Vant looked at the bandaged stump where his left arm once was.
There was no grief in his eyes. No mourning.
Just... calculation.
Seven years old.
Most kids were learning to ride a broomstick.
He was designing a replacement limb that could function as an all-in-one magical conduit, amplifier, and reservoir.
Insane.
But this was Vant.
His fingers twitched around the pipe in his lap, smoke curling lazily as his mind burned hotter than ever.
A visual blueprint bloomed behind his eyelids
Part schematics, part mana diagrams, part living tissue composition.
He whispered, barely audible, voice glazed in focus:
"...Acranium core for magic flux conduction... aluminum-laced bone for tensile integrity... dual-lattice engraving along the bicep route...
Mana Body Pathway Biology Theorem... overload-safe circuit embedding...
Spell-in-Object transference... spell insulation through internal runic compression..."
His lips moved faster now.
"Rune type: [Sigil-35], [Conductive Array X-12], [Mana Loop Ⅶ]...
Etching sequence must sync with Overcore pulses per second...
Crimson-silver alloy base to allow resonance
Engrave runes at three depth levels for triple-layer intake..."
He wasn't just building a new arm.
He was building the ultimate magical interface.
A wand.
A tome.
A staff.
An amplifier.
A mana tank.
All compressed into a single prosthetic limb.
His own.
Useless for regular mages
Their mana was fixed, predetermined, unchanging.
But for someone with an Overcore like Vant…
This was salvation.
No. It was evolution.
He ran simulations in his mind. Thought through connection interfaces:
Neural relay runes for thought-speed casting.
Direct-nerve graft nodes reinforced by mana-sensitive alloys.
Detachable modular fingers acting as glyph injectors for spell layering.
The blueprint locked in his brain like a brand.
His breath steadied. His lips curled.
His eyes, half-lidded with fatigue, lit with blue focus.
He smiled.
"When I get out of this cage...
I'm going to be so damn loud."
Just like his father once was.
But this time?
Louder.
His spark mirrored Ebenholz in his prime tinkering, theorizing, pioneering forbidden channels of magical design.
But Vant?
He was going to push it farther.
"Sorry, Dad..."
He chuckled, soft and sharp.
"Might surpass you on this one."
And the scariest part?
He wasn't hoping it would work.
He knew.
It will work.
A week passed. Not a single corrosion in the diagram.
Not even a flicker of error.
Vant's Overcore synced perfectly with the design, pulsing along with it in his mind like a second heartbeat.
When Aria finally came
Panting. Pale. But awake and back
She ran into the room like the world would collapse behind her.
Her knees hit the floor beside his bed and she threw her arms around him, trembling.
"I'm sorry... I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
She kept repeating it like a broken spell loop.
Tears soaking the side of his gown, her body clinging to him like he'd vanish again.
He didn't cry.
He didn't get angry.
He didn't even flinch.
He just placed his only hand over her head, fingers threading through her hair.
He accepted her apology.
But deep down…
What's there to apologize for?
She didn't break. I did.
She survived.
She's here. And I'm proud of that.
Not some fragile glass. Not some deadbeat overbrained failure of a brother.
He exhaled slowly.
For the first time in what felt like forever
He was okay with himself.
When the doctor announced he was ready for discharge, the room lifted in air and spirit.
Rosalie and Ebenholz looked like they hadn't slept since the war era dark circles under their eyes, weary smiles that barely held back the exhaustion.
Their children would finally leave the hospital.
Finally.
They packed light.
There was no need for much Vant never got to use anything anyway.
Aria pushed his wheelchair gently, a little too careful, like he might vanish if she moved too fast.
The doctor warned against using location-based spells like Teleportation or Warp.
Vant's mana flow was too delicate. One arcane slip, and it might spiral or burn out.
So they took the Magic Train, a smooth-gliding, mana-powered carriage, straight to the manor.
The Darkven-Rosalia Union Estate.
A home forged from the love of abyss and radiance.
Walls of polished mana-imbued stone.
Windows veined with runes.
A manor that pulsed with quiet life and enchantments.
When the doors opened
Vant shot out of the wheelchair.
He ran.
Through the hallway. Past the portraits. Up the spiral staircases.
Ignoring every tired call of his name.
Straight to his room.
He slammed the door open, still breathing through the magical pipe in his mouth.
A flick of mana shut the door behind him.
His fingers were already reaching for chalk, ink, tools, anything.
He tore the blueprints from his mind, spilling them across his drafting desk.
No time.
No breaks.
The thoughts began flowing into lines, circles, runes.
Acranium for core flux.
Insulation veins with silver-graphite threading.
Socket-nerve conductor with Overcore feedback relay.
Engraving. Precision. Flow lines. Spell hold. Reservoir.
No corrosion. Not a single break. A perfect match.
This is it.
This is the arm that will change everything.
And this time…
No one will stop me.
The days bled together. Time lost all meaning.
Vant's room had become a sanctum no, a workshop. Blue chalk dust covered the floors. Discarded mana crystals, rune shards, bent quills, and used mana-sink vials littered every corner. The blueprints stretched across the entire wall like the veins of a god, each one connected to another in some beautiful, maddening tapestry of design and ambition.
He didn't sleep.
He didn't stop.
Every time his mother or father called for dinner, he'd stumble down reluctantly, eyes red, movements twitchy. Struggling at first to eat with only one hand but he learned. He adjusted quickly.
The real problem was that he would scarf down his food like a starved bird and bolt again. Back to his cave. Back to the blue.
Rosalie stood outside his door sometimes, watching the flicker of blue mana and faint smell of burnt chalk waft under the crack.
Ebenholz stayed up every night in his study, just listening listening to the faint hum of runes being carved upstairs.
They were worried. Deeply.
But also… proud.
And maybe just maybe afraid of what they'd created.
Then, one month later…
The blueprint was done.
Four massive parchment sheets, stitched together by hand, layer after layer of notes, glyphs, spell circuits, magical biology references, and arcane formulas scrawled in beautifully deranged precision.
The Mana Conduit-Arm V.01.
It was more than a prosthetic.
It was a wand. A tome. A spell-focus. A reserve core. A mana siphon. A weapon.
A miracle in the form of a silver arm.
And it was his.
He stood in front of it, breathing heavily through clenched teeth, blue chalk on his face, sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his small body.
His right eye twitched, and a nosebleed trickled down thin and dark.
He wiped it with the back of his sleeve, never taking his eyes off the blueprint.
Then… a smile.
Not a soft one. Not a boy's smile.
The smile of a mad inventor who defied fate with ink, magic, and rage.
But before he could even turn to sit
His knees gave out.
The world tilted sideways.
His eyes rolled back.
And with a soft thud, Vant collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
His chest rose and fell slowly, a faint trail of blue magic leaking from his lips like smoke.
One month of brilliance, poured out into blueprints.
Now he rested, whether he liked it or not.
"Young master!"
"YOUNG MASTER!!"
Vant's eyes snapped open with a violent jolt, pupils unfocused, breath hitching. The sharp tang of metal danced on his tongue the Magical Pipe had been hastily shoved into his mouth. Mana, sweet and cold like menthol, seeped down his throat as he realized where he was.
Back in bed. Again.
Beside him was Lenne, the maid assigned to monitor his condition after he collapsed. Her face was pale and soaked with sweat, eyes wide, and hands trembling as she kept the pipe steady. She looked like she'd been screaming herself hoarse. Her apron was stained with streaks of blue mana ink.
He turned his head slowly. Blinking.
Sitting at the edge of the room, trying not to sob Aria, hands trembling as they covered her mouth.
Ebenholz, biting into his knuckles to stop the sound of his grief.
Rosalie, knees pulled up to her chest, face buried in them, her usually glowing aura dimmed to a flickering candlelight.
"…Did I…" Vant muttered, voice raspy and dry, "…cause a scene?"
There was a long silence.
Then
"YOU! YOUUU!!!" Aria burst forward with the energy of a war goddess, ruffling his hair with both hands, violently. "You nearly gave me us a collective magical heart attack, you little gremlin!!"
"I'm seven," Vant replied flatly, pipe still in his mouth, "I'm legally required to cause emotional damage."
That only made her cry harder as she hugged him, nearly crushing his ribs.
"You worked yourself into a coma, you little genius idiot!" she shouted, face buried in his shoulder.
Ebenholz let out a long breath and chuckled, even if his eyes were still glistening.
Rosalie just whispered, "Thank the Stars…" under her breath, her voice cracking as she slowly stood up and walked to his side, running her fingers gently through his sweaty hair.
Vant laid back into the pillow, eyes heavy but smiling faintly.
Even through the pain, the exhaustion, and the fog in his mind
He knew he was getting up again.
Because he still had something to build.
Ebenholz let out a long, drawn-out sigh, shifting his body toward the wall and leaning into his side. His gaze didn't meet Vant's at first he just stared at the blueprint rolled up on the nearby table, still radiating faint mana from the drawn runes.
"I saw and examined the blueprint…" he muttered, voice low. "It's…"
"Now you understand why, right, Dad?" Vant cut in, his voice soft but confident, a glint in his eye as he adjusted the Magical Pipe resting on his lap.
Ebenholz gave a smirk, the kind only a father who was also a world-renowned mage could give his son the kind that said damn, this little gremlin's the real deal.
"You're this close for me to call you a brat, Vant."
Vant gave a tired chuckle, "You already do when you're tipsy."
Ebenholz laughed under his breath, finally turning to look his son straight in the eye. "Don't worry about the materials. I'll get them for you. I'll even lend you my finest assistants from the Arcana Division hell, I'll have them report to you. You're clearly the boss now."
"Of course I am," Vant said without hesitation, crossing his one arm smugly.
The two quickly fell into a deep conversation, voices rising and falling as they dived into complex magical engineering.
"Did you use a counter-rune for overload mitigation?"
"Of course, but I inverted it into a mirror rune to stabilize the backlash."
"Wait you inverted a backlash mirror rune at age seven? Vant Vant that's that's not even in the textbooks."
"I know. That's why I did it."
Aria and Rosalie stood quietly nearby. Aria was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, brows furrowed. Rosalie stood behind her, equally lost.
"...Are they still speaking Common Tongue?" Aria muttered.
"I think so?" Rosalie replied, squinting. "I heard 'pipe', 'mirror', and 'overload' and then I heard the word 'quantum-chained mana nodes' and gave up."
Aria rubbed her temple. "And to think, I was just proud I remembered how to properly fold a gravity loop in a Radiant spell."
Rosalie patted her back gently. "You're radiant enough, darling."
Meanwhile, Vant and Ebenholz were already arguing about whether mana feedback could be filtered through a double-core matrix without frying the synapse lines.
The genius curse ran strong in this house.
Just like that, seven years had passed.
Vant, now fourteen, sipped chrysanthemum tea with a calm, disinterested grace. His mechanical left arm clicked softly beneath the long black sleeves of his academy uniform, hidden beneath a glove tailored specifically to conceal the cold reality of his prosthetic. Not because he was ashamed of it he simply couldn't be bothered with the questions. His pipe glowed faintly at the bowl, wisps of blue, star-dotted smoke curling from his lips as the Overcore within him was quietly pacified.
To the outside world, it was a strange sight: a fourteen-year-old, expression unreadable, smoking a magical pipe and reading through advanced magic theory with casual boredom, as if he hadn't already rewritten most of it years ago. But in the floating magical cart gliding silently above the paved roadways of Tellus, it was just Vant being Vant.
He flicked the paper in his hand and let it flutter to the floor. Another theory solved, approximated, and revised twice over just for the hell of it. Honestly, he didn't even remember why he bothered.
"Socialize," his mother had said.
"It's good for your mental health," his father added.
As if either of them had a single normal friend in their entire youth.
Vant let out a soft sigh, his eyes drifting to the floating cityscape as the cart approached the looming gates of Flosculus Academy.
Mages of all backgrounds filled the view. Humans eager for prestige, elves hoping to master forgotten arts, dwarves with rune-chiseled gear strapped to their backs, even a few wide-eyed commoners who barely had a spark of mana to their name but had enough gold or favor to earn a seat here.
They all walked.
He rode.
Not out of arrogance but because his body was a construct of conditions, calculations, and compromise. Walking long distances was a waste of valuable mana and time. The kind of luxury Vant simply couldn't afford.
As the cart descended gently to the ground before the main gates, Vant stood and stepped down, cane in hand not for support, but more for elegance and misdirection. He stared up at the towered halls, rune-inscribed walls, and mana circuits pulsing faintly through the academy's architecture.
His right eye gleamed faintly, a stripe of blue trailing from the corner like a painter's stroke of starlight. One puff from the pipe, and he exhaled calmly pure mana smoke trailing behind him like a lazy comet tail.
"Welcome to Flosculus Academy," the driver announced.
Vant didn't reply. He just stared ahead and muttered to himself.
"Let's get this waste of time over with."
As Vant walked through the grand arched halls of Flosculus Academy, it didn't take long for the bitter scent of magism to hit him like stale incense. It was always in the air here subtle, smug, and systemically embedded.
He didn't even flinch when he passed a scene: a noble boy sneering as he shoved another first-year against a glyph-lit wall. The victim was small, lanky, with eyes too proud to beg and a bloodline too stained for sympathy. His mother was magicless.
"Should've stayed in the dirt where your kind belong," the noble spat, conjuring a spell with the ease of breathing.
Vant walked past.
Didn't even glance.
Because this this was normal.
Magism: the discrimination born from the ashes of a love story turned genocide. The world still spun on the sins of that age-old tale.
The Wizard King, Merlin the same man who unified the world under arcane law had once loved a simple woman. A human. No mana, no spark, just warmth. And the magicless, in their ignorance and fear, burned her for being associated with witches. Severed her head. Left it on a pike.
Merlin didn't weep.
He burned the continent.
He called it justice.
And the world of the ungifted bled for it.
The mages scattered, divided, bloated with pride were forced to kneel or be annihilated next. The Overcore within Merlin, infused with Equinox magic, let him command both sun and moon, light and shadow. They called him "the Daybreaker," "the Eclipsebringer," and eventually, The Mad King of Camelot.
He rewrote the world's hierarchy through raw force. After the ash settled, the surviving magicless were offered two choices:
Die.
Or live forever as less.
And most… chose to live.
The heads on spikes were all the persuasion needed.
The religions of old Christianity, Judaism, and most others cracked and faded into forgotten whispers. Some tried to cling on, but Tellus had no place for gods that couldn't cast spells. The only ones who remained were those quiet enough to adapt, like wandering monks with vague talk of "enlightenment" and "rebirth." Philosophy masquerading as faith. And even then, they were watched.
Symbols of the past, like the cross, were outlawed erased. The new world had no use for them. Even their names were forgotten by most.
Vant didn't care for it. Didn't hate it either. It just was.
The boy getting bullied? He'd survive, or he wouldn't. That's how it worked here.
But Vant?
Vant had no place in their hierarchy.
Because he wasn't just a mage.
He was an Overcored.
And not even Merlin's society knew how to place something like him.
He walked past the bullied student without so much as a glance. Not out of cruelty. Not out of magist pride. But because stepping in meant revealing himself his bloodline, his truth and that would only make things worse.
The mud-blood kid was lucky, really. Flosculus Academy, for all its ivory towers and gilded lectures, had cliques for the outcasts. Support groups. Safety nets. A hand to hold for those scraping by without mana-rich veins.
But for someone like him?
An Overcore?
What the hell was he supposed to do dig up the Wizard King and beg him to be his best friend?
Vant clicked his tongue and shook the thought away, boots tapping lightly against marble as he strode through the gilded hallway. Already, the gathering of freshmen was buzzing with nerves and anticipation. They stood shoulder to shoulder, some whispering spells under their breath, others fidgeting with their robes as they waited for the massive crimson curtain to part and reveal the stage for the opening ceremony.
Vant puffed lazily on the magical pipe dangling from his mouth, exhaling a cloud of shimmering blue smoke, stars dancing inside it like cosmic embers
"Hey! You know this place is non-smoking, right? And wait, wait, you're a freshman?!"
A voice snapped out, chirpy and commanding, like a disciplinary officer with zero patience.
He blinked.
Standing in front of him was a girl with puffed-out cheeks and both hands planted firmly on her hips, radiating indignation. She had the kind of energy that could flip tables.
"Give me that!" she said, already reaching for the pipe. "You're not allowed to smoke! It's bad for your health!"
Vant didn't flinch. "It's medicinal."
"Bull."
"I have a mana defect," he replied flatly, as if reciting a textbook diagnosis. "I'm aware the design is repulsive to most people. But I can assure you, this pipe is the only reason this place hasn't turned into a localized magic wasteland."
"Wow. That's some high-grade bull you're selling."
He sighed and simply offered the pipe to her.
"Don't believe me? Check it yourself."
She hesitated, then cautiously took it careful not to touch the mouthpiece. Holding it like it might bite, she tilted it slightly, peering into the bowl.
Her brow furrowed. Inside, glowing blue incantations whirled in impossible formations stacked on top of one another in concentric spirals, layering spells so densely that even trained mages would struggle to read a single line.
Her face slowly paled.
The longer she looked, the worse it got. Her stomach lurched. Her eyes twitched. A dizzy nausea crept up like a wave crashing over a fragile mental dam.
She shoved the pipe back into his hands.
"...Okay. Not bull."
Vant took the pipe back with casual precision, sliding it between his lips as another puff of shimmering smoke danced into the air stars within stars swirling in ethereal bloom.
"Damn," the girl muttered, steadying herself. "What even was that incantation? I barely escaped its clutches. Almost fried my brain off."
Vant exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded as he murmured under his breath arcane strings of formulas, ancient roots of spells intertwined with theoretical cores, shifting into multi-layered calculus. The kind of magic that shouldn't be possible, yet somehow worked. He wasn't trying to flex he just thought aloud.
She blinked hard. Her pride as a magic gear artisan punched clean through the gut.
She could still hear the echoes of that rotating incantation, etched into the back of her skull like a headache wrapped in stardust.
"Wow..." she said, rubbing her temple. "That's... a lot of frameworks. Like, twelve-step reinforcement, passive layering, double-sigiled matrices who even does that?"
She raised her hand with a sheepish chuckle.
"Name's Iris. Iris Cloverlamp. Sorry for the misunderstanding back there."
Cloverlamp. The name ticked in Vant's head.
A respectable family in the world of arcane engineering. Known for creating decent magical gear solid, reliable, albeit... traditional. Still, far from bad. If Vant was being honest, her family's inventions were good. Just not Eben no, his father's level. But Vant had no reason to look down on her. He doubted anyone could surpass the old man but himself and even then, he was still walking that road.
He smiled faintly just enough to twitch the corners of his lips. Maybe this was a start.
He shifted the pipe to his gloved left hand and extended his right.
"Vant," he said. "The name is Vant."
Iris tilted her head, brow lifting curiously.
"Just Vant? How simple."
He shrugged, still holding her gaze.
"I prefer function over form."
People quieted down. Iris nudged Vant's right arm with a whisper.
"It's starting."
The heavy red curtain slowly parted, revealing a man cloaked in an aura that made the air itself stand still. Long beard like flowing silver threads, a robe so pristine it shimmered like starlight, and a staff older than some dynasties this was no mere mage.
No… Vant narrowed his eyes.
That was an Archmage.
He could feel it the sheer pressure, the invisible weight of knowledge and power coiling around the figure like unseen dragons. That man wasn't just powerful. He had mastery.
The mage hierarchy... Vant's mind naturally recalled the structure. It wasn't about status alone it was about merit, discipline, affinity, and understanding.
At the bottom stood the Apprentice Mages entry-level, regardless of whether they had a mentor or not. Once a practitioner grasped the magical theorem and spent about 5 to 10 years developing their core understanding, they graduated into true Mages.
From there, their path diverged.
Sorcerers, martial artists, alchemists, battle mages, warlocks, wizards each discipline carried its own pride and power.
But those who remained in the core path of magic the purest form dedicated themselves to becoming Grand Mages.
Think of it like a professorship. A prestigious title. One that earned its bearer a seat among nobles or even above them.
Bloodline meant nothing at that point. Even a mudblood, if they rose to Grand Mage, could never be looked down upon again.
Then came the Archmages.
Each country was required to have at least one.
These were not just seasoned mages they were phenomena. Born with absurdly high mana affinity, photographic comprehension of the Arcana Codex (a book that made most students puke blood just trying to memorize a page), and a connection to magic itself that defied reason.
They could summon meteors, split the sky, and shift day into night with a gesture.
Some said their power was comparable to the Wizard King's own Court Mages.
And this old man before them his aura made Vant's skin prickle. He was ancient. Likely over 200. A walking tempest in a gentle old man's skin.
But still...
Even that was not the peak.
The true summit stood with the Colored Mages.
Vant's parents The Mage of Black and The Mage of White were among them.
A title beyond status, beyond achievement inherited. You didn't climb your way to it. You were chosen by the Tower of Color.
Six Towers. Six Branches. Six Children of the Wizard King.
Each Colored Mage was a living legend, a force of nature. The mere branch families of these mages were capable of killing Archdemons creatures said to reshape continents with their malice and flames.
The Colored Mages themselves?
Their base power was said to equal entire continents.
And even that was whispered, never confirmed. Who truly knew their limits?
Back in the days when extraterrestrials alien creatures with magic of their own descended upon Tellus, it was not the Archmages who stood in their way.
It was the Colored Mages.
When the Demon Army rose the true underworld species, burning with flames that melted enchanted steel, hurling curses that shook oceans, commanding malice as a weapon it was the six who faced them.
And they won.
Without a scratch. Without a question.
The world remembered it not as a battle, but a message.
This is humanity's pinnacle. And it does not kneel.
Vant watched the old Archmage raise his staff, ready to speak.
The Archmage's voice droned on, smooth and patient, weaving through the standard initiation speech guidance on mana control, warnings about burnout, the importance of theorem study, yadda yadda.
The freshmen? Eyes wide, ears perked, soaking in every word like divine scripture.
But Vant? He was miles ahead. He barely heard it. To him, this was all mundane formalities.
Because Vant Licht Darkven son of two Colored Mages wasn't just ahead of the curve.
He was the curve.
Arcana Codex recitation?
Already done.
Passed. Memorized. Backwards and forwards. Cross-referenced with errata no one else even noticed.
Check.
Mana capacity?
Overcored.
His body was a reactor. A generator beyond what human biology could contain.
If it weren't for his custom-made magic pipe, designed to vent raw mana as cosmic smoke, he'd crumble into fine magic dust every morning.
There were only two cases like this in recorded history:
Vant Licht Darkven and the Wizard King himself, Merlin Pendragon.
Magic Attribute?
Annihilation Magic.
A never-before-seen mutation a fusion born from chaos.
Havoc Magic from his father. Singularity Magic from his mother.
What did that create?
A blue-swirled magic that stripped reality down to its base code. The rawest form of destruction the world had ever known.
It wasn't fire.
It wasn't force.
It was obliteration.
Fueled by an Overcore. Naturally.
Magic Eyes?
A legacy from his bloodline. Every member of his family had one or two.
Fairy Eyes. Eclipse Eyes. Eyes of Destruction.
Vant's right eye held something different.
The Eye of the Freeshooter.
Only in one eye, unlike his dual-eyed kin, but potent nonetheless.
It let him scope anything adjust trajectories, magnify microscopic phenomena, and launch spells with pixel-perfect precision.
Offense, defense, utility it was a sniper's dream locked in a mage's socket.
Magic Theorem?
That was his hobby.
He reverse-engineered ancient spells in his free time like it was Sudoku.
Most mages would sell their soul just to have a fraction of his ability.
Vant simply puffed his pipe, exhaled another stream of celestial haze, and stared ahead.
Then, in that instant
As the Archmage concluded his speech, his gaze swept over the crowd…
And for a heartbeat, their eyes met.
Vant didn't blink.
The Archmage smiled. Subtle. Knowing. Like he'd recognized something no one else had.
Ah, Vant thought,
So the old man knows what I am.
He puffed again, the smoke curling like galaxies.
After the Archmage's speech faded into silence, another figure took the stage this time, a far more... eye-catching one.
The crowd shifted. Whispered. Eyes widened.
A tall woman sauntered forward, hips swaying like a pendulum of lust and confidence. Black lipstick, dark eyeliner, and a brimmed witch hat striped in vivid green crowned her wild look. Her dress latex-tight and impossibly snug clung to her voluptuous frame, cleavage practically threatening to break the laws of gravity and fabric in the same breath.
Male freshmen oozed over her.
Female freshmen squirmed with varying shades of discomfort, disapproval, and secondhand embarrassment.
And Vant?
He sighed.
The term "Witch" was outdated ancient, even. Ever since the Order of the Wizard King rose to power, female mages, sorcerers, or even wizard-class users who dressed like that were simply labeled "gothic-types." Usually, they specialized in Dark Magic and potion-making.
And no, they didn't make devil pacts anymore. That was a completely different classification.
Big difference.
...Mostly.
The woman clapped her gloved hands with a grin.
"Hellooo, everyone! Are you all ready to become proper magic users?"
The crowd roared back with enthusiastic cheers.
The boys? Hypnotized.
The girls? Trying not to roll their eyes out of their sockets.
"Well, that's the energy I like to see! I'm sure some of you know me, and some of you don't!" She twirled playfully on her heel, lips curled into a wicked smile. "Let me introduce myself. My name is Marinda Flowerlip."
Flowerlip...
Vant exhaled a slow stream of nebula-colored haze from his pipe, leaning back slightly.
A branch family of the Green Tower.
Druid-class mages.
Descendants of Viridis Natura, the youngest child of Merlin Pendragon the progenitor of Nature Magic, and thus, the Green Arcane Tower.
He glanced lazily at her again.
Marinda Flowerlip was probably strong, no doubt. And to the average mage, being linked to the Green Tower was a huge deal.
But Vant?
He was a direct descendant of Umbra of the Black Tower and Lunar of the White.
Two of Merlin's eldest children. The twin stars that once clashed so violently their feud nearly split the mage world in two. Their rivalry had lasted generations one black, one white.
And yet, through the union of Vant's father and mother, that bloodline war had ended.
In him.
So no, he wasn't exactly starstruck by some curvy green-laced teacher with a plant-themed name.
Not like the other freshmen.
Not like Iris, who was practically sparkling beside him, her eyes wide with admiration like she just saw her childhood idol step out of a storybook.
Vant puffed again.
The stars in his smoke swirled.
As Miranda continued her speech, her sultry voice echoing effortlessly through the floating microphone, something subtle and dangerous shifted in the air.
Her usually closed, flirtatious eyes cracked open.
Just slightly.
But enough to reveal.
Twin amber orbs shimmered like polished gems beneath thick lashes not just eyes, but magical eyes, one of the major arcane inheritances of the Green Tower.
The Eyes of Gaia.
Ancient. Rare. Revered.
Eyes said to see through life itself able to perceive mana roots, detect lies, and even communicate with spirits embedded deep within the Tellurian veins of the world.
No doubt about it.
She's a big fish, Vant thought calmly, his expression unreadable.
Their gazes locked.
Her eyes alive with the essence of the forest, of earth, of primal knowing stared deep into him. And in that split second
Burn.
A sharp, searing sting ignited in his right eye. His vision warped momentarily as his own magical eye responded on instinct.
His right iris spiraled inward, morphing into the scope-like pupil of his Eye of the Freeshooter.
Her glance had activated it.
A passive challenge?
A silent test?
A knowing nod between arcane elites?
Whatever it was, Vant didn't flinch.
Didn't wince.
Didn't blink.
Just puffed out another nebula haze as if his skull wasn't burning from magical feedback.
So... you know who I am too, huh?
Miranda's lips curled faintly during her speech at a moment that had nothing to do with jokes or humor.
A knowing chuckle.
A private laugh meant for one person in the crowd.
Vant.
"Woaah..." Iris whispered beside him, eyes wide again. "They say the Flowerlip family is the closest hand to the Green Colored Mages..."
Vant nodded slightly, not even looking away.
"Can't deny that."
Miranda, unfazed and fluid, dove into an explanation of attributes, mana power, and the importance of magical affinity things every mage-in-training had heard at least a dozen times. But the way she did it…
There was no droning.
No robotic delivery.
No "read from the scroll" energy.
She taught.
With style. With rhythm. With the commanding air of someone who had stood at the roots of ancient trees and drunk from the world's secret veins.
Even Vant, normally bored by this kind of lecture, found himself... listening.
Because Miranda Flowerlip wasn't just a teacher.
She was a true mage, through and through.
And possibly, someone who knew exactly what Vant Licht Darkven was.
As the final echoes of Miranda's seductive voice faded into the grand lecture hall's walls, a low, anticipatory silence settled over the freshman crowd. The kind of silence that came before a battlefield's first warcry.
Because now came the true beginning.
The Class System.
Ah yes. The fairest, most "unbelievably fair" class system in the world or so they claimed.
No nepotism.
No favoritism.
No "my dad's a high-ranking court mage" shortcuts.
Just raw, unfiltered talent.
Get good or get lost.
At least… that's how they marketed it.
The evaluation that decided your class placement?
Absolute hell.
As if getting into this prestigious Arcane Academy wasn't hard enough, the Class Evaluation made you feel like you'd only just entered the real trial. And the worst part?
The evaluators were no-nonsense titans.
Colored Mage family elites.
People like Miranda Flowerlip herself and even scarier names with whole Grimoires written about them.
They didn't care if you were a commoner, a noble, a peasant, or a prodigy.
(Well, okay some cared. But those ones weren't chosen to evaluate. They just sat in their ivory towers and gossiped. They were teachers not the judges.)
When it came to evaluation, there was no bias. No mercy. Just truth.
Sound fair?
Sure.
Until it wasn't.
The evaluation was split into three brutal parts:
Magic Showcase Test
Show off.
Your magic attribute. Your mana capacity. Your overall power.
It's not about flash it's about depth. If you could generate a miniature sun but didn't know what to do with it, you'd be laughed out. Magic Theorem Exam
Yeah, this one?
This was where 90% of the students started to cry internally.
A written, verbal, and magical logic exam.
Designed to crush your understanding of magical laws, runic theory, equation-based casting, and dimensional arithmetic.
Brute force won't save you here.
Only real knowledge will.
Combat Evaluation Duel Test
The worst. The true chaos.
Straight-up 1v1 duels. Randomly assigned opponents.
You could get a fellow nervous commoner with spark magic or face a noble scion trained in ancient martial-magic arts since they were in diapers.
Pure luck.
Unfair?
Extremely.
But that's where getting good came into play.
Where talent had to overcome bloodlines.
Where you decided if you'd survive… or be shattered.
(Magicless students, by the way, didn't have to do this part. Not like it helped their case much.)
Survive with flying colors?
Congratulations.
You had a chance just a chance to enter:
Arc Class Class A
The crème de la crème.
The elite of the elite.
Not defined by blood or background only results.
You'd find commoners, nobles, mixed-bloods, even ex-slum rats here if they were monsters in their own right.
Blitz Class Class B
The noble-heavy tier.
They might not be prodigies, but they've got structure, form, and training drilled into them from birth.
They usually had a head start.
Codling Class Class C
The average.
The "normal" mage.
They'd graduate. They'd get decent jobs. They'd serve the magic world quietly, steadily, without shaking the heavens.
Dread Class Class D
No one wants to be here.
If Arc is Olympus, Dread is Tartarus.
These were the ones who flunked their duels, tripped on their theorem, or cracked under pressure.
Biased? Oh yes.
Once you're stamped with D, people assume you're a joke.
Reputation damage? Permanent.
If you land here, some say it's better to drop out and try again next year.
Etching Class Class E
The Magicless and Alchemists-to-be.
Not useless. But sidelined.
Their path was different, harder to shine in a world obsessed with mana.
Failure Class F
Not even a class.
You're expelled.
Means you cheated, or your results were so bad they assumed you weren't real.
No mercy.
No second chances.
Vant puffed another swirl of his cosmic smoke, eyes narrowed behind his bangs.
This was it.
The beginning of hierarchy. Of pressure. Of war in academic robes.
And yet, with all this madness looming over the crowd, only one thought crossed his mind:
Just don't bore me.