I try. I don't feel anything.
First period is Theoretical Spellcasting. The instructor drones about spatial stabilization, blackboard diagrams twitching behind him like nervous ghosts. The girl next to me, Amari, keeps whispering little jokes under her breath. I don't laugh, but she keeps doing it. I think it's for her own benefit.
Then it's Combat Constructs. We're assigned simulated duels—three on three. My team loses. I get tagged out early.
"Next time, Kael," the instructor says. "Try being a little more aggressive with your casting."
I nod. Sure. I'll try.
We both know I won't.
By third period, the school's personality shows. Groups form fast here. Legacy students drift together. The high-magic families sit in silent trios. The one fire-born kid sits by himself because the heat makes normal students dizzy. Then there's me.
Kael, with his "emotional resilience" and a barely-functioning spellbound pen.
I sit near the back. Always have. Never last.
I like it there. Quiet. Unimportant.
Safe.
It's in the middle of the school day—during lunch, I think—when Kenji Sakamoto walks past me.
I don't notice at first. No one does. He's not loud, not flashy. He wears the same school uniform, polished but simple. His shoes don't even make sound on the tiles. But then, slowly, like gravity shifting, every conversation in the courtyard drops to a whisper.
Some glance. Most look away. One or two smile at him and pretend it's casual.
Kenji doesn't speak. He just walks to the far bench under the mana-shaded tree and sits down. Alone.
He's in my class. Same year. Same room. Just—different universe.
Kenji's what people call a "Once-in-a-Century Talent." He doesn't just cast spells—he commands them. Elementals obey him without circle binding. Raw mana bends before he shapes it. Some say he's immune to curses. Others say he's already invented two new spell systems and handed them in early.
His father is a core member of Black Sigil, the most powerful mana guild in the world. Not one of the best. The best. No contest. Their members end wars, guard city-hearts, and wield ancestral spellcraft that's older than most bloodlines.
If Kenji wasn't underage, he wouldn't be here. He'd be in a borderland military unit, or scouting dimensional rifts. The only reason he is here is because law says he must complete two more years of formal education. Even if no teacher here can teach him anything he doesn't already know.
And the strange part?
He doesn't act like any of that matters.
Never shows off. Never insults.
He's always polite. Perfect posture. He helps clean up after class sometimes.
He doesn't correct people when they get things wrong. He just listens.
Which somehow makes him even more terrifying.
At one point, a fight broke out behind the cafeteria. A third-year tried to flex on a first-year by unleashing a minor kinetic burst. It went rogue. Everyone panicked.
Kenji walked over and, without speaking, raised one hand.
The spell froze. Shattered like glass.
The wind died. The birds returned to chirping.
He smiled faintly, apologized for the disruption, and walked away.
The third-year hasn't returned since.
Back to me.
After classes, I check my spell-tab. Message from the care center again:
"Your grandmother finished her tea. Asked if you were staying warm."
"Also, she says your uncle overpaid again. 100 marks too much."
"You should tell him to stop."
I reply:
"He won't. He does what he wants."
Because it's true. My uncle never says much. Just sends money. Sometimes too much. For me. For Grandma. Even though he doesn't have to.
He's part of Verdance, sure. Strong. Respected. Maybe even feared.
But I've only seen him show emotion once—
—when Grandma forgot who he was for ten minutes.
— he shed a tear
He visits when he can. Not often. Saving the world takes time.
I don't hate him.
I admire him.
But I also know he's not coming through that door anytime soon.
Back in my room, I take out my notebook. It's bound in regular leather. Not enchanted. No self-writing quill. Just me and the page.
I start writing about today.
About the quiet walk. About the way Kenji didn't look at anyone but somehow still changed the atmosphere. About how I wish my power wasn't something they put under "psychological resilience metrics" during mana aptitude tests.About how I wish I was more like him.
I write it all in first-person. Because that's how I see the world.
Not as a hero. Not even as a side character.
Just someone watching the story unfold.
But stories change.
Sometimes all it takes is one wrong step.
One stray glance.
One event out of sync with the flow.
And when that happens, maybe even someone like me—
Someone quiet.
Someone average.
Someone "emotionally resilient"—
—might find out they were never meant to be invisible.