The faculty member led us out of the waiting hall and down a wide corridor that felt more like a processional route than a simple hallway. The ceiling arched high overhead, supported by stone ribs that met at precise intervals, creating a rhythm of light and shadow as we walked beneath them. Windows lined one side, tall and narrow, each one fitted with stained glass that fractured the sunlight into scattered colors, blues and golds and deep crimsons that painted the floor in shifting patterns.
Students moved in a loose column, footsteps echoing softly against the polished stone. No one spoke. The atmosphere had shifted from nervous anticipation to something more formal, more ceremonial. This was not just registration anymore. This was the beginning.
At the end of the corridor, a pair of massive double doors stood open, revealing a space beyond that made even the entrance hall seem modest by comparison.
The main ceremony hall.
I stepped through the doorway and stopped, breath catching for just a moment.
The hall was enormous. Rows of benches stretched out in a gentle curve, all facing a raised stage at the far end. The ceiling soared impossibly high, decorated with murals that depicted scenes I didn't immediately recognize — battles, perhaps, or historical moments, figures in robes and armor frozen mid-motion in paint and gold leaf. Chandeliers hung from chains thick enough to moor ships, their candles already lit despite the daylight streaming through high windows, adding a warm glow that softened the grandeur into something almost welcoming.
Faculty members stood along the edges of the hall, their dark robes marking them as instructors, their expressions ranging from patient boredom to sharp curiosity as they watched the incoming students. Other students, older years by the look of their uniforms, sat in the upper sections of the benches, observing with the casual detachment of those who had already survived this moment themselves.
"First years, take your seats in the front sections," the faculty member who had led us here announced, his deep voice cutting cleanly through the murmur of movement.
We filed into the benches, the wood creaking softly under the collective weight. I found a spot near the middle, not too close to the front where I would be immediately visible, not so far back that I couldn't see properly. The silver-haired girl, Aeriel, sat several rows ahead and to the left, her posture perfect, her gaze fixed calmly forward. If she felt any nervousness about this ceremony, her face betrayed none of it.
Lannorr sat on the opposite side, surrounded by a small cluster of students who seemed to orbit him naturally, drawn by whatever social gravity nobles like him exerted. He was speaking to them in low tones, gesturing occasionally, his earlier embarrassment apparently forgotten or buried beneath a renewed layer of confidence.
Once everyone had settled, the hall quieted on its own, no command necessary. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
A man stepped onto the stage from a side entrance, moving with the kind of deliberate, unhurried confidence that suggested he was completely comfortable being the center of attention. He was younger than I expected, perhaps in his early thirties, with sharp features and dark hair cut short in a practical, no-nonsense style. He wore the academy's faculty robes, but his carried an additional emblem on the collar, a symbol I didn't recognize but that clearly marked him as something more than a standard instructor.
He stopped at the center of the stage, hands clasped loosely behind his back, and surveyed the assembled students with an expression that was neither warm nor cold. Just assessing. Calculating.
"Good morning," he said. His voice was clear and precise, each word enunciated with the care of someone who expected to be heard and understood the first time. "My name is Aman. I am an instructor in the academy's research department, and I will be serving as host for today's entrance ceremony."
Aman.
The name settled into my memory with the same ease as Volneir's had. Short, sharp, easy to remember. The kind of name that didn't need embellishment.
"Before we proceed with the formalities," Aman continued, "I want to address something that many of you may find… unconventional."
A ripple of curiosity passed through the benches. Heads tilted slightly. Attention sharpened.
Aman's expression didn't change, but there was something in his eyes, a glint of conviction that bordered on zealotry.
"You have come to this academy to study magic," he said. "To learn how to channel divine symbols, to master divine arts, to unlock the power that flows through this world and through your own bodies." He paused, letting the words settle. "And you will learn all of that here. Make no mistake."
Another pause.
"But," he said, and the single syllable carried enough weight to make it feel like a turning point, "magic is not mysticism. Power is not chaos. The forces you will learn to wield are not miracles granted by whimsical gods who favor the faithful and ignore the rest."
I blinked.
That was… not what I had expected to hear in a magical academy's entrance ceremony.
"Magic," Aman continued, his voice gaining momentum, "operates according to principles. Laws. Structures that can be observed, tested, and understood. A divine symbol is not a blessing handed down from on high — it is a biological phenomenon, a mutation in the body's energy pathways that allows for the channeling of ambient mana in ways most organisms cannot achieve. Divine arts are not sacred rituals — they are techniques, formulas, repeatable processes that produce consistent results when executed correctly."
He gestured broadly, as if encompassing the entire hall, the entire academy, the entire world beyond its walls.
"Science," he said, and the word rang out like a declaration, "is the foundation upon which all true understanding is built. Logic. Observation. Experimentation. These are the tools that will make you strong, not blind faith in forces you do not comprehend."
The hall had gone completely silent. Some students looked intrigued. Others looked uncomfortable, as if Aman had just blasphemed in a place of worship. A few faculty members along the edges wore expressions that ranged from mild amusement to what might have been resigned exasperation, as if they had heard this speech before and knew better than to argue.
Aman's gaze swept across the rows of students, sharp and unyielding.
"You are here to learn," he said. "Not to worship. Not to accept mysteries without question. You are here to dissect those mysteries, to pull them apart and examine their components, to understand how they function and why. That is what separates a true scholar from a common practitioner. That is what this academy demands of you."
He let the silence hang for a moment longer, then his expression softened, just slightly.
"Of course," he added, almost as an afterthought, "there are those who will disagree with me. There are instructors in this very academy who believe magic is an art, not a science. Who will teach you to feel the flow of mana rather than measure it. Who will speak of harmony and balance and other intangible concepts that cannot be quantified."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You are free to listen to them as well," he said. "But I encourage you to think critically about what you are being taught. Question. Test. Prove. Do not accept anything simply because it is tradition."
I found myself leaning forward slightly, caught despite myself by the sheer conviction in his voice. Aman wasn't just giving a speech. He was preaching a philosophy, and he believed it with every fiber of his being.
It was strange.
Surreal, even.
To sit in a magical academy, surrounded by people who could channel divine power and wield supernatural abilities, and hear someone preach science and logic as if this were a university lecture hall in my old world.
But Aman didn't seem to see any contradiction. To him, magic and science weren't opposing forces. They were the same thing, just viewed through different lenses. And he had clearly chosen his lens with absolute certainty.
Around me, students shifted in their seats. Some whispered to their neighbors. Others sat perfectly still, absorbing every word.
I glanced toward Aeriel. Her expression remained calm, unreadable, but her crimson eyes were fixed on Aman with an intensity that suggested she was listening very carefully.
Lannorr, on the other hand, looked vaguely annoyed, as if this entire speech was an inconvenience he had to endure before getting to the parts of the academy that actually mattered to him.
Aman stepped back slightly, his hands unclasping and falling to his sides.
"With that said," he continued, his tone shifting back toward formality, "let us proceed with the ceremony. You will be sorted into your respective classes shortly. Your instructors will introduce themselves. Your curriculum will be explained. But remember what I have told you today."
He paused, one last time, his gaze sweeping across us all.
"This academy will teach you power. But power without understanding is just borrowed strength. True mastery comes from knowing not just what you can do, but why you can do it."
He inclined his head once, a gesture that might have been a bow or simply acknowledgment, then stepped to the side as another faculty member approached the podium to begin the formal proceedings.
I sat back, my thoughts spinning.
Science in a world of magic.
Logic in a kingdom ruled by divine symbols and hero kings.
Aman's words echoed in my mind, colliding with everything I had seen and experienced since waking up in Theodore's body.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, I felt something close to familiar ground beneath my feet.
Because if magic could be understood, measured, and tested,
then maybe I could learn it.
Maybe I could survive it.
Maybe I could even master it.