The week before classes began at the Academy flew by like a single day. Kayian didn't leave the manor, spending all his time training. He couldn't afford the luxury of idleness—too much was at stake.
Every morning he rose before dawn and went to the old family crypt behind the manor. There, underground where no one could disturb him, he practiced controlling his Shadow and Lightning magic.
Shadow came easier. It responded to his emotions, allowing him to dissolve into darkness, to become a shadow among shadows. But Kayian knew this wasn't enough. In his past life, he had neglected subtle work, relying on the raw force of Blood. Now he was learning to be unnoticeable.
Lightning was more problematic. This school demanded not control, but speed of reaction. Kayian spent hours hurling discharges at the crypt walls, honing his accuracy. By the end of the week, he could hit a coin from ten paces—a decent result for a first‑rank mage.
But what he trained in secret from everyone was blood magic. He didn't use it—that would be too dangerous. Instead, he trained not to use it. To suppress the impulse when the magic surged outward. To control the viscous energy pulsing deep within him. In his past life, he had taken pride in his forbidden power. Now he cursed it at every involuntary twitch.
The system recorded his progress:
[Level: 1 (progress: 23%)]
[Shadow: 1st rank (55% toward 2nd rank)]
[Lightning: 1st rank (40% toward 2nd rank)]
[Blood: 3rd rank (hidden, suppressed)]
Fate Points remained at 85. Kayian was saving them for a critical moment.
On the last day before classes began, a letter arrived at the manor. It was delivered by a personal courier from the Academy and sealed with wax bearing the crest of Eternis.
Kayian opened the envelope and read:
"To Kayian Wellstream.
Your placement: Faculty of Tactical Arts. Supervisor: Master Thorn. First class—tomorrow at exactly 8:00 AM, Building 3, Room 17.
Lateness will not be tolerated.
Respectfully, the Chancellery of the Academy of Eternis"
The Faculty of Tactical Arts. Kayian smirked. The faculty for those with little strength but plenty of wit. In his past life, he had been placed in the Faculty of Combat Magic—where the strongest gathered. Now they had assigned him to the "reserves."
Perfect, he thought. The lower the expectations, the easier to surprise.
He folded the letter and put it in his desk. At dinner, Damian, upon hearing the placement, couldn't resist a jab:
"Tactical Arts, brother? You'll be studying with those who didn't make the cut for the combat faculties. Father will be disappointed."
"Father will judge by results, not by the name of the faculty," Kayian replied calmly.
"Results?" Damian laughed. "What results? You barely scraped through the entrance exams."
Kayian didn't answer. He finished his meal in silence and went up to his room.
The first day's morning was frosty. Kayian put on the Academy uniform—a dark‑blue robe with silver embroidery on the collar. It felt uncomfortable after three years of being accustomed to another life, but this was his world. The world he intended to change.
The carriage took him to the Academy gates. Students crowded at the entrance, and Kayian noticed many glancing his way. Rumors of his "cowardly" surrender in the final had spread quickly.
He headed toward Building 3, ignoring the whispers behind his back.
Room 17 turned out to be small, meant for thirty people. Students were already seated inside—mostly those whose entrance results had been below average. Kayian took a seat at the back by the window and waited.
Five minutes before the start, Selena entered the room. She spotted him, and her face lit up.
"You're here too?" she asked, coming closer.
"So it seems."
"I was afraid they'd send me to the Medical Faculty," she said, sitting beside him. "But Master Thorn personally requested my placement here."
"Do you know her?"
"No. But they say she's one of the best at the Academy. And very strict."
Exactly at eight, the door opened and a woman entered the room. She was tall, with short black hair and piercing green eyes. Her robe bore no rank insignia—only a silver brooch shaped like an open book.
"I am Master Thorn," she said, her voice sharp as a whip crack. "From this moment, you are my students. Forget everything you thought you knew about magic. Here, you will learn not to feel power, but to use it. The difference, as you will soon understand, is vast."
She swept her gaze across the room, and Kayian felt her eyes linger on him a moment longer than on the others.
"Tactical Arts is the faculty for those who cannot boast of raw might but are capable of thinking," she continued. "Here, you will be taught to analyze your opponent, to use the environment, to turn weaknesses into strengths. If you came to become a powerful mage, you've come to the wrong faculty. If you came to become someone who defeats the powerful—you're exactly where you need to be."
Silence settled over the room.
"Now, to business." Master Thorn clapped her hands, and a sheet of parchment appeared before each student. "This is your first assignment. You will analyze a battle between two fourth‑rank mages. Describe their tactics, mistakes, alternative solutions. Deadline—three days. Those who fail will be expelled. No right to reinstatement."
The students stirred. Some paled.
Kayian took the parchment and read the battle description. It was a real duel between the head of House Arcturus and an unknown opponent. Kayian remembered this fight—in his past life, he had studied it at the Academy. He knew every move, every mistake.
He began writing without stopping and finished while the others were still gathering their thoughts.
Master Thorn approached his desk and took the parchment. She read what he had written, and her eyebrows rose slightly.
"Have you studied this duel before?" she asked.
"No, Master," Kayian replied. "But I understand combat mechanics well."
She looked at him for a long moment, then returned the parchment.
"Refine your conclusions. You missed one detail."
Kayian took the parchment and reread it. He didn't understand what he'd missed. His analysis had everything: weak points, tactical errors, alternative moves.
"What detail?" he asked as she moved to another desk.
"Figure it out for yourself," she answered without turning around. "In battle, the victor is not the stronger one. Nor the smarter one. But the one willing to pay the highest price."
Kayian froze. Those words… he had heard them before. In his past life, shortly before his death. They had been spoken to him by one person. The one behind the conspiracy.
He looked at Master Thorn with new interest. Who was she? And why did her words echo in his memory?
After the class, Kayian lingered in the room.
"Do you have questions?" Master Thorn asked, gathering her papers.
"Where did you learn that phrase?" Kayian asked bluntly. "'The victor is the one willing to pay the highest price.'"
She looked up. Something like surprise flickered in her eyes but vanished quickly.
"It's an old saying among Tactical Arts mages," she replied. "Have you heard it somewhere?"
"Perhaps," Kayian said evasively. "Tell me, Master, have you ever heard the name 'Crow'?"
Not a muscle moved on Master Thorn's face. But Kayian noticed her fingers tighten for an instant.
"Does that name mean nothing to you?" he pressed.
"I know no one by the name of Crow," she answered coldly. "Now, if there are no more questions, please leave the room."
Kayian bowed and stepped out. But he was certain: she had lied.
Selena was waiting for him in the corridor.
"How did it go?" she asked.
"Interesting," Kayian replied, watching Master Thorn's retreating figure. "Very interesting."
He glanced at his wrist, where the system's mark pulsed. 85 Fate Points. Soon he would need them. Because he felt it: the same shadow that trailed him also trailed Master Thorn.
The shadow of time.