The day was ending at Eclipse Academy.
Beyond the courtyard windows, the sky burned orange, bleeding slowly into dusk. The last of the students were still on the field — wooden swords striking against mana dummies, their voices faint through the wind.
Up in the faculty wing, away from the noise and chatter, the academy felt almost still.
The hum of mana circuits in the walls replaced the sound of students, and the faint aroma of coffee hung in the air like an old habit that never left.
The faculty lounge was empty, save for one man standing by the tall window — Instructor Baek Gunho, his posture rigid, the sleeve of his uniform rolled to his elbows. He watched the training fields below as if searching for something only he could see.
The light caught the scar on his jaw, the mark of too many battles — and one fresh cut that hadn't yet faded.
He'd told himself it was nothing.
But the memory of that strike — the way the boy's mana had turned inside out — refused to leave his mind.
Behind him, the door slid open with a soft chime.
"Tell me, Baek," a calm voice said, "are the rumors true?"
Baek didn't turn at first. "Rumors spread faster than sense in this place. Which one this time?"
"Don't play dumb."
He turned, finally meeting the sharp, steady gaze of Chang Soomin — still in her teaching coat from the morning's lecture, strands of silver hair catching the glow of the sunset behind her.
"That you sparred with a first-year," she said, "and he cut you."
Baek let out a slow breath through his nose. "Word travels fast, huh?"
Soomin crossed her arms. "So it's true."
He gave a small shrug. "Barely a scratch. But it wasn't luck.
"He moved to the small table near the wall, poured himself a cup of coffee, and added, "The kid's got control — technique — and something I can't put a name to."
"You're talking about Han Jiwoo," Soomin said. "The one everyone's whispering about."
"That's him," Baek set the cup down and rubbed his jaw. "He's listed E-rank, dual classification — Combatant and Unknown. I got curious and tested him myself. His stance is clean, his discipline's real. Said he used to practice kendo. You can tell. But when he hit his limit…" He paused, remembering the brief flash of violet light that had rippled across the field. "...something else kicked in."
Soomin frowned. "Mana surge?"
"Not exactly. The readings were all over the place — unstable, reversed at points. Like his core wasn't releasing mana but pulling it in."Baek's tone dropped, steady but thoughtful. "If I hadn't blocked his last strike, I don't know what might happened."
Soomin approached the desk, her heels tapping lightly against the mana-tiled floor. "That doesn't sound like overload."
"It wasn't." He met her gaze. "That's what bothers me. It didn't feel dangerous — not wild, just… foreign."
Soomin let out a quiet hum, her mind clearly turning. "Foreign how?"
Baek thought for a moment, then said, "Like the kind of power that doesn't belong in the standard system. I've seen students lose control, sure — but this? It was deliberate. His body moved before his mind did, like the power already knew what it wanted."
A beat of silence settled between them. The muffled sound of training continued somewhere outside the window — distant shouts, the clang of practice swords.
Soomin exhaled slowly. "And what did the sensors pick up?"
Baek tapped a few keys on his tablet, projecting a graph onto the screen. "Filed it myself. Look."
The readings flickered — mana lines that rose cleanly before twisting violently, inverting, and then cutting off entirely.
Soomin's brows knit. "That's not natural flow. That's… reversal."
"Exactly."
She stared at the data, then back at Baek. "He's listed E-rank?"
"Yep."
A quiet laugh escaped her, humorless. "Whoever evaluated him either missed something or didn't want to find it."
Baek smirked faintly. "Maybe both."
The silence stretched again. The tension between them wasn't argument — it was the quiet understanding of two veterans who'd seen too much to dismiss anomalies lightly.
Finally, Soomin spoke. "Have you informed the Headmaster?"
"Not yet," Baek said. "If I hand over that report now, the Association will have a team here before nightfall. They'll drag the kid out for testing, and if it turns out he's carrying something rare, we both know what happens next."
Soomin nodded grimly. "They'll classify him as a containment risk and might put an experiment on him"
Soomin hesitated. "You sound like you're protecting him."
Baek looked back toward the window, voice low. "Maybe I am. I've seen too many kids branded as weapons before they even figure out who they are. Not again."
Silence lingered for a moment. Then Soomin exhaled softly, her tone gentler. "Fine. But if things change—"
"I'll be the first to know," Baek finished.
She gave a curt nod and turned to leave, her footsteps soft against the tile. But before she reached the door, she paused.
"What's your gut say, Baek?"
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the training grounds below — the fading orange light spilling across the young students, moving like shadows chasing the last of the day.
"My gut says the boy's not dangerous," he said finally. "At least not yet."
Soomin's expression was unreadable, but she nodded once and left.
When the door clicked shut, Baek stood alone in the quiet lounge.The faint murmur of students training below drifted through the glass, blending with the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.
He rubbed the fading line on his cheek, a small smirk ghosting across his face. "Kid doesn't even know what he's holding…"
Outside, the campus lights flickered to life one by one, casting long shadows across the field. The day was ending, but for Baek, the questions had only started.
Somewhere out there, Han Jiwoo was probably pretending everything was normal again.
Baek wasn't convinced it would stay that way for long.