The Mud-Flat Run ended with the students gasping , a line of bedraggled recruits staggering back through the training gates. Their once new training uniforms were now heavy with shells of clay and sweat.
"Bathing block! Twenty minutes! Be clean and present for Mana Theory!" a proctor barked, pointing towards a low, steaming stone building.
The communal baths were a revelation of another sort. While not luxurious, they were impeccably functional and, like the food, far better than the recruits had dared hope. A series of large, sunken stone pools were filled with constantly circulating, magically heated water. Runes along the edges glowed with Aqua-Kin and Hyoton (Ice) symbols for temperature control. There were even simple, touch-activated cleansing orbs that released a lather of soap and a rinse of soft water.
As the boys soaked the aching cold from their muscles, the atmosphere was one of exhausted camaraderie. The shared trial of the run and the unexpected quality of the facilities broke down some initial barriers. Leo, scrubbing mud from his hair.
"See? Investment. They don't put Cleansing Runes in the barracks of a lost cause. They want us functional, fast. No time for mundane illnesses or lingering fatigue."
Oliver, quieter, observed. He watched how the subtle elemental affinities of others interacted with the environment. A boy with a faint Ekton (Liquids) touch unconsciously smoothed the water's surface around him. Another with a low-grade fire affinity sat in a noticeably hotter section of the pool, steam rising from his shoulders. Oliver himself felt nothing but the pleasant, neutral heat of the water. No pull, no push. Just cleanliness.
Unbeknownst to them, their physical conditioning teacher, the mountain-like professor Grath, was not in a teacher's lounge. He stood in a secluded observation deck of training ground, its one-way crystal wall over looking the training ground. His eyes, sharp and analytical, scanned the recruits.
His finger tapped a mana-crystal slate, making notes. 'Ashbourne, Leo: Fire-Kin. Uses ambient heat efficiently for recovery. Social, assumes leadership. Resilient.' His gaze drifted to Oliver.
Oliver: Grey-Weaver. No elemental interaction with enchanted waters. Endurance: high, but unaided. Recovery: passive. Observation pattern: high. Social engagement: low. Mindset: processing, curious, and cautious.'
Proctor Grath gave a barely perceptible grunt. The hidden assessment had begun the moment they'd stepped onto the Mud-Flat. Their stamina, their pacing, how they helped or hindered each other in the sucking mire, and now, their recovery behavior and group dynamics—it was all data. The Academy Head's philosophy was in motion: Find the usable edge in every tool.
Clean, in fresh (though plain) grey uniforms, the bronze class was herded across the central quad toward their Mana Theory class. They entered Annex 7, a building that from the outside appeared utilitarian and modern.
Inside, the air changed. It was clean, temperature-controlled, and smelled of fresh herbs, old parchment, and polished crystal.
The classroom was a testament to staggering investment. It was an amphitheater, with tiered seating descending towards a central lecture floor. But this was no simple chalkboard room.
The central dais held a master Aetheric Projector, a complex device of brass and glowing crystal that could manifest three-dimensional, interactive diagrams of mana flow. The walls were not stone, but seamless panels of Dark-Slate, a mineral that could record and replay intricate spell-forms written upon it with light. At each student's seat, embedded in the desk, was a small, personal Mana-Resonance Plate—a device that allowed a student to channel a tiny trickle of their own power to interact with the lessons.
Murmurs of awe filled the room. Leo let out a low whistle as he slid into a seat beside Oliver. "A personal resonator… these are standard issue."
Oliver ran his fingers over the cool, smooth surface of the plate on his desk. It was etched with concentric circles and elemental symbols. For most, it would light up in response to their affinity—a blue glow for Water, a ripple for Air. He wondered, with a knot of dread and curiosity, what his inert, grey mana would do. Would it do nothing? Would it fail?
Before he could spiral, the instructor entered.
He was an older man, thin and wiry, with wild grey hair and eyes that flickered with a perceptive, lightning-quick intelligence. He wore simple robes, but on his wrist was a complex, multi-dialed mana-reader. He did not introduce himself. He simply stepped to the center of the dais, activated the Aetheric Projector with a touch, and watched as a brilliant, complex web of light—the foundational lattice of universal mana theory—spun into existence above him.
The room fell completely silent.
"You are here," the instructor began, his voice dry and precise, "because you possess a spark. A flicker. A great roaring flame is useless if it consumes its wielder. A tidal wave drowns its caller. The mightiest earth-shaper can be felled by a single grain of sand in the wrong place." His eyes, like twin probes, scanned the room, lingering on no one and everyone. "Mana Theory is not the study of power. It is the study of structure, law, and consequence. It is the map. Your affinity is merely the vehicle. A poor map dooms the finest carriage. A perfect map…" he paused, "…can guide even the humblest cart through a storm."
His gaze seemed to sweep over Oliver, and for a fraction of a second, their eyes met. There was no pity there. Only a deep, relentless curiosity.
"Today," the instructor said, turning back to the glowing lattice, "we begin with the First Law: Mana's inert State. You will attempt to resonate with the plate at your desk. Do not try to impress it. Try to understand it. Record its response, in your mind. The observation is the first lesson."
He waved a hand, and the projector shifted to display the molecular-like structure of stable, unaspected mana—a grey, orderly, and profoundly still pattern.
Oliver stared at the image, then looked down at the resonance plate. He took a slow breath, pushed the dread aside, and gently placed his palm on the cool surface, allowing the faintest trickle of his Grey-Weaver energy to seep forth.
The plate did not glow blue, red, or brown. It did not shimmer or crackle. Instead, the concentric etchings on its surface darkened slightly, as if absorbing the light around them, becoming clearer, more defined, and perfectly, stable. A perfect, neutral grey.
At the front of the room, the instructor's mana-reader on his wrist emitted a soft, almost inaudible ping. He did not look up from the projection, but a faint, knowing smile touched the corner of his mouth.
The hidden assessment continued. And for the first time, Oliver's peculiar magic had given an answer.
End of chapter