The silence inside the classroom pressed down like an invisible weight. Every pair of eyes—noble, commoner, and outcast alike—fixed themselves upon Connor McCloud. Even Whifney, who had been asleep moments earlier, had stirred at the tension. The stares were sharp, their judgment harsh. In this room, lineage mattered more than merit, and the fact that a mercenary dared to stand at the center of attention was already cause for scorn.
Connor's stomach twisted, but he forced himself to meet the professor's gaze. At that moment, the voice of Kyle—the regressor bound within him—echoed with quiet urgency, feeding him an answer as though whispering it across time.
Words spilled from Connor's mouth before he could truly comprehend them: Because only when the roots are strong can beautiful flowers bloom.
A phrase that seemed far too poetic for a battle-hardened mercenary. Yet silence followed. Then, to his disbelief, Professor Philo praised him. The metaphor was lauded as profound, linking the strength of roots to the strength of history, the foundation of all who sought to endure storms and bear fruit.
The classroom shifted. Noble students, who had expected his failure, now watched with veiled irritation. Rug blinked in astonishment, unable to process that his rough companion could voice such insight. Maiael, the princess with unsettling eyes, smiled faintly—a smile that felt like it pierced straight through to his secrets. Only Whifney returned to sleep, unmoved by the commotion.
Kyle's explanation came quietly, reminding Connor that this first impression was necessary. Professors remembered more than most students realized. But such attention also attracted envy, and already whispers brewed among the aristocrats who resented a mercenary standing above them, even for a moment.
When class ended, the gossip spread like wildfire. Students muttered about cowardice, trickery, and dumb luck. Connor ignored them. He knew from experience that responding only made him appear weaker, a fool among schemers. Politics within noble circles was nothing more than wordplay in the shadows, daggers coated in honey.
Rug lingered in thought, Whifney dozed as though nothing had changed, and Maiael's gaze remained fixed upon him. Her curiosity was suffocating. She had said she wanted to know more about him—did she suspect the truth? That he carried another soul, another lifetime, within him? The thought gnawed at him even as he turned toward his next class.
The second lecture of the day was Magic Fundamentals, taught by Professor Jerry James. The man appeared eccentric, dressed in a white robe and speaking with wild conviction. His voice thundered as he described magic not as a simple craft, but as a taboo—an unnatural distortion of reality, a fruit mankind was never meant to taste.
Students laughed quietly, yet Connor had no room for amusement. To him, magic was unfamiliar territory. His mercenary years had been shaped by steel and survival, not by runes or mana. Kyle's voice tried to explain—magic as the shaping of reality itself—but the words felt slippery, beyond the grasp of a man used to raw combat.
Still, Connor scanned the room. His group members were present once more: Lanius, the armored knight who scribbled notes with mechanical precision; Anastasia, slyly copying from his notebook; and Maiael, who observed everything with unnerving calm. Coincidence could not explain their constant presence. Kyle confirmed it—it was deliberate, a structure woven by the Academy itself.
Professor Jerry's voice rose higher, his passion boiling over as he praised magic's miracles: fire conjured without wood, crops ripened in a day, wounds healed without medicine. Yet his lecture carried a sharp undertone, mocking both the arrogant nobles who dismissed the basics and the weary commoners who wondered why they were forced to study what they could never wield.
Then came the demonstration.
Without warning, a torrent of water materialized above the students and crashed down. Screams erupted as bodies and desks were drenched. Connor's instincts flared—he rolled aside just in time to see his chair soaked through. Magic residue tingled faintly in the air, but the professor had made no gesture, no chant. It was too fast, too seamless.
When the water settled, only three remained untouched: the professor, Maiael… and Connor. The rest of the class dripped miserably, from Anastasia's ruined dress to the steady trickle off Lanius' helmet.
The old man spread his arms, his voice triumphant. This, he declared, was the essence of fundamentals—the kind of knowledge even the most advanced mage must never forget. If they could not even detect such simple spells, they had no right to complain.
Murmurs rose. Some praised his speed, others cursed their wet clothes. Yet attention turned again to Connor, the mercenary who had evaded the spell with reflexes sharper than most nobles could comprehend. His name spread quietly, carried on both admiration and resentment.
The lesson resumed, passion undimmed. The professor thundered about the necessity of learning to counter magic, even for those who could not wield it. Magic shaped the battlefield, and ignorance was death.
Connor sat in silence, his clothes mostly dry—but his seat soaked, a small indignity in the wake of awe. For the first time, the word magic no longer felt like something distant. It felt like a shadow he could not escape.