I felt the tension before I even got out of bed.
Mana. So much mana. Thick, charging the air just outside the dorm like lightning behind a paper wall. Footsteps moved fast in the hallway — boots, sandals, even someone barefoot. Voices too. Some calm. Some whispering sharp.
Salem stirred beside me, still tucked into the space between my chest and arm. She breathed in slowly, then shifted upright without a word.
I sat up. My feet touched the ground, cold and worn smooth from generations of students. This room had held hundreds before me. But I didn't care about them.
This was my morning.
And it was Entrance Day.
⸻
The academy's south courtyard had been cleared for the event. The mana would be nearly blinding for people with sight— outlines of students pacing or sitting or stretching their legs, each one crackling with some flavor of strength. Not all of them were noble-born, but I could tell which ones were.
The difference wasn't in the power. It was in the way they moved.
Entitled. Like the ground here belonged to them.
Rōko found me fast. I felt her before I heard her — her aura was always like lightning in the distance, quiet until it wasn't.
"Annabel," she called from across the courtyard. Her presence cut through the crowd easily.
She reached me within seconds and gave me a short nod. "You sleep okay?"
"I did," I said, turning slightly toward her. "You find your dorm alright?"
"Yeah," she muttered. "Wasn't hard. These nobles talk so loud you could follow them with your ears plugged."
Salem chuckled behind me.
I felt another presence approaching fast — long stride, refined control, a faint glimmer of plant magic following behind like a feather caught in a breeze.
Lycian.
"Annabel?"
His voice was warm — excited, even. But the moment he stepped closer, his mana jolted slightly. I felt it spike.
His gaze wasn't on me. It was locked onto the outline beside me.
"…Is that… the demon tha-?"
"She's my bond," I said calmly. "Yes."
"You're serious?"
He didn't sound angry. Just… confused. Hesitant.
"The same Salem right?" he added. "The one who nearly—?"
"She's different now," I cut in. "So am I."
There was a long pause. Then he exhaled, and the tension in his aura finally let go.
"If you say so," he muttered. "You were the stubborn one last time."
I smiled.
Rōko leaned toward me slightly. "Who's the snake boy?"
"Rōko, this is Lycian. Old friend," I said. "Lycian, Rōko. Also a friend. One who nearly broke my ribs not long ago."
"Your ribs were fine," Rōko said with a smirk in her voice. "My own pride, not so much."
Lycian let out a low whistle. "Annabel makes some strange friends."
"You're one of them," I replied.
"Fair."
⸻
We were eventually called toward the front of the courtyard, where the real pressure began.
Three presences stood on the raised dais above us.
Rank 1 mages. All of them.
One was tall and graceful, her mana flowing like woven silk. Elf — I could feel it in the ancient weight behind her presence. She didn't speak.
Beside her stood a man whose mana was heavy like hot fire. Human. Confident. Commanding.
The last was short but wide — his aura a thick, concentrated kind of stone, earth magic humming beneath his skin. Dwarf.
When the human stepped forward, his voice cut clean across the courtyard.
"I am Magister Rhane. Beside me stand Magister Eleris and Magister Thrain. If you are lucky — or impressive — one of us may end up your teacher. Most of you won't be. But that's fine. We'll still be watching."
He waited a beat.
"Today is your Entrance Trial. You will be evaluated in four areas: knowledge, magic control, combat application, and a sparring round. You will be scored. You will be ranked. You will not all pass."
I could already feel Rōko stiffen beside me.
I knew exactly what she was thinking.
Because I was thinking the same.
The knowledge test? We were dead. She was Raised by samurai, wolves, monks, or whatever gods had a grudge — neither of us had spent our childhoods reading noble history books or memorizing bloodlines.
I could sense the students behind me straightening — preparing their perfect answers. Some of them had likely studied for this day since birth.
And I was standing here with a demon and a girl who could punch through steel.
"Let's just get this over with," I muttered.
Salem placed her hand gently on my shoulder.
And I stepped forward into whatever this was going to be.
Location: Academy Testing Hall
The Knowledge Test — Magic Affinity Question
The air buzzed faintly with mana — not from spells, but from sheer presence. Dozens of students all lined along wide benches in a vaulted stone hall, their energies flaring and dimming like small stars. Some burned hot and chaotic. Others cold and vast. I could feel them all.
And I could feel the pressure building.
"First written section," one of the teachers announced. "Knowledge. Begin."
I waited for the first question to be read aloud.
"List all known magical affinities and identify which are considered rare, forbidden, or myth-tier."
I gripped my pen. My heartbeat kicked into my throat.
I knew this one. Sort of.
I asked Salem to write for me as that was one thing i couldn't do on my own, i told her the ones i knew.
"Metal. Water. Wind. Fire. Ice. Plant. Earth. Shadow. Sound. Space. Poison…"
I paused. That was all I had. That was everything Julius taught me, everything the guild ever mentioned. Eleven affinities. That had to be enough.
A soft voice leaned in, just enough for me to catch it over the rustle of parchment.
"You're missing some."
Salem. Her mana shimmered with control, like glass barely holding back fire.
"Lightning," she whispered. "Gravity."
I froze. "Gravity?"
"Mm," she hummed. "And… some devils. High devils, mostly. There are stories of one that manipulates time itself. The demon king said it himself."
My head tilted toward her. "That's not even… possible."
"I didn't think so either, but if he said it, i think it might be true."
Salem wrote it down. Lightning, Gravity, Then, after a beat, Time? (Unconfirmed)
I could feel Salem smile, just slightly.
Further down the row, Rōko muttered, "Dumb question," under her breath.
Across the hall, someone scoffed. A male student's voice rang sharp and polished:
"Why even bother with this?"
Everyone went still.
The voice continued — entitled, dismissive. "I awakened as a rank 1. Why should I waste time on tests like these, just to be trained by teachers who barely match my level? This is supposed to be the best academy on the continents."
I felt Salem tense beside me. Several students murmured — some amused, some annoyed.
Then a weight dropped into the room. A presence like the slow grinding of ancient stone.
The dwarf instructor stepped forward.
Magister Thrain.
I knew his outline by now. Thick shoulders, short beard glowing slightly with embedded runes, and mana built like a mountain that never moved for anyone.
"You awakened rank 1?" he asked, voice deep and even.
"Yes," the boy answered with smug clarity.
"You're rare. That's true." Thrain's voice held no admiration. "Born with a gift. A fire you didn't have to stoke yourself."
The dwarf's boots echoed once. Then his tone hardened.
"But without skill, you're just a torch in a storm."
The silence grew heavy.
"If an enemy faced you with half your mana but twice your experience, they'd shatter your spine and eat their dinner over your corpse."
The boy fell silent.
"Now sit," Thrain said. And he did.
Rōko let out a single bark of laughter. Several students snorted. Even Lycian, steady and quiet two rows back, gave off a flicker of amusement in his mana outline.
Salem leaned closer. "They're going to hate us," she whispered, her breath warm near my ear.
I tilted my head toward her. "Good. That'll make this more fun."
After an hour of scribbling answers and whispered guesses, the scrolls were collected — swept off the benches by younger assistant mages and handed off to the trio of primary instructors.
I could sense them without seeing. The tall, fluid blur of the elf, Master Virelin. The dense gravity of the dwarf, Magister Thrain. And the smooth, steady presence of the human, l Rhane, who carried himself like a man who'd spent too many years with battlefield scars beneath quiet robes.
Rhane stepped forward now, a scroll in hand. His mana flared slightly for attention.
"First question: list all known magical affinities — including the rare, forbidden, and myth-tier types."
I heard a few students shuffle, unsure.
"Of the sixty-seven students here today," Alder continued, "only one answered this question correctly — including several affinities most of you missed."
He lifted the parchment.
"Shadow. Gravity. Space. All of them present. Correct. And even marked 'Time' as a potential myth-tier, which we note only in elite historical manuscripts." He paused.
"This scroll belonged to Annabel Valor."
A silence cracked across the room.
I could feel the flaring of mana around me — dozens of signatures, rippling with surprise, some even turning toward me. Disbelief. Annoyance. Curiosity.
"Impossible," someone muttered under their breath.
Another scoffed aloud. "That's because those types aren't even real. They're fairy tales. Everyone knows the affinities that matter are elemental and spiritual—"
"They're not fairy tales," I said sharply, standing without hesitation.
I let my mana crackle — not violently, but just enough to be felt. Controlled. Steady.
"I'm the first recorded space mage since the last written mention… five hundred years ago." I turned my face toward the voice. "The only reason you don't know that is because you were too arrogant to read past the basics."
A quiet hush followed.
"And my bond," I added, lifting a hand toward Salem beside me, "wields shadow magic. Not illusions. Not void. Shadow. Real, breathing, living shadow."
More gasps.
Even some of the instructors paused, their mana flaring for just a moment in appraisal.
Salem, next to me, gave the faintest smirk. I could feel her pride radiating — not in herself, but in me. She didn't need to say anything. She rarely did.
Someone farther down the bench hissed, "She's lying."
But Magister Thrain's voice came blunt and absolute:
"She's not."
Alder nodded. "Space magic exists. Rarely. Quietly. Almost never recorded because its extremely rare and if someone is born with it, inexperienced just awakened wielders vanish into themselves on accident… also Annabel has made quite the name for herself, some of you kids might have been to busy playing at home to have noticed."
Rōko's mana crackled faintly in amusement two benches back. Lycian, calm and composed, barely moved.
I sat back down, Salem shifting just slightly so our legs brushed.
"You know," she whispered, "you probably just made enemies out of half the room."
"Good," I whispered back, "I don't need the whole room."
"Just me?"
I smirked. "Just you."
Location: Mana Dome, Tri-Continental Academy
Magic Capability Test
The moment we stepped into the dome, I felt the hum of pressure.
Thick mana thrummed through the air like a coiled storm — layer upon layer of it, echoing off the glassy walls. Dozens of students stood along the curved chamber's edge, each glowing in my vision like brushstrokes of light, all pulsing and different. Strength, refinement, density. Some with companions whose presence bent the air around them.
This place was built to handle destruction.
And we were about to light it up.
Each student stepped forward one by one toward the mana testing pillar: a polished arc of silver floor and a rising glass column etched with floating runes. Students would fire a spell directly into the crystal, and the energy would be measured in height and clarity — how far it reached, and how cleanly it held its form.
"Magic Capability Test," Master Alder's voice echoed from above. "Not just for determining rank — but refinement, control, and magical quality. Release with focus. no spell chanting allowed."
Rōko was called first. Her outline shifted as her mana surged.
Violent, yes — but tuned. She hit the crystal with a spike of power that slammed to the very top.
"Rank 1," someone called. "Fully stabilized."
Lycian was up next. His burst was sharp, elegant. The spell moved like a blade cutting through wind — stopping three bands from the top.
"Rank 3. Clean control. Fine tuning."
I knew he was casting just enough to get by without being noticed, just like the training grounds
Then:
"Annabel."
I stepped forward slowly. The light of the dome was meaningless — it was all blurs and threads, indistinct shadows shaped by mana. But the pillar pulsed clearly in my sight. I reached for it with one hand, the other extended gently behind me where I knew Salem stood.
I shaped space first — quiet, flickering folds between points. Then I wrapped it in a cage of glinting metal magic, refined over months. Water and wind coiled at my fingertips, spinning the outer edge of the spell with clarity.
Then I released.
The crystal lit up like a candle flame growing tall — the energy climbed rapidly, clean, perfect, spiraling in a tight thread. It rose until it hit just under the final band — not quite at the top. But it didn't falter. It held.
A pause. Then Master Virelin spoke.
"Rank 2," he said. "But remarkable stability and structure. Textbook refinement. If not above it."
My jaw tightened. I knew the result the moment I felt it.
Still not Rank 1.
Even after all that training. Even after pushing myself through pain, through long hours in the yard, through the sleepless nights with Salem guiding my shaping techniques. I could keep up with Rank 1s. I had. But it still didn't show here.
Someone in the back chuckled.
"So much for the prodigy," came a snide voice. "The 'first space mage in centuries' can't even reach the first rank."
I didn't turn. I didn't need to.
But Salem did.
Her boots made no sound — but her mana flooded outward like a wave. Violet veins pulsed beneath her skin, and her shadow magic gathered at her fingertips like smoke ready to twist into something deadly.
"I'll go next," she said.
"Owners permission is…required—" one of the teachers started.
"She has it," I said quietly. "Go ahead."
Salem stepped forward.
Her shadow lashed out in a single, elegant strike — a line of pure refinement that hit the crystal dead-on. It didn't just pulse — it ignited. The runes shimmered at once, shooting mana to the very top, shattering the limit band at the tip.
The room went silent.
"Rank 1," Alder said finally. "Top percentile."
One of the instructors stepped closer. "That refinement… that's not just raw talent. That's centuries of shaping instinct."
Salem stepped back beside me like nothing had happened. She didn't even look at the crystal. Just took my hand.
"You did fine," she said under her breath. "You were better than all of them."
I didn't answer right away. My fingers curled around hers.
But I smiled.
Location: Sparring arena.
Combat test.
The field around me hummed. I felt it. A wide space, open, layered with crisscrossing trails of mana — students sparring in small pockets, sharp bursts of contact echoing through the air. Some teachers stood along the edges, watching like stone pillars, silent and glowing with power far above what most here could match.
I sat near the stone bench, hands resting loosely on my lap. My limbs ached in the good way — the kind that told me I'd done well. I'd hit all my targets, refined my metal magic perfectly. But I was still only rank two. It shouldn't bother me. I knew I could fight with the best of them. I'd fought Rōko, hadn't I?
Still, something in my chest pulled tight.
Beside me, a familiar blur of mana shifted. Salem. She'd barely moved all day except to step in behind me, like a shadow pinned to my side.
Until now.
I felt her straighten.
"Where are you going?" I asked softly.
"To end something," she said, and started walking.
Her steps were smooth. Intentional. I followed her outline until it stopped near a cluster of mana to the left — three figures, one thicker than the others, laced with confidence and arrogance. The noble boy. Alven. He'd been loud all morning.
"She doesn't even have proper eyes—how is she supposed to be stronger than me?" he'd said before. "Space magic? Yeah right. Probably just wind magic with a fancy name."
Now Salem stood in front of him, her voice low but steady. "What's your name?"
His voice came sharper. "Alven Drossel. House Drossel. And no, I'm not sparring a demon."
I heard others around them shift. Mana stirred — quiet laughter, and then a voice from one of the other boys near him:
"C'mon, Alven, just squash her. What's she gonna do? She's all weird-looking anyway. Freaky purple veins."
Another said, "I mean—body's not bad. For a demon."
Salem's mana flared. Cold, coiled shadow slipped into her outline. I felt it from across the field — not just strength, but anger held tight like a drawn blade.
She asked for a spar again.
Alven stood. "Fine. Don't cry when you lose."
The instructor called them to one of the sparring circles. I stayed where I was, just sitting in the quiet hum of mana around me, every sense focused.
The match started.
Salem didn't wait.
Her outline vanished—just blinked forward like a tear in the air. I heard a grunt. She was behind him. Another blur — sharp and curved like a whip of motion — and Alven hit the ground. His outline flared in panic, limbs scrambling. She moved again, faster than anyone I knew. Struck him in the ribs. Knee. Chest.
"Stop!" someone shouted.
But Salem didn't stop.
She lifted him slightly — he flailed — and she slammed him again. His outline flickered hard. She raised her hand for another hit.
And then a third outline intercepted — heavy and grounded. The dwarf instructor. His mana was like a wall: broad, unshakable.
Her hand halted mid-strike.
"It's over," he said, his voice like rolling stone. "You won."
The tension snapped.
Salem's outline pulled back. She returned to me in silence.
"He said—" she started.
"I know," I said, and didn't let go. "You didn't need to nearly kill him over it."
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
"…Thanks."
Salem sat back down beside me, still silent. Her mana was shaking faintly — not from fear, not from exhaustion, but from something else. Restraint, maybe. Or shame. She didn't say a word.
I turned toward her, reaching out until my hand brushed her arm. Her skin was cool, always just a little colder than mine, like shadow had settled beneath it. I slid my fingers down until they found her hand, and held it.
"You can't do that again," I said quietly.
She tensed, her outline stiffening.
"Salem. I mean it."
"…He was mocking you," she said. Her voice was low, bitter. "All of them. And you just sat there."
"I know. But if you go that far every time someone opens their mouth, they're not going to see you the way I do."
I paused. I had to find the right words — and that was hard for me. Sometimes things lived inside me that I didn't know how to say. But I meant this.
"I don't want them to see you as a monster. Not some blade I've unleashed. You're mine. My bond. My friend. I want you with me. So please… for me, next time — keep the peace. Okay?"
She didn't respond. But I could feel her breathing — tight, caught in her throat.
I moved closer, pulling her in gently. Blowing air to the side of her neck, just above her collarbone. Her mana flickered again — not from magic, but from emotion, like the outline of her soul didn't know how to hold itself still.
Then I wrapped my arms around her.
"You're allowed to be angry," I whispered. "But you're also allowed to stop. You can stay with me. You're safe here. I promise."
Her body softened under my hands. She leaned into me, finally — like a child falling asleep against a parent's chest. And though she didn't say anything, I knew she heard me.
I stayed like that, holding her while the noise of the field rolled on.
Let them talk. Let them stare.
They didn't know her like I did.
—
The director's office was quiet. Too quiet.
The moment Salem and I stepped inside, I could feel the strength of the woman seated ahead — her mana presence wasn't loud like Rōko's or sharp like Beren's. It was calm. Deep. Like the bottom of a still lake that had swallowed mountains.
I only saw her as a dense blur outlined in soft golden light, sitting behind a desk of what I guessed was some heavy wood. She didn't move much — didn't need to. She had the kind of mana that told the truth without needing a word.
She waited until we sat. Then she spoke.
"My name is Director Nyx."
There was a slight pause.
"Annabel, Salem. I've gone over your tests."
Her voice was controlled. Not cold, but focused — like someone who didn't waste words. She tapped a few pages I couldn't see, then continued.
"Annabel — you failed the written exam."
I nodded, unsurprised. "Yeah… kind of expected that."
"You're not the only one. Rōko failed it too. Some of the nobility were… less than graceful about it, but the written portion is just one piece. You passed everything else. Your spellwork, refinement, mana control — all excellent. And your sparring observations showed tactical patience and field experience far beyond your age."
There was a pause. Her outline shifted ever so slightly as her head turned toward Salem.
"But your bond…"
Salem didn't flinch, didn't even blink. I felt the subtle pressure in her mana — she was bracing for something.
"…is interesting."
The director folded her hands.
"Do you know who you beat half to death today, girl?"
Salem's mana spiked a little, not with guilt. Just… readiness.
"No," she answered.
"Alven Drossel. Younger brother of Lumos Drossel."
I tensed. Even I'd heard that name in whispers — and I didn't grow up hearing much. Lumos was said to be the closest mage to Lincoln anyone had ever seen. A Rank 1 from age thirteen. General of the Fifth Division. Frontline commander in the Devil War Campaign.
"Alven talks," the director continued. "A lot. If word reaches Lumos — and it probably will — you could be in trouble. Luckily, he's not exactly reachable. The general spends most of his time slaughtering devils far east of the southern valley."
She leaned back, sighing.
"Still. That stunt… eight broken bones? Day one?"
Salem didn't move. Her voice came out softer this time, but no less sure.
"I don't care if he's a Drossel. I'll do it again if he talks about Annabel like that. I'll protect her. No matter who I have to fight."
There was a beat of silence.
I couldn't read the director's face. I could only feel the slight stillness in her mana as she processed.
Then, finally, she exhaled.
"I believe you."
Another pause.
"You're not like most bonds. And Annabel… you're not like most owners."
The chair creaked a little as the director leaned forward.
"You're a Rank 2 at eleven years old. That alone would guarantee you a spot here. But add to that: your refinement, your potential, your unique affinity… we can't afford to waste it. You'll stay."
I let out a breath I hadn't noticed I was holding.
"But Salem," she added, her tone tightening just slightly. "This is a school. Not a battlefield. Keep your claws to yourself. One more incident like today and it's not just a warning — we will be forced to act."
Salem's mana trembled faintly. Not from fear. From effort. Restraint.
"I understand," she said.
The director rose — a silhouette of quiet power — and waved us toward the door.
"Welcome to the Tri-Continental Academy."