I step in, closing the door behind me. “So let me get this straight,” I say while doing everything short of gouging out my own peripheral vision to avoid looking at Genovefa—who is still hurriedly finishing her outfit—“this is your room now too? That’s why you’re in here changing. That has to be the explanation.”

  “Indeed.” Fabric whispers against fabric, her voice steady but with that faint tremor that suggests she wishes she were anywhere else. “I did not expect you would arrive so early, however.”

  What…? But—!

  “Aren’t girls and boys segregated? Why are you transfered to my room—”

  “I would not be here if I possessed a choice.” A soft click, a belt or clasp settling. “You may look now.”

  I rotate back toward her, bracing for any lingering… exposure. Thankfully, she’s fully dressed. Her uniform looks like someone fused a medieval cleric with a modern barrister and then asked a fashion student to make it wearable. Long dark-gray coat, pleated skirt, a little priest-like bands at the neck, leather belt, red socks. Somehow, bizarrely cohesive.

  “It suits you,” slips out of me.

  “I know.”

  I scrub a hand through my hair. “I almost got distracted. You being here—what’s the deal?”

  My brain still vibrates with the residual horror of the whole accidental-pervert incident. Day one at the academy and I’ve already tripped into a trope I spend most of my waking life mocking. What in the absolute fuckery… I just got here!

  She exhales, long and frayed at the edges. “My roommate ruinated our chamber by accident yesternight. She attempted a new Magic Skill and… I think you already get the idea.”

  “Couldn’t they just—I don’t know—place you in a free girls’ room?”

  “…”

  “Right,” I murmur. “If that were an option, we wouldn’t be in… whatever this situation is.”

  Another sigh from her—one of those long, soul-tired exhales that makes it sound as if she’s trying to compress herself into a smaller, less conspicuous shape. “You tell me.” She gestures dismissively, but her expression resets back to that composed, court-polished neutrality, her voice smoothing into its usual silken cadence. “The maidens’ dormitories are filled to the brim. And as the King’s daughter, they cannot, apparently, permit me to sleep in discomfort. By ill fortune, yours is the only chamber unoccupied, for you have no companion. If I were to force a maiden from her own room so I might take her place, that same maiden would be forced into yours. I cannot permit such a fate. A princess must look out for her people.”

  I physically recoil. “H—hey, stop treating me like I’m some kind of pathogen…”

  What the hell? The tone she uses is the same calm neutrality she had at the palace, but the content? Sharp enough to shave with. It makes me wonder if this is her idea of payback for the whole half-naked debacle. Which… if so… that is hilariously irrational. Why direct any of this at me? It’s not like I asked to be thrust into this!

  Her silver hair sways as she flicks it back, azure eyes locking onto me with a composure that somehow contains restrained fury, like a tranquil pond hiding a volcano. “Alas, I shall be stuck with you until the dormitory affairs are sorted.”

  I click my tongue. “Pretty sure I should be the one saying that.”

  She scoffs softly. “To think such absurdity would occur…”

  My… What a dilemma this is…

  Now that I think about it, this is literally that one variant of accidental-pervert event. The scenario—protagonist opens door, heroine mid-change, embarrassment explodes, the universe cackles. There’s an entire subcategory of anime tropes dedicated to this nonsense. I’ve lectured my friends about its overuse. I’ve complained about it serving almost zero purpose than fanservice.

  Yet here I am. Living it.

  I’ve already seen things that has felt intentional ever since I got in this world—mostly directed by someone—but this scenario feels like the universe is scrambling in fulfilling a fanservice quota. Afterall, the setup is ludicrously elaborate: princess’s roommate ruined up their room the night before I arrive to the point they can’t use it, girls’ dorms are full, my room empty, she refuses to displace another girl because that hypothetical girl would be forced to room with me… therefore she, the princess, ends up here.

  It’s like the universe tried to mimic Rube Goldberg just to fling me at a cliché. And it does abide to the Chaos Theory, and indeed coincidence CAN be freaky. It’s just… Well…

  I snort. “Well… that’s lazy writing.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Don’t mind me. Just talking to myself.”

  “I don’t get you.” She brushes past me, straightening her skirt with that maddeningly elegant precision. “Your uniform lies in the box beneath your bed.” She halts, pivots, and gestures toward the two beds in the corner—each a meter apart, a little island of personal space. “I shall take the right one.”

  “Is it because you’re always right—?”

  She leaves before I finish the sentence, door slamming with the crisp finality of a judge’s gavel.

  Harsh crowd. Can’t even take a joke. Anyway—still early. Better set up.

  I dump the contents of my briefcase—my extremely minimal belongings—onto the small desk beside the left bed. Two small closets wait against the wall, so I strip down and hang everything neatly, trying to establish at least the illusion of having my life together. Then I check under the bed and find the ornate box Genovefa mentioned. Inside: the uniform, folded with ceremonial precision. Same design as hers, though mine swaps the skirt for formal black pants and includes sleek shoes polished to a borderline blinding shine.

  I slip into everything, and for a moment I feel like an academic from some prestigious pre-industrial university. Back on Earth I was technically a scholar too… in the “running on scholarship money like a parasite clinging to a warm host” sense. But this? This feels different. This feels like playing dress-up with history. A world where scholar still means someone who reads by candlelight and argues about theology or cosmology for sport.

  Then my brain reminds me of my face—its unfortunate, aggressively average qualities. Tuff fit wasted. Scholar aesthetic obliterated by default male protagonist settings.

  I slap my cheeks, pain snapping my thoughts into orderly formation.

  Alright, Shin. This is it. Time to learn everything. Prepare for hyper-analysis mode. Prepare your brain for note-taking!

  Classes are split into two halves—morning and afternoon. Pretty standard. Morning is all theory, afternoon is practical work. The interesting part is morning’s main attraction:

  “Every living creature in this realm innately possess Magical Energy—an essence one may wield to strengthen one’s corporeal,” the instructor declares.

  Magical Energy. Reinforcement. Essentially the same power system I’ve read about in a thousand paperback fantasy worlds, except this time I’m not the reader—I’m the lab rat.

  We’re taught how to control it too. And controlling it… is absurdly easy. No meditation. No rituals. No convoluted cultivation cycles with names like Heaven-Defying Respiratory Method: Ninefold Lung Expansion. It’s as instinctive as moving a limb.

  Which is insane. On Earth, the closest equivalent is optimizing blood oxygenation—breathing techniques, muscular control, micro-adjustments—the whole shtick athletes and martial artists utilize. And even then the improvements are limited by, you know, biology. Here? You imagine something, and reality obligingly flexes.

  “Imagine a lake within you,” the teacher says, palm hovering above his heart as if he’s about to demonstrate stage magic. “Let it flow through your form. Guide it where you desire strength.”

  Beside me, Joshua presses his thumb against the edge of our shared desk.

  A faint crack. Wood splinters. A tiny indentation blooms like a bruise.

  He blinks. “Whoa… I didn’t even put much into that.”

  My spine attempts to escape.

  Scary. Scary!

  There’s no bell. No chime. Just the teacher closing his book with a soft thump and stating:

  “Class is adjourned.”

  That’s enough to set the entire student population flowing out like a tidal current, all headed toward the mess hall. I join the stream. Back on Earth, lunchtime meant reconnaissance—scouting for some quiet corner where I could eat in peace and avoid accidental small talk. But I don’t have the materials to prepare my own lunch here at the moment. I am at the mercy of institutional cuisine.

  The mess hall smells like firewood, spices, and whatever universal principle governs cafeteria food. When I reach the counter, the head chef peers at me with the face of a man evaluating a suspicious ingredient.

  “Yer one of them Heroes?” His eyes narrow.

  A collective gasp ripples behind me. I don’t look back—I just nod.

  “What do ya desire, lad? Name yer dish.”

  I rub my chin with the contemplative air of a philosopher, though I am absolutely bluffing. Despite eating at the palace, I still barely understand this world’s cuisine. My strategy is simple: outsource the decision to someone who won’t poison me.

  “Mind just… plating something? I don’t really know what’s good here.”

  His entire aura shifts like someone flipped him from “background NPC” to “supportive uncle.” Without hesitation, he assembles a tray with the precision of an artist and the speed of a seasoned chef. A generous cut of roasted meat—looks like steak, smells like heaven—lands beside a mound of omelette rice. Except the yolk is red. Not orange-red. Red-red. Like someone scrambled a sunset. Beside it, mashed potatoes piled like soft clouds. And finally, a frosty mug of sweet iced tea beading condensation.

  He pushes the tray forward with ceremony. “Thou shalt come for seconds.”

  I grin. “We’ll see about that, boss.”

  Instant approval. I adore this old man already. Might actually be the first person I genuinely like in this world. He radiates warm-grandpa energy so strong the women ought to be orbiting him like moons.

  Tray secured, I make a tactical retreat to the farthest corner table by the enormous window—optimal distance from social clusters, optimal access to natural light, and optimal freedom from forced interaction. From here, I have a clear view of the entire mess hall.

  Ray is already surrounded by girls—predictable. That guy carries the kind of energy that screams please objectify me, I was built for it. Mark’s circle is also all girls, but for the opposite reason; he has that gentle-big-brother aura that triggers protective instincts in a ten-meter radius. Meanwhile, Joshua is surrounded by a pack of tall guys built like brick houses, laughing loud enough to shake the rafters. Just like his basketball crew back on Earth.

  Then there’s me—sitting alone, chewing solitude like it’s part of the meal. It’s a little pathetic, but at least it’s quiet.

  A sudden thud beside me. A flash of silver.

  FUCK NOOOO! I’D RATHER BE ALONE AND PATHETIC—

  “Lonely, I see,” Genovefa murmurs, fighting a smile.

  “Can you—can you let me off the hook already? It’s not like I meant to see you half-changing—”

  Her glare snaps like a trap.

  “—Nghk! Please just leave me alone, man!”

  “Pardon?” She sets down her tray with a decisive clink. She’s already sitting. It’s over. Escape impossible. “I am not ‘man.’”

  “Relax. In our world, it’s a gender-neutral thing for people you’re familiar with.”

  “You speak as though you are my friend.”

  I click my tongue before my brain can stop me. Why is she—

  She blows gently on her soup, then pauses. “So? How fares thy level?”

  “…What is this about…?”

  Still, I check my stats again.

  Fifteen. Last night I was level one. Now I’m fifteen. Out of a hundred. That’s… massive. Probably thanks to the experience boost for being a Hero, though the mechanics remain maddeningly vague. The school vaguely explained that killing monsters (and many other things) gives EXP, like in games—but even they admit it’s only one way, and not the most efficient since, well, you risk your own life in it. Learning counts too, but only if you’re a beginner tinkering with Magical Energy. Normally, that’s enough to push someone to, what, level five? Yet here I am—fifteen. Halfway to the graduation benchmark of thirty, where students unlock their first Magic Skills for their future ventures. Hero status is clearly not subtle.

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  So from all that, the system is… arbitrary at best. Combat rewards EXP spikes—though not as huge as one would imagine; learning, if profound enough, gives EXP boosts. There’s no game-like exploits. If I want steady progression, I’ll need to mix both, strategically. And, frankly, it’s annoying how little anyone explains the nuances—they might as well have handed me a manual written in hieroglyphics.

  “Fifteen,” I say, my tone neutral now. I don’t hold grudge that long. “Why’d you ask?”

  Genovefa swallows. “Curious how much the Blessing accelerated you.”

  “You make it sound like Hero status is a set of bike training wheels.”

  “You and your unorthodox lingos…” She sighs, returning to her food. “I didn’t expect it would be such a massive boost.”

  “You’re right. Feels undeserved.”

  “You say that, yet there’s no remorse in your voice.”

  “Good catch.”

  For a heartbeat, a ghost of a smile flickers across her lips before we drop into silence, the only sound the scrape of forks and spoons. The chatter and clatter of the other students fade to a muted backdrop. Sunlight spills through the window, bathing the table’s edge, brushing her hair with a faint sheen. It’s ridiculous how serene this feels after earlier.

  It’s also strange… I barely knew her back at the palace, yet now, after that—unfortunate—incident earlier, we’ve somehow… talked more than necessary. Forced proximity does that, I guess.

  …

  Maybe we stumbled onto the wrong footing. I’m painfully aware that I know almost no one here, and nobody I like. Expanding connections seems… logical. I’m partly at fault for what happened earlier, and so is she. Holding onto it serves no one. We’ll be together for a while, whether we like it or not. And for some reason, despite how different we are, conversation flows between us. And besides, she went out of her way to sit beside me. That has to mean something.

  “Hey…” I put my utensils down. Not a grand gesture—just enough to anchor what I’m about to say. My eyes drift, pretending to find interest in the window, the ceiling, anywhere that might diffuse the awkward static buzzing in my chest. “…You and I should—”

  “No can do. We can’t be friends.”

  My fist knocks the table before I can stop it. “I didn’t even finish the damn sentence!”

  Her smirk is a complete betrayal of her usual royal composure—mischief curled like a cat in her expression. “I can’t be friends with someone I barely know. We only started talking properly today.”

  “Yeah, okay, but could you not interrupt—”

  “We can be acquaintances, though.”

  “You— you did it again—” I pause. “…Wait. For real?”

  The mischief melts, replaced by her usual gentler smile—warm, a little amused, maddeningly confident. “Why ask a question you already know the answer to? When I first saw you, I thought you were smart.” She taps her fingers at her lips, hiding a laugh. “But then again, you annoyed Leyni to the brink of murder and make my father a bit weary. So perhaps you’re just selectively stupid.”

  “M—mean…!”

  She returns to her quiet as smoothly as a curtain falling—no teasing, no smug, just that familiar composed stillness. And it irritates me more than it should. That jab of hers really was mean. I’m not supposed to get rattled by something so small… yet here I am, pulse a little stupid, cheeks a little warm.

  It brushes against an old memory—dusty, fragile, half-faded. The last real banter I had was with my crush back then. Someone who once made a single afternoon tilt on its axis. Someone who helped shape who I became, the same way my mom carved me into a person who could stand, think, breathe without falling apart. Those two tug my heart in ways I can’t articulate.

  And suddenly I’m aware of the thin ache tugging at the center of my chest.

  Talking to Genovefa—this princess of this Kingdom whom I barely know, with her sharp tongue and unexpectedly steady presence—makes the distance between worlds hit harder. I’m learning, adjusting, enjoying even… but the more vivid this place becomes, the more terrified I am that one day I’ll stop missing home. That one day I’ll call this world enough.

  “Your Highness!” A voice like a gentle knock pulls the moment apart. A girl with blazing red hair tied in a high ponytail approaches—bright, lively, curls framing her face like firelight. Beside her stands someone who freezes the blood in my veins.

  Leyni.

  Isn’t she a guard or knight on the palace? What is she doing here—?!

  “What is a knave doing in Her Highness’s company?” Leyni’s disdain could strip paint off the walls.

  “Stand down, Leyni.” Genovefa lifts a hand with practiced grace. Then, she fixes her eyes on me. “You seem surprised. Leyni is in her sixth year of study. This shall be her final season before she earns her place as a fully-fledged knight of the Crown.”

  Jesus Christ, no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no— Wait, wait, wait— WAIT, WAIT, WAIT, WAIT—!

  “You appear troubled.”

  “I thought I was done seeing her after the palace.”

  Leyni’s gaze sharpens into a blade. “Your Highness, must you keep company with such a coarse-tongued rogue? You are assigned quarters together, yes, but to dine with him voluntarily—”

  Genovefa raises her bowl and takes one last sip, loud enough to slice Leyni’s indignation clean down the middle. She sets it down empty, voice smooth. “I am merely forging a mutual bond. Unlike the other Heroes, he supped alone. I thought to speak with him and… salvage our footing after the incident earlier—”

  A beat.

  Her eyes widen a hair, realizing the slip.

  The red-haired girl perks up. “Incident? Earlier? Whatever happened?”

  ““Nothing.””

  The afternoon unfurls into a light golden sprawl as students spill into the academy’s open-air training coliseum. “Coliseum” barely captures it. The structure towers like a myth breathed into stone—a vast ellipse of load-bearing walls and square pillars stacked arcades, concrete ribs interwoven with timber that catches the sun like bronze bones of the Behemoth. Beneath it runs a full hypogeum, shadowed corridors and lift platforms meant for beasts and combatants.

  If the Flavian Amphitheatre had been dreamt by a medieval architect high on ambition and Germanic flourishes, it might look like this.

  I want—desperately—to climb somewhere high and just breathe it all in. Let my mind wander, let awe take the wheel. But no. I’m not a spectator today. I’m standing dead-center on the arena floor with the other three and a handful of fifth- and sixth-year seniors.

  Afternoons are reserved for practical learning. Except “practical” is a bit of a stretch for most students here. The first through fourth years still haven’t hit level thirty—the threshold where Magic Skills awaken naturally. So they’re assigned to watch from the stands, notebooks ready, eyes hungry. Their future hinges on absorbing everything like a sponge soaking up gunpowder.

  The four of us Heroes are technically first-years too. But our Blessings tossed us straight past the gate, Magic Skills locked and loaded before we even learned where the bathrooms are. So now we stand in a tiny column of newbies-with-cheats, waiting for instruction from our own Practical Arts professor while the fifth- and sixth-years wait from their own in their larger columns.

  Ray punches the air with a grin that could fuel a small town. “This is it! I can feel it, guys. Today’s the day we bust out our Magic Skills!”

  He’s vibrating, looking every bit the guy expecting to fire lasers or summon holy dragons. And honestly, the setup feels like one of those scenes: the protagonist standing apart, the crowd watching, the professors ready to gauge everyone’s potential when suddenly the protag bust out a cheat skill—and everyone claps or something. I don’t know, feels too repetitive. I will gouge my eyes out when I see another one of those moments again.

  Anyone should be excited. Any otakus or narcissists at least.

  As for me, I’ll lay low with my Distort. It’s a skill I’ve barely poked at, let alone understood. It sits inside me like a sealed box humming with danger or possibility or both.

  I’m not about to open that box in public just to look cool.

  I’d rather blend into the grain of the arena floor—be the John Doe who keeps expectations low and results steady. Quiet competence beats flamboyant stupidity any day. Especially when you’re in a world where everything you don’t know can kill you or embarrass you, often in that order.

  Less pressure. More actual learning.

  I sigh, almost exasperated. I’m already tired absorbing everything from the morning class and now I have to deal with this guy. “You’d think he’d bust out something else with the way he’s shaking.”

  Joshua snorts; Mark chuckles behind his fist.

  “Hey! What did the nerd say? You two traitors—” Ray’s whisper-complaint dies as our professor claps a wooden rod against his palm. Actually, every professor on the field does it at once, like a synchronized intimidation ritual. The sharp cracks ripple across the arena and every student snaps upright.

  Seniors begin their own warm-ups. Meanwhile, our professor strides toward us and levels his stick like it’s a conductor’s baton.

  “Unlike the seniors,” he says, voice carrying with the crisp diction of someone raised on etiquette manuals, “you shall devote this week to learning the manner of wielding your Magic Skills. The skill to do so naturally is requisite for survival.”

  All of us remains silent. Even Ray keeps his mouth shut. For all his narcissistic tendencies, he knows when to tuck it away. Mark stands steady as always, and Joshua—big, disciplined, probably carved from gym-floor wood—leans forward, eager.

  The professor’s gaze sweeps us. “I trust ye all have a rudimentary grasp on the working of Magical Energy?”

  We nod.

  Mark picks up a stray rock, tightens his fist, and the thing fractures with a crack. “We figured out the basics of reinforcement. Since Magical Energy—like most energies—works like… a power source or fuel, do you plan on teaching us how to burn it to cast a Skill?”

  The professor raises his brows, genuinely pleased. “Astute observation, lad.” He presses a palm to his heart, then sweeps it outward in a slow, deliberate arc, as if sculpting something invisible. “Corporeal enhancement is wrought by dousing one’s limbs with Magical Energy. Strengthening, yes—but limited.” His hand glides forward from the heart. A heartbeat—then he snaps his finger. “Triggering a Magic Skill to fire,” he continues, “is much like kindling that doused energy. As tinder to flame.”

  Gasoline-soaked metaphor… Ignition analogy… If Magical Energy behaves like a metastable reservoir, then Magic Skills must be catalytic reactions—triggered phenomena with predefined pathways… Or predefined trigger—a flint and steel to a bunch of oil.

  “There be two methods,” the professor declares, voice carrying across the arena, thick with archaic cadence. “The easier one, and the harder, yet more profitable one.” He pivots, facing the arena wall, and extends a hand forward. “Flameblast.”

  The air around his palm quivers, a subtle ripple that escalates in an instant. A sphere of fire, roughly the size of a basketball, ignites inches from his palm, scorching and real, before shooting five meters ahead and dissipating into a thin wisp of smoke.

  “W—wow…” Ray clenches his fist, eyes wide. “Sir, how’d you do that?!”

  The professor turns, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. “Through speech,” he says, thumping a fist over his heart. “Magic Spells be woven deep, not only in our corporeal form, but in our soul. It exists as naturally as that which makes ‘you’ inside your mortal coil. Yet, therein lies the challenge: to trigger it is not as facile as to command mere Magical Energy. To aid the corporeal in discerning your desire to activate a particular Skill, you must employ speech—specifically, calling the Skill’s name while channeling a modicum of Magical Energy unto the heart.”

  So the speech is the trigger… and speech is an action produced by the brain—the flint to the steel. Channeling Magical Energy into the heart makes sense too; if the heart is the vessel of the soul—the nearest thing to the Magic Skill—because it’s the center of sensation, and the source of the body’s heat and pneuma—life force. At least that’s what Aristotle thought. Maybe this world works the same way. Because if that’s the case, I can frame it as:

  “Uttering the Magic Skill’s name activates the temporal lobe for recognition, and the prefrontal cortex to affirm the command. With the heart and soul fueled, the rhythm of incantation behaves like a built-in procedure, slipping past conscious effort and igniting the Skill automatically.” I pause, tapping my chin, eyes flicking to the professor. “Am I wrong?”

  The professor’s eyes widen as though I’ve just struck a bell inside him. Even Joshua and Mark lean back a fraction, startled.

  “For a first-year, you do show remarkable insight regarding the general functions of the corporeal frame,” he says, voice measured but impressed.

  I shake my head. “Uh… I don’t know how to say this. That sort of information’s readily available where we’re from.”

  “Is that so? Still, that’s fairly impressive.” He smiles, pride softening his features. “But then again, you four are Heroes. I should expect nothing less.”

  The others laugh awkwardly, but Ray just glares at me—a tiny stormcloud in human form, for reasons known only to his mysteriously offended soul.

  “Now then, why do you not attempt it yourselves?” the professor says. From his trousers he withdraws four crystalline spheres, each one swirling with shifting colors. “These orbs are wrought of a mineral most curious, for it absorbs all things made of Magical Energy. Ye may unleash your Skills upon them without fear of shattering aught—save by brute force, for they are most delicate to the touch.”

  We each take one.

  Ray immediately tosses his up and down like a juggling act—which is exactly the one thing he should not do with a brittle, expensive magical artifact. “Feels kinda light… but also hard.”

  “Well, hardness and brittleness aren’t the same.”

  “Whatever, nerd.” He tightens his grip and mutters, “Agni…”

  Flame roars to life around the sphere. It blossoms outward, snarling orange, hungry like a carnivorous flower made of heat. Even from five meters away, warmth grazes my skin in faint pulses. The fire licks along Ray’s hands without burning him, which shouldn’t be possible unless the Skill behaves like a boundary layer—which I doubt is the case.

  Through the blaze, I can just make out the orb, still intact and greedily drinking every strand of magical flame. But as I squint, something unsettles me… The fire doesn’t wane. No fuel consumed, combustion reaction dependency. It simply persists, defying all combustion dynamics like a middle finger to thermodynamics.

  Joshua leans in, awestruck. “Bro, that’s rad! That’s your Magic Skill… doesn’t it hurt?”

  Mark studies it, chin propped on his hand. “That’s right. It’s not like possessing a Magic Skill makes you immune to it…”

  The flame snuffs out instantly, as though Ray flicked a switch inside his chest. He grins with all the smugness of a cat guarding a secret.

  “Like I’d tell you losers.”

  Oh. So he is still planning to hide the full extent of his Skill. Strategically, that makes sense—information is power—especially if that information has surprising depth. Though knowing Ray, he’s probably saving it for a dramatic entrance, preferably one that ensures maximum applause.

  Mark and Joshua step up next.

  “Raijin.”

  “Ga?a.”

  Electricity seizes Ray’s hands, air undulating as though compressed by invisible pistons. Then a violent burst—light fracturing into jagged branches. The discharge knocks his orb from his grip, sending it skittering before it shatters against the ground.

  Simultaneously, the soil beneath Joshua heaves. A column of earth erupts upward, meeting his orb midair and pulverizing it like a clay pigeon.

  The professor’s eyes widen—not with anger, but genuine fascination. “Most curious. It’s uncommon to behold them splinter asunder.”

  “Thought we were about to get yelled at.”

  I follow suit, whispering:

  “Distort.”

  Something prickles around my hand—like a magnetic field brushing skin—but the sphere doesn’t change. No compression, no shift, no atomic rearrangement. Just unhelpful prettiness.

  I sift through the Skill’s information again:

  Shrink anything within a radius as long as the user knows it exists within and can determine its exact location. The more dense the it is, the more Magic Energy it consumes. Radius scales with each fifteen level stages—starting from five meters and increasing by one onward.

  The orb meets every criterion. It’s in contact with my skin. I definitely know where it is. Confidence counts as knowing—philosophically shaky, but logically consistent. Yet nothing happens. My energy drains without result, so I cut the Skill off by pulling Magical Energy away from my heart.

  The professor approaches. “Something troubles you? To trigger a Magic Skill is oft simpler than to command bare Magical Energy. Is there some reason your orb remains unchanged?”

  “I think it’s the orb’s raison d’etre,” I say. “My Skill shrinks things, but this absorbs it.”

  Before he can reply, Joshua lobs a rock at me. “Try that.”

  I catch it and test immediately. “Distort.”

  The rock compresses inward, shrinking toward its center. Faint cracking whispers through it—atomic structures attempting to reorganize under a compression they were never designed for. My Magical Energy dips sharply, forcing me to stop before I hit zero.

  “Works fine now.”

  The professor rubs his goatee. “Most unusual, when set beside the Skills of the other three Heroes.”

  I know what he’s implying. Compared to firestorms, lightning bursts, and earth pillars, mine is… subtle. Understated. The mathematical equivalent of a quiet function tucked in the corner of a textbook. Maybe that’s why everyone finds it underwhelming.

  Well… Whatever, I have time to experiment. A lot of time, hopefully. Though with just two activations, my Magical Energy reservoir already feels wrung dry. Maybe that’s bcause we’re still underleveled; Magic Skills normally manifest around level thirty so our Magical Energy reservoir hasn’t scaled enough for proper Skill combat use. But I guess getting ours early gave us room to refine the activation process before real stakes appear. That’s the silver lining.

  The professor claps his hands. “Fast learners, the lot of you. Though your Skills differ in breed most wide, each of you is singular in your own regard.” He gestures toward the seniors drilling across the field.

  Chants. Casts. A few weaving intricate hand signs—probably the second method he mentioned earlier. Fireballs, icicles, compressed gusts, all slamming into stone dummies built with fragments of the same composition as our crystal orbs. But almost every senior is using the same handful of Skills despite their flashy variety.

  “What Skill one awakens oft followeth one’s personhood and upbringing. But it is no rarity that many hold the selfsame Skills.”

  As if to underline his claim, a senior girl hurls a flame sphere—same size, same signature—as the professor’s earlier Flameblast.

  Ray grins, rubbing beneath his nose like an old-school shōnen protagonist warming up for an ego trip. “So we’re more special than them.”

  “Yes, so you four are.” The professor spreads his arms. “And this academy—Acshe—shall foster you, that you may become the Heroes you were wrought to be.”

  The three shares that same bright, forward-facing smile—hungry for tomorrow’s lessons. It’s strange and a little comforting to see Ray, of all people, more dazzled by the academy than desperate to go home.

  As for me… I stay even.

  I will do exactly what I set out to do.