Caelum stepped away from the workbench, the air behind him still shimmering with the residual heat of the "demonstration." He didn't look back at the slumped, shivering form of Professor Vespera. Instead, his gaze cut upward, locking onto a pair of wide, diamond-blue eyes peeking through the balustrade of the upper gallery.
**Isolde.**
She was frozen—not by her magic, but by a visceral, bone-deep shock. She had seen it all: the way the "Commoner" had used the Alchemic Gold to humiliate a high-ranking Professor, and the way Vespera had begged for every drop of it.
Caelum didn't rush. He climbed the stairs with a slow, rhythmic tread that sounded like a death knell. When he reached the balcony, Isolde tried to stand, but her knees buckled. Her silver hair was disheveled, and the scent of the room—that heavy, musky cocktail of jasmine, ozone, and spent desire—was making her dizzy.
"You have a habit of watching things that don't belong to you, Lady Isolde," Caelum murmured, stopping just inches from her.
He reached out, his hand still warm from Vespera's body. He didn't touch her skin; instead, he gripped the silver lapel of her uniform, pulling her slightly forward. Isolde's breath hitched, a soft, pathetic sound. She could smell him—the raw, masculine musk of the intercourse—and it made her stomach flip in a way that felt dangerously like hunger.
"You saw what happens when a reagent is properly saturated," Caelum whispered. "Your 'Ice' thinks it's strong because it's hard. But hardness is just a lack of energy. If I were to touch you right now... you wouldn't just melt. You'd vaporize."
He let go of her lapel, but as he did, his fingers grazed the sensitive skin of her throat. Isolde let out a choked whimper, her silver Aether flaring in a desperate, shivering defense.
"Consider it a pre-study," Caelum said with a dark smirk. "For your own eventual evaluation."
**BING. BANG. BONG.**
The great bells of the Silver Lily Academy erupted, signaling the shift to the **Magic Arts** block. Caelum and the still-shaking Isolde made their way to the **Grand Arena**, a massive circular stadium where the stone floors were etched with ancient dampening runes.
This wasn't a classroom for flasks and formulas. This was the place where Aether was forged into a weapon.
The instructor, a battle-scarred veteran named **Commander Varkas**, stood in the center of the pit. "Alchemy is the study of change," he bellowed, his voice echoing. "But Combat Magic is the study of **Impact**! Out in the world, monsters don't wait for your 'Resonance.' They want to tear the Aether out of your chest!"
He gestured to the racks of training dummies made of reinforced iron-oak. "Today, we practice **Projective Synthesis**. You will channel your core energy into a focused strike. If your output is too low, the monster kills you. If your control is too weak, the backlash kills your allies."
The students began to practice, filling the arena with flashes of light and the thundering sound of magic hitting wood. Caelum watched as **Lyra** sent blades of teal wind slicing through her targets, her chest heaving with exertion, her sweat making her tunic cling to her curves. Nearby, **Seraphina** used her magenta Aether to create heavy, crushing bursts of gravity, her powerful hips swaying as she anchored herself for each strike.
Then it was **Isolde's** turn.
She stepped up to the line, desperate to reclaim her dignity. She channeled her Silver Aether, forming a massive, jagged lance of ice. But her mind was still poisoned by what she had seen in the lecture hall. As she prepared to fire, she caught Caelum watching her.
The image of him buried deep inside Vespera flashed in her mind. Her focus shattered. Instead of a clean strike, her silver ice exploded prematurely, sending a spray of freezing mist across the floor.
"Sloppy, Lady Isolde!" Varkas barked. "Your core is shivering! Get it under control!"
Isolde stood in the mist, her face burning with shame. She looked at her hands, which were shaking. She realized with a jolt of terror that her magic was no longer responding to her will—it was responding to the memory of Caelum's heat.
Caelum stepped onto the line next to her. He didn't even assume a combat stance. He simply raised one hand toward his target.
"Watch the flow, Isolde," he murmured.
He didn't just fire his Gold Aether. He pulsed it—a rhythmic, vibrating surge that mimicked the way he had driven into the Professor. The golden light didn't just hit the iron-oak dummy; it *invaded* it. The wood didn't break; it expanded and burst from the inside out in a shower of splinters and golden steam.
The arena went silent. It wasn't just a display of power; it was a display of absolute, violent dominance over the physical world.