It had been a month since the entrance ceremony.
The leaves in the academy gardens were turning a deeper shade of amber, and the initial excitement of the new students had settled into a grueling routine. Wake up, train, eat, study, train again, sleep.
For Alaric, the routine included one extra step: The Library.
Every day, he went there to study new books. And every day, she was there.
Lucia Thorne usually sat at a secluded table near the back, bathed in the light of a stained-glass window. Sometimes, when Alaric looked up from his book, he would catch her looking at him. Her violet-blue eyes would lock onto his for a fleeting second before Alaric, feeling that strange,he would look away.
They had never spoken. Until today.
The morning sky was grey and heavy when Instructor Hargan marched Section A out to the North Track.
"Today," Hargan barked, holding up a box of black metal bracelets, "we find out who you really are."
He tossed a pair to each student.
"Put them on."
Alaric caught his. The metal was cold, engraved with intricate, glowing violet lines.
Magic Sealing Cuffs.
Alaric examined the etchings. He had read about this. Unlike spells, which were spoken language shaped by intent, Magic Circles were the written code of magic spells.
A spell was fleeting but a circle was permanent which can be used again and again. So, magic equipment used the magic circles for enchanting them
To make one, a Magi-Craftsman had to engrave the geometric formula into something, like metals for weapon—and fill the grooves with ink imbued with mana.Normal ink wouldn't react with mana, so it wouldn't activate the magic as well which is why ink with mana was necessary. If you just wrote it on paper and glued it to a sword, the paper would activate, not the sword. It had to be part of the object.
Alaric clicked the cuff around his wrist.
Immediately, he felt a sickening lurch in his gut. It felt like a valve inside him had been twisted shut.
It’s a parasitic loop, Alaric analyzed, feeling his internal mana flow stagnate. The cuff uses a Dark Magic curse powered by the wearer’s own mana to block the circuit. It’s using my energy to gag me.
It was a terrifying piece of engineering. Alaric read about it briefly in a book but no book had the know-how of making such dangerous equipment. Probably a selected few knew.
However... Alaric flexed his fingers. It blocks internal flow. But I can manipulate atmospheric mana directly. Since that mana is outside my body, the cuff can’t touch it.
He could technically cast spells right now if he wanted to. But he didn't. He let his arms drop.
"Five miles," Hargan ordered, pointing to the dirt track. "No Confirma. Just your lungs and your legs. Go."
The class took off.
For the first mile, the nobles held together. But by the second mile, the reality of their upbringing hit them. They had spent their lives relying on passive mana strengthening to aid their movements. Without it, their muscles were soft, their endurance non-existent.
By the third mile, half the class was walking, gasping for air like fish on a dock. Bormun, the large boy Alaric had knocked out, was on his knees, retching.
Alaric kept a steady pace.
Left, right, breathe. Left, right, breathe.
This was nothing. This was a morning warm-up at Saint Elyss’s Rest.
He lapped the group of nobles for the second time.
Only one person was keeping up.
Roland.
The blonde noble was pale. Sweat soaked his hair, and his breath came in ragged wheezes. His form was sloppy, his legs clearly screaming in protest. He wasn't conditioned for this any more than the others were.
But he didn't stop.
Alaric watched him out of the corner of his eye. His pride is stronger than his legs.
Roland glared ahead, forcing one foot in front of the other, refusing to let the commoner beat him.
"Stop!" Hargan’s whistle cut through the heavy morning air.
The class ground to a halt. The five-mile run had already decimated them. Half the nobles were bent over, hands on their knees, retching dryly into the grass.
"You think you're done?" Hargan barked, pacing before them like a wolf. "That was the warm-up. To the bars. Now!"
He pointed to a row of iron pull-up bars set against the academy wall.
The students dragged themselves over.
"Grab the bar," Hargan ordered. "Pull-ups. Dead hang to chin over the bar. No swinging. If your feet touch the ground, you start over. I want twenty. Begin!"
Alaric jumped up, grabbing the cold iron. He let his body hang for a split second, stabilizing his core, then pulled.
His chin cleared the bar. He lowered himself with control.
One.
To his left, the sound of struggle was immediate.
"I... I can't..." Bormun, the massive noble boy, was hanging from the bar like a side of beef. Without his Light-weight spell and strengthening aura, his sheer bulk was working against him. His face turned purple as he strained, his arms trembling violently, but he couldn't lift his heavy frame more than an inch.
"You weigh two hundred pounds, Bormun," Hargan sneered, stopping in front of him. "With magic, you move like a feather. Without it? You're just a sack of rocks. Pull!"
Bormun grunted, his veins popping, before his grip failed. He dropped to the dirt with a heavy thud, gasping.
"Pathetic," Hargan spat. "Zero. Get back up."
Alaric continued his rhythm. Ten... Eleven...
He looked to his right.
Roland was there. The blonde noble was gripping the bar so hard his knuckles were white. His uniform was soaked through.
He’s struggling, Alaric amused.
Roland pulled. It wasn't smooth. His body shook, his legs kicked slightly in desperation, but he forced his chin over the bar.
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"Twelve," Roland wheezed, his voice tight with strain.
He lowered himself, his arms shaking uncontrollably on the descent. He was clearly running on fumes, his physical muscles undeveloped compared to his magical output. But he didn't drop. He glared at the bar as if it had insulted his ancestors and pulled again.
Thirteen.
"Drop!" Hargan shouted after Alaric finished his set easily. "Push-up position. Knuckles in the dirt."
The class collapsed onto the grass.
"Fifty. On my count. Down!"
Alaric lowered his chest to the grass.
"Up!"
He pushed back.
It was brutal for the others.
By the thirtieth rep, half the class was lying face-down in the dirt, unable to push their own body weight off the ground. Even Silan had collapsed, his arms giving out, leaving him panting in the dust.
"Look around you!" Hargan shouted over the groans of the students. "This is what you are without your mana! You are weak! A knight who cannot lift his own sword when his mana runs dry is just a corpse in armor!"
Alaric finished the fiftieth rep and held the plank position, waiting.
He looked over. Roland was face down in the dirt, his arms finally having given out at rep forty-five. He was trying to push himself up, his arms trembling like jelly, slipping in the mud of his own sweat. He looked up, mud on his cheek, and saw Alaric holding the position perfectly.
Roland’s eyes narrowed. He let out a primal growl of frustration and forced his shaking arms to lock out one last time, refusing to stay on the ground while the commoner was still up.
"Recover!" Hargan yelled.
The class collapsed.
Alaric sat up, wiping his brow. He wasn't winded. He was just warmed up.
"Hydrate," Hargan ordered, looking at Alaric with a hard, unreadable expression. "Then we do sit-ups."
The afternoon schedule was unexpectedly open; the Diplomacy instructor had fallen ill.
Alaric took the opportunity to shower in the dorms, washing the sweat and grit from the run. The room was empty, Silan was probably still laying in the dirt while Jarik and Darsia were likely in afternoon class
Alaric dried off, his mind drifting back to the entrance exam. Specifically, the spell the noble boy had used. A fire tornado.
It was flashy, inefficient, and poorly controlled. But the concept had potential.
He dressed quickly and headed for the library.
The main desk was manned by a new librarian, a young man who looked terrified of messing up.
"Excuse me," Alaric said. "I'm looking for books on Advanced Fire and Wind mechanics."
The librarian flushed and began frantically flipping through the registry ledger. "Uhh, right, Advanced... Fire... let me just check the index code..."
He was taking too long.
"Fourth Block, third shelf."
The voice came from behind Alaric. It was soft, melodic, but carried an effortless authority.
Alaric turned.
Lucia Thorne stood there, holding a stack of books against her chest.
"The Advanced Theory section is in the Fourth Block," she said, her blue eyes meeting his.
Alaric blinked, surprised. It was the first time he had heard her speak.
"Thank you," Alaric said, keeping his voice steady.
She nodded once, then walked past him toward the exit. Alaric watched her go, shaking off the strange feeling before heading to the Fourth Block.
He found two books: The Compendium of High Flame and Gale Dynamics: Tier 4.
The door to Room 204 creaked open.
Alaric stepped inside, dropping the two heavy tomes onto his desk with a thud.
"You're back," Jarik groaned into his pillow, not lifting his head. "Please tell me you didn't run all the way to the library. I heard from Silan what happened."
"I walked," Alaric said, taking off his outer uniform jacket. "Mostly."
"You're a monster," Darsia muttered, wincing as he reached for his toes.
"I just wanted to check something," Alaric said, sitting at his desk. He tapped the cover of The Compendium of High Flame.
Silan looked up from his boots, eyeing the titles. His eyebrows shot up. "Advanced Wind and Fire? Is this even in our curriculum"
"The library is open to everyone," Alaric replied simply. "I remembered a spell from the entrance exam. I wanted to see how it worked."
"The tornado one?" Jarik finally rolled over, sitting up with a groan. His hair was a bird's nest.
"You have issues, man!! " Jarik complained. He eyed the books again. "So, you're going to learn high-tier magic while the rest of us are trying to figure out how to walk without Confirma? Stop raising the bar, Alaric. You're making us look bad."
Alaric cracked a small smile. "Just catch up."
"Easy for you to say," Darsia sighed, finally collapsing backward onto the floor.
He began to read, his eyes darting across the pages. The room settled into a comfortable silence, broken only by the turning of pages and Darsia’s occasional groans of soreness.
Alaric frowned at the text.
"Nothing," he muttered under his breath.
"What's nothing?" Silan asked.
"The specific spell isn't here," Alaric said, closing the Fire book and opening the Wind one. "I thought there would be a dedicated manual for it, but..." He trailed off, his eyes landing on a diagram of air currents in the Wind book.
Wait.
Alaric sat up straighter, his eyes widening.
"He's doing the face again," Jarik whispered loudly to Darsia. "The, I just figured out how to blow something up face."
"I have an idea," Alaric murmured, his mind racing through the calculations.
Growl.
The sound was loud, like a small beast waking up.
Everyone froze. They turned to look at Jarik.
Jarik clutched his stomach, grinning shamelessly. "If we don't eat soon, I might start chewing on my pillow."
Darsia laughed, pulling himself up from the floor. "Yeah, I'm starving too."
"Cafeteria?" Silan suggested, putting his polishing kit away.
Alaric closed the books. "Yeah. Let's eat."
Dinner was simple but hearty, meatballs in thick gravy, crusty bread, and chicken soup. They ate voraciously.
As they walked back to the dorms under the starlight, Alaric stopped.
"I have to go do something," Alaric said.
Jarik looked at him, then at the training grounds. He smirked. "You never stop, do you? Just don't burn down the campus."
Alaric gave a dry laugh.
Alaric found a secluded training arena near the edge of the woods. It was protected by a high-grade magical barrier, designed for destructive testing.
He set up a hay training post in the center of the ring.
He stood twenty meters away, taking a deep breath.
Compound Magic.
He raised his right hand.
"Creo Ignis: Whiteflame Cataclysm."
A sphere of blindingly white fire, hot enough to melt steel, roared into life above his palm.
He raised his left hand.
"Creo Ventus: Tempest Crown."
A swirling vortex of green wind began to howl around his left arm.
Alaric gritted his teeth. The mana cost was immense, nearly 5% of his total reserves drained in an instant.
He shoved his hands forward, merging the coordinates.
Combine.
The wind spell hit the target area first, creating a massive, spiraling tornado. A split second later, the Whiteflame detonated inside the vortex.
ROAR.
The effect was instantaneous. The tornado, rich with oxygen, fed the fire. The fire, heating the air, accelerated the updraft of the tornado.
A pillar of spinning, white-hot destruction shot thirty feet into the air.
Alaric analyzed the as the heat washed over his face.
One: Thermal Updraft. The heat was creating a vacuum at the center, sucking air upwards violently.
Two: Suffocation. The wall of flames was consuming all the oxygen. Anyone trapped inside wouldn't just burn; they would asphyxiate.
Three: Lift. The upward pressure was strong enough to lift a grown man. If he cut the spell, they would fall to their death.
"Now... move."
Alaric twisted his hands. Unlike the noble’s static spell, Alaric’s was tethered to his active wind manipulation.
The tornado lashed out like a whip of fire, bending and curving at his will.
It was terrifyingly powerful.
"Dismiss," Alaric gasped, cutting the mana flow.
The fire vanished and the wind died down slowly. Even while stopping Alaric had to keep it in control.
The hay post was gone. Not burned, vaporized. There wasn't even ash left, just a scorched black circle on the stone floor.
Alaric wiped sweat from his brow, his heart pounding. That is dangerous. If I lose control of that...
Suddenly, a chill ran down his spine. Not from the wind.
It was the feeling of being watched.
Alaric spun around, fear spiking in his chest. Did a teacher see me? Is this forbidden magic?
Standing at the edge of the training ground, illuminated by the moonlight, was a figure in a white dress.
Her silver hair glowed in the dark. Her blue eyes were wide, fixed on the scorched spot where the dummy used to be, before slowly shifting to meet Alaric’s gaze.
Lucia Thorne.
? AUTHOR'S NOTE ?
Dear Beloved Readers,
GRATITUDE to each and every one of you for taking the time to read my humble work. Your presence on this journey means more to me than words could ever express.
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Thank You Once Again
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The Author