Still chuckling, Obinai finally steps into the classroom, shaking his head as he takes a seat near the front, close to the door. He stretches, rolling his shoulders, then slouches back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against the desk.
Man, it's crazy how much ass-kissing goes on in this place, he thinks, watching as more students trickle in. Don't they get tired of it? His eyes flick toward the usual crowd—Erik, Erion, and the rest of Seraphina's lackeys. Erion enters, sees Obinai already seated, and visibly hesitates. His eyes widen slightly before he schools his face into neutrality and strides past, choosing a seat near Erik without a word.
Obinai smirks. It's all fake anyway. I wonder how long before they toss out their weakest link… His gaze lingers on Erion for a beat before he sighs and turns back to face the front. Seraphina's a second-year, right? That means I shouldn't run into her too much. Hopefully. He drums his fingers against the desk. Around now, I'd be checking my phone, seeing how my gacha team's doing. Wonder how many rewards have piled up…
His thoughts are cut short as the door swings open again.
A tall tiefling woman strides in. Her skin is a deep red-orange, her black horns curling back over her head in an elegant sweep. Piercing yellow eyes flick across the room, filled with quiet irritation. Her dark hair is pulled into a tight braid, not a strand out of place, and her robes—dove-white with intricate gold filigree—drape over her form with the kind of effortless grace only strict discipline can maintain.
Obinai straightens a little. Well, shit. She looks intense.
She reaches the front of the room and exhales through her nose. "I am Nailana Kurst," she announces. "Due to meetings, I find myself rather tired today, so I will spare you the customary introductions. Let's get to the point." She scans the room once more. "Who can tell me—where does magic come from?"
The room stays quiet for a moment before a hand lifts in the back. A dark elf girl—Fiora, if Obinai remembers right. He rubs his chin, studying her. Didn't she sit with Lyra's crew at some point? Another lackey? He sighs. Shame. She's really pretty, though. Could probably give Lyra a run for her money.
"Magic comes from mana, which is drawn from essence," Fiora states, her posture ramrod straight.
Professor Kurst gives a small nod. "Correct. Essence is the fundamental building block of all magic. Magicians are trained to gather essence and refine it into mana, forming their first mana circle—and the subsequent circles thereafter."
She pauses, letting the statement settle before continuing. "But let me ask you this: does that mean first-circle mages are inherently weak?"
A brief hesitation, then another hand goes up—Tarin. Obinai raises an eyebrow. Huh. Wonder if he knows that weird dark elf guy. I mean, he wasn't kicked from his seat like me all those damn days ago…
"Yes and no," Tarin begins. "Mana circles are like muscles. The more you train them, the stronger they become, increasing their mana capacity and overall spell power. However…" He glances around the room, suddenly a bit unsure. "Each circle has a limit—a threshold. There's only so much you can push before it won't grow anymore."
Professor Kurst hums in approval, folding her arms. "Go on."
Tarin hesitates, then pushes forward. "But theoretically, if someone were to train their first circle to its absolute limit, even a basic spell like Magic Missile could—potentially—damage, maybe even injure, a third-circle magician."
So glad that's possible...but why the hell is he so timid today.
Professor Kurst's lips curl into something resembling a smile as she claps her hands together once. "An excellent answer, Tarin. Almost perfect, in fact. But there is one crucial factor you are overlooking."
Another hand shoots up, and Obinai's gaze follows the movement. It's Elrik, who raises his hand, casting a sideways glance at Obinai before speaking.
"Race," he says, the single word drawn out. "The training threshold for mana circles varies drastically across different lineages. Some possess a more—shall we say—capacious reservoir, enabling them to refine their circles far beyond the limits of lesser beings. Meanwhile, others are tragically stunted, their potential capped, no matter how ardently they strain against their natural inadequacies."
Obinai exhales slowly through his nose. Damn theatrics. Wonders if he practices this nonsense in the mirror. Probably does. Probably adjusts his damn collar a dozen times while doing it, too.
Professor Kurst's lips twitch, but she nods. "Very good, Elrik. Indeed, racial differences influence the potential of a magician. Some are naturally inclined to larger mana reserves, while others must work twice as hard for half the reward. It is an unfortunate reality."
She turns, pacing slowly, her robes barely making a sound as they brush against the floor. "That being said," she continues, "understanding not just your own limits, but those of your opponents, is what separates the competent from the dead."
The room shifts, students straightening slightly, some exchanging uncertain glances.
Obinai barely suppresses a yawn, resting his chin on his palm. He should be paying attention, but his thoughts keep drifting. Affinities, racial advantages, all that jazz—yeah, yeah. But what about humans? Every other race has some kind of neat built-in magic cheat code, but humans? Nothing. No fire-breathing, no shadow melding, no spirit communion. Just... regular people who have to try really, really hard.
Kurst's gaze sweeps across the room before settling. "Zephyr," she calls.
The elf flinches, silver-streaked black hair shifting as he jolts upright. "Uh, yes?"
Kurst levels a patient look at him. "Your race's primary affinities?"
Zephyr rubs the back of his neck, mumbling, "Right, right... uh, elves specialize in nature magic, wind magic, and spirit magic. We're, um... attuned to the natural world, which makes manipulating those elements easier."
Obinai catches Elrik shaking his head ever so slightly, lips pressed in a thin line. He's probably thinking of some flowery way to say, 'How embarrassing for you.'
Kurst nods approvingly. "Correct. Elves have a natural connection to the elements, allowing them to channel them with ease. Spirit magic, in particular, makes them formidable in both combat and diplomacy."
She moves on without pause. "Dark elves, as many of you know, have an affinity for shadow magic, enabling them to move unseen and strike before their prey realizes they are even there. Tieflings? Fire magic—destructive, relentless, difficult to master but devastating when wielded correctly. Dwarves, naturally attuned to earth magic, use it to manipulate stone and metal, the foundation of their civilization."
Obinai's mind drifts again, eyes slipping to the desk. Okay, but where does that leave humans!?
Wasn't there something about picking of the denominations being based on either race or personality? He squints, trying to recall. Damn, Vale, and here I thought I'd be a prodigy. I barely understand any of this. I definitely gotta tell this back to myself when this ends.
Obinai sighs, trying to refocus, but the warmth of the room, the rhythmic pacing of Kurst's voice, the faint hum of distant conversations in the hallway—it's all lulling him into a daze. His eyelids feel heavy. His breathing evens.
Then, a sound.
Laughter.
His blood runs cold.
The sound is faint at first, but it grows. Familiar. Unmistakable. It slithers through the edges of his consciousness, curling around his thoughts.
Beelzebub.
A sharp inhale drags him back to reality. His heart hammers against his ribs as his eyes snap open. He blinks rapidly, taking in the classroom, the students gathering their things. When the hell did class end?
Kurst stands at the front. "Your assignment is simple: research a branch of magic that interests you. Find its origins, its uses, and whether you meet the prerequisites to learn it."
Obinai forces himself to breathe, trying to shake Beelzebub's laughter from his mind.
As the students begin filing out, he grabs his bag, moving on autopilot. He catches a few whispered conversations—Seraphina's group murmuring among themselves, occasionally shooting glances his way.
Whatever.
He steps into the hallway, letting the flow of students carry him forward.
*What should I focus on? Something dark? Something unique? Something no one would expect...The hell was that parasite laughing about? Suppressed, yeah right.
The air changes as they descend a spiraling staircase.
The group stops in front of a wide doorway, students piling into the room beyond. Obinai steps in and surveys the space. High ceilings. Rows of racks holding an assortment of training weapons—wooden staves, blunted swords, padded shields. One side of the room boasts a massive blackboard, filled with diagrams and scribbled notes about editing spells.
Then, at the center of the room, sprawled across a desk like a corpse, is the headmaster.
Lyth.
White hair streaked with black patches, tangled beyond repair. One arm dangles off the edge of the desk, fingers twitching slightly. Papers are scattered around him like fallen leaves. His face is buried in his arms, a soft wheezing sound escaping him.
The students glance at each other, murmurs spreading through the group. No one dares to step closer.
Then, someone clears their throat. Loudly.
Lyth stirs. A groggy groan, then a slow, sluggish movement as he lifts his head.
One eye the color of blood-red, gleams faintly in the dim light. The other—milky white, shifts unnaturally and unfocused.
The headmaster blinks blearily at the crowd of students before him, then lets out a slow yawn. "Ah… right." His voice is rough before he clears it. "You're all here. That's good. That's... yeah, that's good."
No one speaks.
Lyth rubs his face. He stretches, arms cracking as he rolls his shoulders back. "So. Welcome to the… uh…" He pauses, squinting toward the blackboard. "Magic combat class. Yeah. That the advanced one."
Silence.
Lyth gestures vaguely toward the back of the room. "Training uniforms are over there. You'll be wearing those for combat practice. They, uh… they help. Kind of. You'll see."
Excited murmurs ripple through the students as they shuffle toward the stacks of uniforms. Obinai grabs one, inspecting the fabric. A sleek black onesie with padding at the joints, chest, and groin. The material is odd—durable yet flexible, absorbing light like it's drinking in shadows.
Lyth scratches his head, yawning again. "Changing rooms are in the back. Go get dressed. We'll start when you're ready."
In the boys' locker room, the air is thick with quiet anticipation. Metal lockers clang open and shut. Obinai pulls off his shirt, sliding into the uniform. Snug but not uncomfortable. As he adjusts the fit, his eyes catch on another student.
Gideon.
The dwarf is broad-shouldered, his back a roadmap of scars. Faint, jagged lines crisscross his skin, some fresh, some old. Bruises bloom across his ribs.
Obinai looks away quickly.
No one asks. No one comments.
They finish dressing in silence.
Back in the training hall, Lyth stands a little straighter now, though his posture still carries an air of sleep-deprived laziness. He paces slowly in front of the students, arms clasped behind his back. "Alright," he drawls, "you're here because I think you have potential. Truthfully, I couldn't care less. For all I know I could be wrong about all of you."
A few students exchange uncertain glances.
Lyth continues, "This year isn't about fun. It's not about blowing things up. That comes later. Right now, you're learning how not to die."
A few nervous chuckles. Lyth's face doesn't change.
"You think combat magic is about power? No. It's about strategy. It's about knowing when to strike and when to wait. If you rely on strength alone, you're dead weight. And dead weight doesn't last long."
Obinai shifts his stance.
Lyth stops pacing. "Now," he says, cracking his neck, "you're gonna be wearing those uniforms a lot. They're not armor. They won't save you. But they'll help dull the pain. A little." His lips twitch into something resembling a smile. "Think of them as your second skin. One you can still feel every hit through."
Silence stretches between them. Then Lyth sighs, ruffling his hair. "Alright, enough talk. Let's get started. We'll do some basic exercises—see who's got a brain and who's just swinging their arms around hoping for the best."
The students begin to spread out, but then Lyth raises a hand. "Oh. Right. Before that."
His fingers snap.
The air changes instantly. Heavy. Thick. Electric. Obinai's breath catches as the entire room warps. The walls ripple like liquid, the floor beneath his feet shifting, twisting—
No.
Falling.
Gravity seizes him, yanking him downward. His stomach flips violently.
"What the—"
Wind roars past his ears. The classroom vanishes. The ceiling above shrinks into the distance. His body plummets through a void of nothingness.
Above him, Lyth's voice drifts down.
"Forgot to mention… this room? It's just a formality." A lazy chuckle. "Class actually starts…now."