The scent of alchemical herbs and parchment filled the air as I shuffled the deck of cards, their edges worn from countless games. Shinzo sat across from me, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he manipulated the wind to lift the cards, making them dance before settling them neatly on the table.
"Your sleight of hand is terrible," I chuckled, taking a sip of the mint-infused potion we'd concocted earlier. "Stick to spells, Shinzo."
He smirked. "Says the guy who mixed water and wind just to flavor his drink."
"That's called innovation," I retorted, grinning.
Our laughter echoed through the empty classroom, a sanctuary where we could momentarily forget the weight of our responsibilities.
"My father wants me to be a poet," Shinzo said suddenly, his voice tinged with frustration. "That's the Nakamura legacy. Elegant verse. Nobility through literature."
I raised an eyebrow. "But you want to be an archmage."
"Always have," he replied. "It's the only time I feel like I'm writing my own story."
The door creaked open, and Selene entered, carrying a tray laden with pastries.
"These are from the new bakery near Artisan's Row," she announced, placing the tray between us. "Thought you two might like a treat."
Shinzo turned a shade of red I'd never seen before.
I smiled. "You're an angel, Selene."
"I know," she winked.
[Present — Ryuji's POV]
I blinked, snapping out of the memory. My pen hovered over the parchment, ink pooling at the tip. I stared down at my notes, lectures on arcanian theory and assignments for my students during the Torching Sun break.
"Focus," I muttered, shaking my head.
The classroom was silent, the only sound the rustling of papers and the distant hum of magical wards. I glanced at the ancient texts on the origin of the Mage Academies, particularly the works of Alexander Arcana, the legendary archmage who believed that structured magic could prevent chaos.
A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.
"Merlin wants us to train," Gray said, stepping into the room. "Says we need to sharpen up before the parade."
I smirked, setting my notes aside. "Sword or spell?"
"Sword," he grinned. "And don't go easy."
[Training Field]
I retrieved the Sword of King Arthur, a gift from fate, from its resting place. Its edge shimmered faintly, resonating with my touch.
Gray drew Winston, his silver-gilded longsword, and we faced each other under the midmorning sun.
He'd improved.
His swordplay was now infused with anti-magic runes, techniques taught by Merlin to counteract spellcasters like me.
But I was no longer just a caster.
I parried his swing, twirled under another, and activated a glyph beneath my feet, momentarily reversing gravity to launch myself over him.
"Showoff," Gray laughed, dodging with a quick roll.
We ended locked blade-to-blade.
Not a bad morning.
[Third Person – Tavern, Dicartha]
"Say that again," Witstruck growled, his cheeks flushed from drink.
"I said you're a pretty little twig with a mouth," the other man sneered, oblivious to the danger.
Master Arnold Witstruck, the arrogant, handsome, and notoriously temperamental mage, smirked, magic crackling at his fingertips.
Then-
"Witstruck," a stern voice cut through the tension.
Archmage Sir Wolfgang Godspell stood at the tavern's entrance, arms crossed, his blue uniform immaculate.
The drunk paled.
"Do I have to remind you you're in uniform?" Wolfgang asked, his tone calm but firm.
Witstruck sighed, the magic dissipating. "You always ruin the fun..."
Later, in his office, Wolfgang spoke into a communicator.
"He started another bar fight," he reported.
Winnie Hellstrom's voice crackled through the line: "You're surprised?"
"Not in the slightest. He's hungover again."
Wolfgang chuckled, glancing at the framed photo on his desk, himself, his wife, and their young daughter, Joy.
"Where will you be during the parade?" Winnie asked.
"With the prince of Asolde and his family," Wolfgang replied. "And I'll be bringing a special guest."
"Let me guess. Shinzo?"
"I think it's time the world saw what he's become."
[Third Person – Realm of Death]
The Realm of Death was a desolate expanse, its sky a swirling vortex of violet and black. Bones jutted from the ground like twisted trees, and the air was thick with the whispers of the dead.
Elric walked with purpose, undeterred by the eerie surroundings.
He approached the throne of Sera, Fateweaver of the Abyss.
She was ethereal, her obsidian spiral horns glowing like precious stones, her liquid amethyst hair cascading down her back, and her alabaster skin shimmering in the dim light.
Elric knelt, kissing her pale hand.
"Elric, do we have the Sovereign of Fate's location?"
"Not yet," he replied, his voice slightly softer now but commanding.
"But we've initiated the plan to draw him out."
She tilted her head, her dark eyes unreadable.
"Very good," she said.
The room grew colder.