The wind was gentle that morning, rustling the leaves of the tall sycamore trees lining the academy’s central courtyard. A scent of resin and dew lingered in the air. Students in colorful uniforms scattered along the paved paths, while the bells hanging from the enchanted arches chimed in unison.
Amidst the bustle, Menma walked alone, a notebook in hand. His steps were quick but hesitant, as if he feared losing the thread of his thoughts.
On the pages of the notebook, carefully drawn circles intertwined with black-inked scribbles. Amplification diagrams, anchoring symbols, intensity calculations. Words few others would understand. This was his world.
Since the opening ceremony, the academy had imposed a relentless pace. All students had to attend at least three theoretical modules, taught by the seven major mentors. A requirement enough to make anyone shiver.
— “Maestra Velya’s class on natural affinities? Useless. I have no link to water, earth, or nature…”
Menma sighed. He had quickly realized he didn’t belong in those classes. Sérën’s elegant speeches on time perception, Professor Sylvain’s alchemical rituals, Nox Leir’s brilliantly twisted curses… All of it seemed to belong to a world he couldn’t reach.
And yet, he attended. He listened. He took notes. Even if the knowledge felt distant, even if the concepts often escaped him, he kept them. Because one thing was clear in his mind: he didn’t just want to become strong. He wanted to understand.
But when Calem’s class came around… everything changed.
—
The outdoor training ground, enclosed by a runic protection barrier, buzzed with energy and shouting. Reinforced wooden dummies were scattered across the ground. Students ran through sequences of moves — dodges, strikes, counterstrikes. And at the center of this beehive of activity stood Calem.
— “Low stance, high guard! If you fall, you start over. Here, you don’t just master magic. You learn to survive.”
The master’s voice cracked through the morning air like a whip. It allowed no laziness. No weakness.
Menma, drenched in sweat, clenched an old metal gauntlet in his left hand. It was a scrap piece, a salvaged item he had polished and adjusted. His training object.
— Amplify it... slowly... visualize the flow... focus inward...
A vibration ran through the object. A faint bluish glow appeared in the grooves of the metal. Then... a soft snapping sound, and everything faded. Failed again.
— “You rushed it again.”
Calem had approached. His voice was calm, but firm.
— “Control your flow. It’s not a tool. It’s an extension of yourself.”
He gently took Menma’s arm, guiding his posture.
— “Your Arche is like breathing. You need to forget it to truly integrate it. Until amplification is no longer effort — but instinct.”
Menma nodded. He had no reply. He tried again.
—
High above, Ayame sat on the wall overlooking the training field, one leg bent, the other dangling, her gaze fixed on the scene below.
Her Nova-class uniform was perfectly fitted. Arms crossed, she tilted her head slightly.
Menma.
She didn’t understand why she kept watching these sessions. In fact, she wouldn’t even admit she was.
— “He’s training again…”
Her voice drifted into a whisper. She crossed her arms tighter, eyes half-closed. The Nova classes were demanding, brilliant, ruthless. But there, she felt stifled. Invisible. The focus was always on performance, never on the individual.
Here, it was different. Mistakes weren’t punished. They were corrected. And Menma — that quiet boy she had barely noticed at first — seemed to be part of something bigger than himself. He fell, he failed... but he always came back.
She stayed a while longer, watching. Without really knowing why.
—
The days passed, and a rhythm settled in.
Mornings: theory classes.
Time magic with Sérën. Too abstract, but Menma wrote it all down.
Alchemical diagrams with Professor Sylvain. Too complex, but he made the effort.
Nox Leir’s demonstrations. Frightening, but captivating.
Afternoons: training with Calem.
There, Menma learned to dodge, to fall without breaking, to strike without wasting strength. He ran, he shouted, he breathed. He lived.
And at every break, he withdrew to a corner. Sat down, took out an object — a stone, a blade, a metal grip. And he resumed.
— It has to become instinctive. Like breathing. Like blinking.
Calem saw it. And from afar, he kept watching.
—
One evening, as the academy’s hallways shimmered with floating magical lights, Menma emerged from the armory, muscles burning. He held a cracked gauntlet in one hand and a worn training blade in the other.
He stopped beneath a bluish lantern and looked up at the inky sky.
The blade vibrated gently in his fingers. He had amplified it again. Not fully. Not perfectly. But better than before.
He took a deep breath and whispered:
— “I have to get this right… Not just amplify an object… but make it respond as if it were part of me.”
He didn’t know it yet. But what he was seeking — was unity.
Not raw power. But harmony between his body, his will… and his magic.
And unknowingly, that was the first step toward a far greater destiny.