Year 1466 AD, Royal Knight Academy

  The office was dimly lit, smelling of old parchment and expensive tobacco. A heavy mahogany desk dominated the room, behind which sat a man with sharp features and greying temples, Principal Valerius, former Knight Commander and cousin to Duke Larethin.

  "What do you mean, Hargan?" Valerius asked, his voice low but cutting. "A commoner was able to get seventy out of seventy in the exams?"

  Hargan stood at attention, his posture rigid. "Yes, Sir. He went beyond what was required. His answers were perfect. His practicals were flawless. We couldn't deduct a single point to lower his ranking."

  Valerius tapped a finger against the desk. "Did you do a background check?"

  "Yes. He is an orphan from the Horsin border region. He has lived for the last six years in a church orphanage called Saint Elyss’s Rest," Hargan reported. "Interestingly, our contact from the Third Division, Warren, actually met him. Five years ago, during a incident with the Storm Fang."

  "Huh!" Valerius leaned back, a flicker of interest in his eyes. "Well, whatever. It is good we found him early. A boy like him will surely be a valuable asset if we can recruit him to Larethin's faction."

  Hargan hesitated. "Well, there is a problem, Sir. It seems somehow Duke Thorne is also keeping an eye."

  Valerius frowned, the temperature in the room seeming to drop. "That sly fox. How much strength does he need? Does he want to rebel against the King?"

  "Probably not, Sir," Hargan reasoned. "But the Thorne family is closely aligned with the Church due to the current Saintess candidate. They were probably the one that informed him."

  "We will see," Valerius muttered, waving his hand dismissively. "We will see how well he handles the Knight Academy."

  "Yes, Sir." Hargan bowed and exited the room.

  Sunlight streamed through the large window of Room 204.

  Alaric woke up to the sound of Jarik groaning as he fell out of bed. The morning routine was chaotic. They washed up, donned their uniforms and headed to the cafeteria for a quick breakfast.

  After eating, they split up. Jarik and Darsia headed to the upper block, while Alaric and Silan walked to the lower Block for their first class, Combat Training.

  The training ground was a massive, open-air arena with sand floors. Hargan was waiting for them.

  "Pair up," Hargan ordered. "I want to see what you can do against a thinking opponent and not a wooden post."

  Alaric was about to turn to Silan when a shadow fell over him.

  "You," a heavy voice grunted.

  Alaric looked up. It was a noble student, a boy named Bormun. He was huge for his age, with a thick neck and arms like tree trunks.

  "I want to teach the cocky commoner a lesson," Bormun sneered, cracking his knuckles. "You think a gold plate makes us equals?"

  Alaric just stood still, his expression bored. "If you wish."

  They moved to a sparring circle.

  "Begin!" Hargan shouted.

  Bormun didn't waste time. "Haaaa!"

  He launched himself forward. His body glowed with a dull red aura of strengthening magic. He was fast for his size, using Light-weight to reduce his mass for acceleration, then canceling it at the last second to hit with full momentum.

  It was a terrifying charge. A human battering ram.

  Alaric didn't move.

  Inefficient, Alaric thought.

  He channeled strengthening aura. Not into his muscles, but into his eyes.

  The world seemed to lurch and slow down. The dust motes floating in the air hung suspended. Bormun’s charging form, which looked like a blur to the others, became crystal clear to Alaric. He could see the shifting of weight in Bormun's ankles, the tensing of his shoulder for the impact.

  He was moving in a straight line. Zero maneuverability.

  Alaric waited. One second. Two seconds.

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  When Bormun was a meter away, convinced he had the hit, Alaric took a single step to the left.

  Whoosh.

  Bormun barreled past him, hitting nothing but air. He stumbled, kicking up sand, before turning around, face red with rage.

  "Stop dodging like a scared brat!" Bormun roared. "Fight me head-on!"

  He charged again. Same tactic. Same result.

  Alaric side-stepped like a matador, watching the noble stumble past.

  By the third charge, Bormun was panting, his movements sloppy with desperation.

  "Stand still!"

  Alaric side-stepped one last time. But this time, as Bormun passed, Alaric pivoted on his heel, moving directly behind the noble's exposed back.

  Bormun tried to turn, but he was too slow.

  Alaric raised his hand, placing his palm inches from the back of Bormun’s head.

  "Creo Ventus."

  He didn't create a blade. He created a localized pressure wave.

  Sonic Boom.

  BANG.

  The sound was like a cannon shot.

  Bormun’s eyes rolled back into his head. The shockwave scrambled his inner ear equilibrium instantly. He collapsed face-first into the sand, unconscious before he hit the ground.

  The loud crack silenced the entire arena. Everyone looked at Alaric.

  Hargan nodded slowly. "Winner Alaric."

  Alaric stepped back, looking across the arena.

  Roland had just finished his own match. He was standing over Arsha, the tall commoner girl from Section A. She was on her knees, gasping for breath, her sword lying three meters away.

  Roland sheathed his blade, looking down at her coldly. "A brute cannot harm me."

  He looked up and met Alaric's gaze.

  He's competent, Alaric admitted to himself. But hella annoying.

  Lunch passed quickly, and the afternoon sun brought them to the lecture hall for Magic Theory.

  Their teacher was Magister Miras, a man in long robes with spectacles perched on his nose. He stood before a chalkboard, drawing a diagram of the human body.

  "Your mana circuits," Miras explained, tapping the chalk against the board, "are like pipes. Many young mages make the mistake of trying to force too much mana through them to make a spell stronger."

  He drew a pipe bursting.

  "If you force a river through a drain pipe, the pipe bursts. Do not do that. Instead," he drew a staff, "you charge mana by slowly releasing it from your reserve into a focal point, your hand, or a staff. You accumulate it outside the body, then cast. This protects your circuits."

  Alaric raised his hand.

  Miras looked up. "Yes, Alaric?"

  "Why not concentrate the mana?" Alaric asked. "If you increase the density of the mana while it flows, you can fit more power into the same volume without expanding the circuit's width."

  The room went quiet.

  Miras adjusted his glasses. "A good question. But mana manipulation, specifically concentration and dilution is not a simple skill. Even if we taught it daily, most students wouldn't master it in three years. We introduce the concept in the second year."

  Miras paced the room. "And even if you do concentrate it, there is a limit. Say you want to cast an Ascendant or Sovereign tier spell. Do you think even concentrated mana can flow fast enough?"

  He paused for effect.

  "That is why Sage Elision of Tidia Empire in the eastern continent, when he fought the Vampire Demon Lord Asteroth, had to cast his Sovereign spell for one full hour before striking. His party members had to hold that monster back with their lives just to buy him that time. High magic has a cost, and that cost is time."

  Alaric nodded slowly, absorbing the information. So the bottleneck isn't just capacity, it's throughput.

  After class, as the students filed out, Miras called out.

  "Alaric. A moment."

  Alaric approached the podium.

  "You are interested in mana manipulation?" Miras asked.

  "Yes, sir."

  Miras scribbled something on a small slip of paper. "You won't find this in the standard curriculum. But if you are truly curious, go to the Royal Academy Library. Ask for this."

  Alaric took the paper. The Leyhand Manual.

  "Thank you, Magister," Alaric said.

  Miras watched him leave. Did he figure out the density theory on his own? frightening.

  The Royal Academy Library stood between the Knight and Magic Academies like a bridge of knowledge. It was a massive structure of white stone and stained glass.

  Alaric presented the slip to the librarian, who led him to a section in the back.

  Alaric retrieved the thick, leather-bound book.

  He turned to leave, walking through the rows of towering bookshelves.

  As he turned a corner near the reading area, he stopped.

  Someone was standing there.

  It was a girl, roughly his age. She had hair like spun silver that cascaded down her back, shimmering in the dim light. She wore a pristine white dress that seemed to glow.

  But it wasn't her appearance that stopped him. It was the feeling.

  A palpable, almost divine aura oozed off her.

  Alaric didn't say anything. He just stared.

  The girl turned. Her eyes were a striking blue. She saw Alaric and her eyes widened slightly, a flash of surprise crossing her face.

  A strange sensation bloomed in Alaric's chest, a weird, magnetic pull he hadn't felt before.

  He broke eye contact first. He didn't know who she was. He gripped his book and walked past her, ignoring the heavy gaze burning into his back.

  As he pushed open the heavy wooden doors to exit the library, he passed a group of Magic Academy students whispering excitedly.

  "Hey, isn't that her?"

  "It is! That's Lucia Thorne."

  "The Magic Academy prodigy?"

  "More than that. She's the Saintess Candidate of Goddess Elyss."

  Alaric stopped on the steps, the name echoing in his mind.

  Lucia Thorne.