He left as the clock read 13:01.

  Several dishes were presented before him in his enclosed room: meats, vegetables, breads, and sweets. He stared long and hard at their vibrant colors. He had never been placed in front of such foodstuffs before, and he was repulsed.

  He finished a meat dish and grabbed a piece of bread before leaving.

  It was 13:17.

  He roamed the nearly empty campus, searching for the root of non-existence. Along the border of his sector and the third-year sector, he felt a trembling of the ground, followed by the sound of a muffled explosion.

  He stared at the ground between his feet, then at a sector checkpoint just fifty meters in front of him.

  He weighed the potential reward and risk, as well as the convenience and curiosity, and made his judgment.

  His fingers gently pinched a card—five times the thickness of standard Mage Association paper. It was given to Arthur by Vigo after the first day of class, once he learned of the troubles Arthur faced getting to the night sessions.

  The card was thick, yes. However, after five months of use, five days a week, it had not a single crease, discoloration, or break in symmetry. It possessed no magic protections or properties, yet it maintained its pristine condition.

  The gatekeeper allowed passage without trouble.

  The first building in Sector Three looked like a residential lodging. It had six rooms, two floors, and a chimney. The white color and flat texture of the walls did not suit it; the mossy rock-brick that made up the chimney seemed to be the only thing untouched by renovation.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  This place was the closest thing to a holy site, if the Academy were a religion; it was where the first Headmaster lived, and where he taught his class.

  Upon entering, there was a low platform of wooden planks leading to a cellar. No student was allowed to take the step up to the rest of the house, but there was no physical barrier preventing it—not even a door.

  It's a lesson Head Instructor Vigo teaches us every day: Anchor yourself to your purpose; if you succumb to distractions, you have no future.

  Such an admirable mindset. He is truly a great man.

  One second, one step; he quietly strolled through the dimly lit corridor. He peeked through the nearest door, one of two in total. It was where his class on Magic Engineering was held every night.

  It was empty.

  It was somewhat large, of greater area than the house itself should allow, but the style of the room was no different from the rocky, centuries-old chimney and corridor. It was unfit for the modern Academy, yet it held a charm that Arthur resonated with most strongly.

  Even now, little more than an hour after high noon, no sunlight ever reached this place; only old-generation Magic Lanterns, hardly an improvement from burning charcoal on a stick.

  Suddenly, the crashing and breaking of something fragile—a glass or vase—shook him awake. His eyes crept toward the direction of the noise and fell eerily on a door.

  Head Instructor Vigo's private office. I've never seen anyone enter.

  A short reminiscence on the joyful memories he had of the class compelled him to move, and he went.

  He knocked. He tapped with the middle knuckle of his index and middle finger; softly, but just enough to be audible.

  "I do not wish to be disturbed, Clive. Leave me be."

  The voice sounded weary, tired, and full of sorrow.

  Arthur stood without moving for several seconds.

  Agh—I want to talk with him again—but he just ordered me to leave. My pass should only be used for classes at night—I shouldn't be here.

  After three or four steps, he heard a voice within a heartfelt sigh.

  "Arthur…"

  He imagined the voice saying it, empathizing profoundly with all the pain, melancholy, and somnolence in the tone.

  He found deep closure and confidence in this. And with it, he made his first of many moments of capitulation.