The crowd dispersed in clumps of noisy chatter, the excitement of new schedules and the promise of the academy still buzzing in the air. Damien, however, didn't walk off with the others. He waited until the stream of students had thinned, then started forward—his eyes fixed on the golden-eyed professor who had commanded the hall with such quiet authority.
The closer he came, the heavier the pressure became. It wasn't visible, but it was there, lingering around her like a storm held barely in check. He had only begun sensing such things after his training the night before, but the sensation was distinct now. It was like stepping into a denser air, a space that pressed against his lungs.
So this is what real power feels like.
The students had radiated nothing—empty shells, they were still mortals. Professor Dreadmore hadn't given off anything either, which was suspicious in itself. To appear like that meant control… or strength so far beyond his perception that it erased the signs. Damien had suspected Dreadmore might be one of the most powerful in the academy, second only to the headmaster. But those were just guesses.
This woman, though… she was tangible. Her presence was something he could finally measure.
He opened his mouth to speak—then faltered. He didn't even know her name.
As if she had plucked the thought straight from his head, the professor lifted her gaze from the parchment she had been reviewing. "I am Professor Isabelle Veyra," she said, voice cool but not unkind. "Your instructor for Cultivation Theory and Practice. Tomorrow morning, you will submit your chosen subject list to me."
Damien gave a small nod. Another noble, then—he had already met one from the Nine Great Houses in Silas Relmar. Now here stood the second.
"I… wanted to ask if you could guide me to the central library," Damien said.
That earned him a raised brow. Her golden eyes lingered on him with quiet scrutiny, as though weighing the question itself. "You are not curious about exploring the academy? The grounds? Your peers?"
"I'd rather know where the books are," Damien replied simply.
For a moment she looked amused. Then her head tilted ever so slightly as she studied him more directly.
It was only then that she noticed his appearance properly. His hair, black as polished obsidian. His eyes—just as dark, the kind of shade that swallowed light whole. Her breath caught for the briefest instant.
Just like her.
Her emotions swelled unexpectedly—surprise, confusion, something else she wasn't ready to name. He was a stranger, but the resemblance was uncanny. And now his behavior made more sense. All Nobles would avoid him linking him to that house, commoners would also know soon, they must have seen how nobles were eyeing him and stayed away to avoid trouble. She understood now why he had come straight to her.
Her voice, when she spoke again, was quieter. "Your name?"
Damien stiffened slightly. Again with this question. Again with someone searching for something in him he didn't think he had.
"Damien," he said finally. "Just Damien."
Isabelle inhaled slowly. The name only deepened the strange tension inside her. She didn't pry—not like Dreadmore had. She simply waited. Her gaze softened, almost hesitant, asking without words.
Damien shifted under the weight of it. Something in her sincerity unsettled him. She wasn't trying to dominate him, wasn't digging at him, but the intensity of her eyes made him restless.
"I'm an orphan," he said at last. "From Asher City. I've been there as long as I can remember. That's all."
Silence stretched. Then Isabelle looked away, mastering her expression. She needed time—this was not the place.
"Come," she said finally, rising to her feet. "I will take you to the library."
****
They walked together through the academy grounds. The morning light spilled across stone paths and tall spires, the scale of the place becoming clearer with every step.
Damien realized the academy wasn't simply a school—it was a fortress-castle. Vast, layered, divided into regions like a city of its own. The eastern side, where his dormitory lay, was the smallest, reserved for first-years. To the west stretched larger, towering wings—the domains of the second, third, and fourth years.
At the very center rose an imposing cluster of structures: the Headmaster's Tower, faculty halls, and a towering white building gleaming against the sky.
"That is the Central Library," Isabelle said. "It borders the Headmaster's Tower where he resides. Remember this route—you will have to come here often for resources, spells, arts and techniques."
As they passed a stone bridge that connected to the western section, she added, "Older students are kept separate from first years for a reason. By the second year, many have already stepped onto their Paths. Some reach Mid-Rank within months. To mix you with them would be dangerous. Fights do break out in the academy and separating you will prevent accidents."
Damien considered that silently. In Dravonne, power dictated freedom. By her words, the moment a student gained true strength, the leash loosened. The higher you climbed, the more space you claimed.
So, strength first. Always strength.
At last, they stopped before the library. The white stone gleamed so brightly it almost seemed alive, each column carved with inscriptions Damien couldn't yet decipher. Inside, the air was cool and faintly perfumed with old parchment.
Behind the counter sat an old woman, silver-haired, her posture sharp despite her years. Her eyes lifted from a scroll as they entered.
"First year?" she asked Damien, gaze flicking to his dark red uniform.
"Yes," he said.
"Body cultivation techniques are kept on the east side, ground floor. You'll find the introductory shelves marked clearly."
Damien didn't move. Instead, he spoke again, his voice level.
"Is there… a mind spell? Something that protects against someone searching your thoughts?"
The librarian stilled. Even Isabelle turned sharply toward him, shock flickering across her face.
No child would ask for that. Not unless they had reason. And there was only one reason.
Isabelle's expression soured. Ugly, pained. She didn't speak, but the truth was obvious to her now. Someone had already searched his memories.
The old woman studied him for a long moment. Then, without a word, she stood and beckoned them both to follow. They walked through the rows until she reached a shadowed corner of the ground floor. Her hand brushed against a forgotten shelf, pulling free a thick book coated in dust.
She placed it carefully in Damien's hands.
"Mind Castle," she said. "A passive mental spell. It builds a fortress within your soul. As you grow and master each level, the walls strengthen. There is no limit except the strength of your soul itself."
Damien turned the weight of the tome in his hands. "Can I take it with me?"
"Normally, no," the librarian said. "First years are not allowed to take—"
"He may," Isabelle interrupted firmly. "No one uses this book looking at the dust on it. Higher floors have other similar spells that others can take. Let him keep it."
The librarian's lips pressed thin, but she nodded. "Very well."
Damien gave a short bow to both of them. "Thank you." He turned, excusing himself with a quiet word, clutching the tome close. There was no thought of electives or campus tours—only the need to study this spell immediately.
When his footsteps had faded, silence lingered between the two women.
Isabelle finally broke it. "Why was this book on the first floor?"
The librarian gave a weary shrug. "Because no one wanted it. It gathered dust on higher shelves for decades. It is difficult to master and the amount of effort it takes gives better result when focused on other spells. Few had the patience for it."
Isabelle sighed softly, gaze drifting toward the door Damien had left through. "Give me a Body Cultivation technique suitable for him."
The old woman did not question her. She pulled another book, slimmer but marked with crimson thread, and handed it over.
Isabelle accepted it without another word, her thoughts still heavy.
That boy… with obsidian hair and eyes like her best friend, asking for protection for his mind. Was he really her child?