The next day
I sat still on the bench, Salem beside me — her mana curled around mine like a quiet fire. I couldn't see the room the way others could, but I felt it. Rows of glowing outlines, flickers of too-bright egos, nerves, and pride. Students from three continents, different races, different pasts — all gathered under one roof, breathing the same air.
And then the room shifted.
A weight pressed down across us like a falling mountain.
Magister Thrain had entered.
His mana was deep and unmoving — like the core of the earth. Old, stable, and more dangerous than anything trying to look dangerous. I couldn't make out his face, just a thick stone blur surrounded by pulsing waves of muted power.
He let the silence stretch.
"This is your first real lesson at the Tri-Continental Academy," he began. His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It settled in everyone's chest like a stone.
"We begin with Ranks."
The word rang in the dome-like classroom. I felt several students shift, their mana rising slightly — proud, confident. Salem beside me did not move.
"From Rank Fifteen — a spark. To Rank One — the elite," Thrain said. "And finally… Rank Zero — held by only one man."
A pause.
"Lincoln."
Even the air stilled. His name had weight. A legend made real. I felt Salem's mana curl tighter.
"But rank," Thrain said, stepping slowly down the center aisle, "is not strength. Not alone."
He stopped. His outline loomed.
"Some of you awakened with rare affinities. Some of you were born into noble lineages, trained from birth. And some of you… have power you barely understand."
There was no accusation in his voice, just hard truth.
"This academy… is not your playground."
He turned slowly.
"It is a crucible. A forge."
More silence.
"Over the next years, you will be broken down and rebuilt. Refined."
I could feel some students tense. years implying multiple. A long time to some of them, maybe. But to me, it felt necessary.
"No one here will be older than twenty-one when they leave this place," he continued. "Still young enough to be in your prime. Old enough to not be stupid anymore — as most of you are now."
I felt the ripple of discomfort move down the benches.
Thrain kept walking.
"Some of you will become army captains. Others will join a king's guard. A few may even return to stand where I am now and teach the next generation."
He paused again, then delivered the line like a blade:
"But if you ever face a real enemy — a devil, a traitor, a commander — and think your rank is enough to save you… you will die."
"And if you're wondering where your fellow student Alven Drossel is… he's recovering."
The class shifted. A few students' mana pulsed with recognition. One girl whispered. I caught the name Lumos.
"Don't worry," Thrain added with a touch of dry humor. "We have high-ranking healers on staff. He'll live. But he won't forget."
The room was silent. I felt the truth of it settle on every student like dust on their skin.
"I've seen Rank Threes fall to Rank Sevens. I've seen newer Rank Ones crushed by veterans half their strength. You are powerful, yes. But most of you are green. Untrained. Arrogant."
He let that sit.
"And if you act like that outside these walls, the world will not hesitate to break you."
He turned again and finally nodded.
"No need to keep you long for the starting lesson. Class dismissed. You'll return this afternoon for affinity-based assessments."
There was no applause. Just a slow shuffle as students began standing, their mana retreating with tension and thought.
Beside me, Salem finally breathed out, low and quiet. I reached out and took her hand.
We had four years to make something real out of ourselves.
And I was going to survive all of it.
The halls buzzed with energy as class let out — voices, footsteps, faint murmurs of magic echoing off the stone walls. I walked beside Salem, her warm mana still gently intertwined with mine, pulsing in a rhythm that had grown comfortingly familiar. She never let me fall out of step, always just a breath ahead or behind, silent unless I needed her.
Somewhere ahead, I caught a familiar flicker of mana — slippery, calm, yet laced with a lazy strength. Lycian.
"Annabel!" he called, and I turned toward his outline. Hex, his snake bond, draped lazily around his neck like a scarf made of muscle and fangs.
"Hex is getting strong," he said with a grin in his voice. "Already measuring in with mana reserves close to a Rank Five."
I raised a brow. "That's amazing. You've been putting in work."
"Yeah, still not close to salem though." He chuckled softly. "That's… well, that's a different league."
Salem gave a light snort beside me, but said nothing.
We didn't get far before another familiar mana pattern moved into our space. Fast, deliberate steps. Quiet and confident.
"Hey," Rōko said. "Mind if I join?"
"Never," I replied.
Her mana was so dense — a mountain constantly at rest but ready to shift. She walked alongside me, and the three of us moved through the corridors, soft murmurs trailing in our wake.
"I've been thinking," she said after a bit, "I should get a bond. If I'm gonna keep up with the three of you."
"Definitely," Lycian said. "It's like having another limb, once you get used to it."
"Mhm," I nodded. "Just make sure it's something you can trust."
We turned a corner and I heard it — faint voices just around the bend. Whispering.
"…broke eight of his bones…"
"…a demon? That can't be allowed here."
"She's too dangerous…"
Salem's mana pulsed once — a low thrum of instinct — but I brushed my fingers against her wrist. She quieted immediately. I didn't even flinch as we passed them. I just kept walking.
Let them talk.
—
We spent a little time exploring the courtyard, finding places that might make good quiet spots. There was a little arching garden by the western tower, and an empty balcony above the dueling grounds that I liked — open air, fewer voices.
Eventually, the bell rang again — high and clear.
Time for our afternoon assessment.
The parchment crinkled lightly under my fingers. I tilted my head toward Salem, who sat beside me, her mana always resting close — sharp but coiled, like a drawn bow.
"I can't write it," I murmured.
"Yeah, I've got it," she whispered back. Her voice was calm, steady. She'd done this before. She took the pen and carefully began to write.
Name.
Age.
Rank.
Magic types.
Bond.
Weapon of choice.
Strengths.
Weaknesses.
I sat quietly as she filled it out for me, only nodding when she quietly asked for confirmation on my answers.
When the rustling of papers finally faded, footsteps echoed as our instructor — the tall elf with the smooth, cold mana — stepped into the center of the classroom.
"I'll call on a few of you to read your responses aloud," he said.
"Rōko."
I felt her stand near the front. Her mana was solid. Rooted. Steady.
"Name: Rōko.
Age: Sixteen.
Rank: One.
Magic Affinity: Earth.
Bond: None.
Weapon: Chain and sickle.
Weaknesses: Large spells, high mana costs.
Strengths: All forms of combat."
Her tone was crisp and confident. I liked that about her.
The teacher acknowledged her with a nod, then moved on.
"Leonidas."
The boy two rows behind me shifted. His mana flickered, uncertain.
"Name: Leonidas.
Age: Sixteen.
Rank: Three.
Magic: Fire and Ice.
Bond: Rank Seven Crow.
Weapon: Longsword.
Weaknesses: No real combat experience.
Strengths: High intellect. Quick casting."
I could feel the ripple of snickering around the room. It crawled along the edges of mana signatures like oil on water.
Cowards. Laughing at honesty.
The teacher heard it too. His voice came firm and sudden. "Annabel. You — next."
I stood.
Salem passed me the paper, but I didn't need to read it. I knew exactly what was written there.
"Name: Annabel.
Age: Eleven.
Rank: Two.
Magic affinities: Space, Metal, Earth, Fire, Wind, Water, Ice.
Bond: Salem — Rank One Demon.
Weapon of choice: Steel bo staff.
Weaknesses: Physical strength
Strengths: Everything else, I'd say."
No one laughed now.
No whispers.
Just silence thick as lead.
Thrain's mana shifted slightly — satisfaction, I thought. Then he gave a simple nod.
"Understood. You may be seated. Next up"
I sat. Salem's hand found mine under the table. She didn't squeeze, but her fingers stayed there — steady and warm.
The rest of the names blurred into the background. The only thing I heard was Salem's steady breath beside me, and the buzz of quiet, uneasy respect starting to settle in the room.
The classroom had settled into a quiet hum — not quite peace, but the sharp edges of nerves were beginning to dull. Mana signatures felt steadier now, less flaring tension, more contained focus.
Magister Thrain — his presence firm and easy to track, all controlled flame and pressure — stepped forward again.
"That will be enough for now."
I turned my head toward his voice.
"With the information you've written today," he said, his tone even, "I — along with Magister Rhane and Magister Eleris — will begin preparing weakness-specific lessons."
There was a quiet shift in the air. A few students stiffened.
"These lessons will make up a major part of your first period classes. Not just to patch weaknesses — but to force you to understand them. To become confident in them. To stop fearing where you fall short."
His mana pulsed once — a small flare, like punctuation.
"Because if you don't know how to guard your weakest points… your enemies will find them first. And if you don't learn how to maximize your strengths intelligently, they'll end up wasted in the dirt beside you."
No one made a sound.
"This school does not train braggarts. It trains mages. The best of the best."
He didn't have to say anything more.
The moment he dismissed us, chairs scraped against the floor and boots thudded softly in every direction. Mana signatures brushed past mine — pulsing with excitement, uncertainty, and the familiar itch of competition. I reached for Salem's arm as she drifted close beside me, her aura steady and just a little sharp around the edges, like always.
"Chemistry next," I murmured, not that she needed reminding.
"Not your favorite?" she asked, her voice velvet-smooth with amusement.
"I don't mind it. I just like not blowing things up by accident."
Salem gave a quiet, near-silent laugh.
We made our way down the corridor, the halls wide enough for dozens of students at once — and filled with outlines that moved like water. Light trails of mana floated off everyone as they walked. I could barely make out the architectural details — just deep shadows and sharper shapes where the walls bent or the doors stood open — but I could feel the energy in the air shift when we entered the new classroom.
This place pulsed differently.
Magic was woven into the floor itself here. Threads of stabilized mana ran through every tile like veins in stone. Bottled magic clung to the walls in small containment units, minerals humming with dormant potential.
"Everyone find a table, preferably one with someone less likely to melt your eyebrows off," came a young, bright voice near the front.
I turned toward it.
The outline was small — slender, graceful, and far lighter in mana than any of the combat instructors. But her aura was precise. Razor-fine control hummed off her skin, almost like mist laced with lightning.
"My name is Arwen. You'll address me as Instructor Arwen," she continued, moving easily across the room with a practiced ease. "I'm not a ranked mage, and I don't need to be. This class doesn't care how big your mana pool is. What we care about here is detail — refinement — and the ability to keep your hands steady under pressure."
A few students chuckled — mostly nobles, the same sharp-edged presences who'd laughed earlier.
"I'm eighteen," Arwen added casually, "and yes, I am close in age to many of you. But I was also named the top alchemical mind of the three continents before I was sixteen. I've made potions used by generals, healers, and yes — even Lincoln himself."
That quieted things fast.
"Here, you'll learn to use your magic with rare minerals to create compounds that heal, poison, explode, protect — or even alter the flow of magic entirely. This class is one of the most important for your survival. So if you're here to slack off, leave now before I give you a reason to need one of my more… explosive recipes."
I couldn't help but grin a little. She was blunt — and I liked that.
"Let's begin with basic infusion," Arwen said, her steps gliding as she moved down the rows. "Each table has a low-reactive mineral and a set of tools. Focus your magic — any affinity — and try to bind it into the stone. I'll be watching to see how well you control your output."
Salem pulled me gently by the hand, guiding me to a table.
"Don't worry," she murmured as she set a smooth stone into my palm. "You'll do fine."
I could barely make out its shape — just a soft outline, a dense little blur of quiet mana. I could feel the hum in it, like a dormant heartbeat.
And just beneath it, the tremble of my own magic waiting to meet it.
The stone sat steady in my hand, dense and cool. I closed my eyes — not that it made a difference — and drew a slow breath, tuning in to the thrum of my own mana. It rose like iron wires through my veins, steady and tempered. I shifted my focus until I could feel the particular hum of metal — heavy, sure, and sharp with potential.
I pushed it outward, weaving that mana gently into the stone.
A low pulse answered back.
The infusion wasn't flashy. It didn't spark or glow like some of the other affinities. But I could feel it — the stone drank it in like a dry root finding water. My stream was tight, perfectly controlled, a slow and steady channel from me to it.
Light footsteps approached — and then a voice: "You've done this before."
It was Arwen. Her outline settled beside me — a feminine, slender form of concentrated mana wrapped in exact, clean threads of control. I turned toward her, lips curving slightly.
"Not this exactly," I said simply.
Arwen leaned down slightly, inspecting the stone. "Perfect control. Impressive. That's rare — especially with metal magic." She paused, probably watching the way I didn't quite look at the stone. "You're one of the three, aren't you? The ones with metal affinity."
I heard her blink — somehow. A little hitch in her breath. "What's your name?"
"Annabel."
"…You're that Annabel."
There it was.
Salem shifted slightly beside me, her mana quietly coiling closer, protective as always.
"Well, Annabel," Arwen said, clearing her throat, "place the stone on the burner now. Carefully — it'll begin to melt your mana into a usable alchemical base. From here, we'll combine minerals depending on the potion you want."
Her mana flicked to the side — a gesture — and Salem gently guided my hand until I felt the edge of the burner. I set the stone down. The platform was warm beneath my fingertips, but not hot yet.
The moment it ignited, I could feel the change. The mana inside the stone began to simmer — like molten metal behind glass. Still stable. Still mine.
"This is where it gets delicate," Arwen instructed. "You'll continue streaming mana into it as it melts — keeping the core of your intent inside the potion. That intent defines how the minerals will bind to your magic. What kind of potion do you want to make?"
I thought for a second. "Endurance."
Arwen hummed. "Interesting choice. For that, you'll want something like adamantine or platinum."
Salem didn't speak — she didn't need to. I felt her reach beside me and press something small, cool, and metal-heavy into my hand.
Platinum.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"Of course."
I dropped the sliver of metal into the bubbling mixture. It hissed — a sharp bite of sound — and immediately began to break down. Not dissolve… fuse.
I focused again. Steady stream. No fluctuations. No distractions.
Arwen's voice came softly beside me. "You're blind, aren't you?"
I didn't flinch. "Yeah."
She was silent for a beat. Then: "That makes this even more impressive."
I didn't answer. Didn't need to.
Instead, I kept pushing mana through my hand into the small stone-metal pool. I could feel it begin to bind — the magic inside pulling tighter, fusing with the platinum in waves like breath. It wanted to solidify. That meant it was almost ready.
"Now," Arwen said, quiet but firm, "pour it into the flask beside you. Slow and steady. And cap it immediately."
Salem helped guide my hand — careful as always. The potion hissed as it touched glass, its aura blooming like a ripple through the air. I capped it.
Done.
I sat back, heart steady. My mana hadn't even wavered.
Arwen let out a breath like she'd been holding it. "That's a perfect Tier 2 endurance potion," she said, clearly impressed. "Not something we normally see from first years."
"She's a show off alright," Lycian murmured beside across the room.
I grinned at him. "Jealousy. So pity"
The potion pulsed faintly in my hand — dense with metal, heat, and mana, a tightly bound concentration of intent and substance. The glass was still warm, bordering on hot, and I could feel the energy within it hum like a drawn blade.
"Now," Arwen said, her voice full of interest, "cool it. A controlled burst of ice magic should do it — ideally just enough to stop the internal fusion process."
I turned my head slightly toward her, a smile ghosting across my lips. "I do have ice magic," I said.
"I figured," she murmured, amused.
I held the flask in one hand and raised my other just above it. I pictured the mana — clear, cold, and clean — and sent it rushing down in a sharp breath. Frost shimmered from my fingertips, a thin line of cold mana wrapping around the glass. I felt the temperature drop instantly, the potion inside stilling, the boil silenced.
It was ready.
"…You want me to drink this?" I asked flatly.
Around me, the classroom stilled. The hum of mana outlines froze — most of them fixated on me now.
Arwen nodded. "Yes. That's part of the process — understanding the effects firsthand."
I turned my head toward her blur. "But it's metal. Melted into my mana. Doesn't that, you know… kill people?"
She laughed softly. "If it went to your stomach, yes. But this doesn't go through your digestive tract. Potions like this are mana-bound. When you drink it, it's absorbed directly into your core — that's why your intent and infusion were so important earlier."
"…And this one's for endurance?"
"Exactly. More stamina, slower mana depletion, stronger staying power in longer battles. The effect of this Tier 2 potion should last you around thirty minutes."
A pause. "Tier 1s?"
"Double that," she said. "But much harder to make. You need refined technique, stronger catalysts, and usually at least a Rank 2 bond helping channel the reaction. Except Lincoln of course, he does it on his own."
I lifted the flask to my lips and took a breath. Then I tipped it back.
The liquid was thick — not like water. More like warm syrup shot through with pressure, like a heartbeat. It vanished down my throat with a strange flicker, then—
I felt it.
My core swelled.
It wasn't pain. It was power. My mana system surged, not chaotically — no, more like someone had given it a wider path to run. My reserves expanded, light and easy. My chest lifted with the weight of the magic settling deeper into me, not heavier… but steadier.
I blinked, even if it did nothing. "It worked."
"Good," Arwen said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "Try a spell."
I turned toward the open stone desk in front of me and focused. A flicker of wind magic — sharp and simple. I exhaled, and a blade of air sliced forward in a clean arc. No drag. No strain.
My eyebrows lifted. "That was… light."
"Exactly what it's meant to feel like," Arwen said. "Efficiency. Stamina. Control."
All around the room, I could feel the other students buzzing. No one else had tried their potion yet.
"30 minutes doesn't really sound like a long time though." I said.
"Thats understandable but every bit helps, and the better your control, the more efficient the absorption. It could last longer for you."
I leaned back slightly, smiling now. "Good to know."
And beside me, I felt Salem — her mana calm and steady — press her hand lightly against my back. Just a touch. Silent, reassuring.
We were getting better. Stronger