Nullhedron Institute – Orientation Hall
The room made Alistair feel small.
Not because of its size—though the ceiling rose nearly three stories high—but because of its design. The walls were not made of ordinary stone, but crystalline panels etched with geometric patterns that pulsed faintly, like veins of pale blue light. At the center of the hall, hovering just above the marble floor, a massive cube nearly two meters wide rotated slowly, radiating a warmth that pushed back the chill of autumn.
"That's the temperature Zone Cube," whispered a student beside Alistair, awe thick in his voice. "Level 3. Designed by the Archcubist himself."
Alistair calculated silently.
If a cube that large was required merely to heat a single room, then how immense must the Cubes be that powered Steelhaven's factories? Or the steam trains?
Professor Ignatius stood at the podium, his cube-headed staff glowing faintly.
"Take your seats."
Sixty wooden chairs with straight backs were arranged in precise rows. Alistair chose one in the third row—not too close to draw attention, not too far to miss anything important. In front of him sat Lysander, whom he had briefly met at the gates. The boy's posture was immaculate, his high-collared attire pristine, his hair perfectly combed.
"Welcome, prospective Cubists," Ignatius's voice echoed across the hall. "Before we begin, one question. How many of you believe magic is an innate talent?"
Lysander's hand shot up immediately, followed by nearly half the room.
Ignatius nodded.
"Incorrect."
A ripple of murmurs spread. Lysander frowned.
"And how many believe magic can be learned by anyone?"
The remaining students raised their hands, Alistair among them.
"Also incorrect."
Now the confusion was complete.
Ignatius stepped down from the podium, his staff clicking softly against the marble floor. "Traditional magic often is innate—fire, water, air. Affinities that manifest at birth. But our system—" he tapped the staff against the heating cube, which responded with a low resonance, "—is not magic. It is annullogy: the study of nothingness."
He raised his empty hand. "Tell me. What exists here?"
"Nothing, Professor," a student answered.
"Wrong again."
Ignatius closed his eyes. A pale gray mist appeared above his palm, slowly rotating, like disturbed water frozen in motion.
"This is Empty," he said. "The base material of all Cubes. It exists everywhere—but only those who understand how to perceive it can sense it."
Alistair narrowed his eyes. It was not an illusion. The mist was real, and yet… unreal. Like a flaw in reality itself.
"Empty is not air. Not energy," Ignatius continued. "It is pure potential. Like raw wood before it becomes a chair. Or iron before it becomes a blade."
Alistair nodded.
That analogy, he understood.
"Your task in the first year is simple," Ignatius said. "Learn to sense Empty. Then learn to stabilize it into the most basic cubic form. No spells. No rituals. Only understanding and will."
A female student raised her hand. "But Professor… how do we do that?"
Ignatius smiled faintly. "The question worth a fortune. Each of you will find your own path. Some through meditation. Some through emotional pressure. Some through mathematical problem-solving."
His gaze shifted briefly toward Alistair.
"Or perhaps through practical understanding of form and function."
The bell rang—a clear, crystalline chime.
"First class tomorrow morning: Introduction to Empty. Bring notes, an open mind, and most importantly—" he paused, "—do not expect results quickly. Most students require three months just to sense Empty. A quarter never succeed at all."
A collective exhale swept through the hall.
"Dismissed. Dormitories: men to the east wing, women to the west."
East Wing Dormitory
Alistair's room was simple. A single bed, a writing desk, a narrow wardrobe. The window overlooked the academy's inner garden, where several senior students were already practicing.
One raised his hand. A small red cube formed above his palm, releasing a brief burst of flame toward a wooden training dummy.
Alistair noted the details: the student's stance was grounded—Bastion Stance. His expression focused. And his hand… trembling slightly. When the flame dissipated, the student rubbed his reddened wrist.
Physical consequences, Alistair recalled Ignatius's words.
A knock at the door.
"Come in."
Lysander stood in the doorway, his expression neutral.
"Finch, correct?"
"Alistair."
"Lysander von Haart. House Haart—manufacturers of illumination Cubes for the noble districts." His introduction was flat, factual. "Where are you from?"
"Steelhaven. Factory District."
Lysander nodded, his eyes assessing—taking in Alistair's simple clothes, cloth bag, worn shoes. "A scholarship, then?"
"Yes."
"Hm. They usually admit one or two per cohort," Lysander said coolly. "To maintain the appearance that the system is 'fair'." A trace of disdain colored his tone. "Make no mistake, Finch. Cubes are not forged by effort alone. They require inherited understanding. My family has produced Cubists for five generations."
Alistair didn't rise to the provocation. "Then you must already be able to form Cubes."
Lysander's smile faltered—for just a moment. "Naturally. The basics."
But Alistair caught the hesitation in his eyes.
Interesting.
"Advice from one new student to another," Lysander said, turning to leave. "Don't waste the professors' time with foolish questions. Some of us already have a foundation."
The door closed.
Alistair exhaled and sat on the bed. Outside, the senior student practiced again. This time, the cube was blue, releasing droplets of water that spiraled gracefully in the air.
Pure potential, Alistair thought. Fire, water, light—shaped by understanding and will.
He opened his bag and took out an object from home: a small steel cube his father had forged from factory scraps. Not a magical Cube—just a physical one. But its form was perfect. Edges true, angles exact, surfaces smooth.
His father had pressed it into his hands and said,
"Remember, Al. The most stable shape in nature. Weight evenly distributed. No weak points."
Alistair held the steel cube, feeling its weight, its cool solidity. Then he looked back out the window at the glowing Cube spinning effortlessly in the senior student's palm.
What was the connection between a physical object—and Empty, which was not an object at all?
He didn't know.
But something within him—the instinct of a blacksmith's son, accustomed to understanding materials through touch and observation—felt that the answer lay in form.
The cube.
Why a cube?
Why not a sphere?
Or a pyramid?
The question followed him into restless sleep, where he dreamed of pale gray mist that he tried to force into sharp edges—only for it to slip away again and again, like smoke refusing to be held.