The sky was still tinted violet when Noel stepped outside.
The academy grounds were quiet, half-draped in mist. Mana lamps along the walkways flickered softly, not yet dismissed by the rising sun. The air was cool, crisp, and sharp enough to bite.
Perfect training weather.
He walked with purpose, hands in his coat pockets, passing silent buildings and dormant gardens until he reached the Open Training Grounds.
It was massive—almost like a field meant for drills, duels, and chaos. Practice dummies stood in rows. Several sections were reinforced with protective wards, carved directly into the earth. A few boulders had been dragged to the side for strength training or manipulation tests.
Noel dropped his coat and bag on a nearby bench, rolled up his sleeves, and began.
First, a light jog—two full laps around the perimeter.
Then bodyweight drills: push-ups, core stretches, agility work. Muscle control. Precision. Repetition.
Not the kind of training to impress anyone.
But the kind that would build a foundation no spell could replace.
His breath formed clouds in the morning air. His body moved on instinct. This wasn't glory training. This was survival.
Every drop of sweat, every burning muscle reminded him.
He wasn't going to coast by on a famous name.
"You were born to the bottom of the page. Climb."
He finished his final set, wiped his face, and sat on the grass.
The sun had finally crested the wall.
And now… it was time for magic.
The grass was still cool beneath him as he sat cross-legged near the center of the field.
Noel took a slow breath, letting the air settle in his lungs, then exhaled—controlled, steady. His hands rested palm-up on his knees, fingers slightly curled.
His thoughts quieted.
He reached inward.
The mana was there.
Not like a river. Not yet.
More like a pulse—a quiet drumbeat behind his ribs.
Steady. Waiting.
He focused.
Let it rise.
"Form first. Then function."
He extended a hand forward.
"Water Sphere."
The mana shifted. Pooled in his palm.
For a moment, nothing.
Then—a bubble of water formed. Uneven. Trembling.
It hovered just above his palm, quivering like a jellyfish in air.
Noel blinked.
"…Hah."
The sphere collapsed into a splash, soaking his glove.
Still—he smiled.
He tried again.
And again.
Each time, it came a little faster. A little cleaner.
Eventually, it held shape for three full seconds before breaking apart.
Next, he focused on heat.
No incantation this time. Just will.
He summoned a flicker of fire—barely larger than a candle flame. It danced at his fingertip, warm and harmless.
Noel stared at it.
The warmth touched his skin.
Not just from the fire. From the success.
"Not bad… for a 'useless noble."
He let the flame fade and stood, wiping his palm dry.
It wasn't impressive.
But it was his.
The training ground was larger than it looked at first glance. Divided by low stone walls and mana-threaded pillars, it gave students space to train in peace—or isolation.
Noel moved to a shaded corner near the edge, stretching out his arms, trying to cool down.
Then he saw them.
Two figures, maybe thirty meters away in the opposite quadrant.
The boy had short dark hair, strong shoulders, and a wooden sword clutched in both hands. His strikes were forceful, unrefined—but practiced.
Beside him stood a girl with long black hair and sharp blue eyes, watching him with a quiet, familiar intensity. She didn't hold a weapon, just a towel and a flask of water. Her posture was relaxed, but her gaze never strayed from the boy's movements.
Marcus and Clara.
The protagonists.
Noel didn't need to see their faces up close. He already knew them. He'd read them a dozen times. He remembered how this scene unfolded—the early training, the growing bond, the way Clara always stayed just close enough to support but never so close as to distract.
They were real now.
Breathing.
Moving.
Alive.
Noel watched for a few seconds, quiet.
He could've walked over. Introduced himself. Started rewriting the script.
But he didn't.
He turned back toward his own space, picked up his sword, and resumed his drills.
"It's their story—for now."
"Let them play their part."
The next morning came earlier than expected.
Noel had barely finished his warm-up when he noticed he wasn't alone.
At the far end of the field—almost blending into the pale morning mist—stood a girl.
She wore the standard training uniform, modified slightly for colder climates. Her long blue hair was pulled into a loose, functional braid, and her cyan eyes glowed faintly, focused entirely on the orb of magic hovering between her hands.
Selene von Iskandar.
He remembered her name from the novel.
A northern prodigy. Cold. Brilliant. Quiet.
And there she was—conjuring a perfect sphere of ice in one hand while a second spellbook floated beside her, its pages turning on their own.
Noel didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.
As if sensing him, she looked up.
Her gaze was calm. Analytical.
"Good morning," she said softly, her voice even colder than the air.
Noel blinked. "Morning."
That was it.
She turned back to her training.
So did he.
By the fourth day, Noel's body moved like it had finally caught up with his will.
His sword drills were sharper. His footing lighter. His endurance steadier.
But what truly changed was the magic.
He sat cross-legged again in the far corner of the training field, the morning dew still clinging to the grass. His breathing was slow. Steady. His hands rested on his knees, palms open.
He reached inward.
And the mana answered.
Not in a flood.
But in a whisper.
A language he hadn't studied but somehow understood.
He didn't know how he knew it. There were no runes, no chants, no hand gestures. Just intent.
Clarity.
He raised a hand. Mana flowed into his palm—not violently, not unpredictably. It curled like smoke, warm and obedient.
He shaped it slowly, gently—and a flame bloomed.
Bright. Stable. Suspended midair without flicker or fade.
Ten seconds passed.
Still holding.
Noel blinked once. Then let it dissipate.
A grin—small, almost private—tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"I'm behind. I know that."
"They've had tutors. Instructors. Legacies."
He stood slowly, wiping his palm against his coat.
"But they don't feel it like I do."
"They control mana. I understand it."
"And that changes everything."
The fifth morning arrived wrapped in golden mist.
Noel's routine unfolded like clockwork: warm-up, sword drills, mana control. His movements were sharper now, his focus unshakable. Each spell he shaped held just a little longer. Burned just a little hotter. Flowed just a little smoother.
He was still behind—he knew that.
But the gap no longer felt infinite.
And every step forward was his.
As he stood at the far end of the field, catching his breath, a familiar presence walked past.
Selene.
Same composed posture. Same icy braid. Same silent spellbook hovering near her shoulder.
But this time, as she passed him, she paused.
She turned just enough to look at him over her shoulder.
"You held the flame steady today," she said. "Longer than yesterday."
Noel blinked.
Just for a second.
He hadn't noticed her watching.
He hadn't thought she was watching.
He gave a slow nod. "You noticed."
A rare hint of a smile ghosted across her lips. "I don't say things I don't mean."
She continued on toward the center of the field, where a rune circle flickered to life under her feet.
Noel stood still, arms crossed, watching her go.
'So she's been observing me…'
He glanced down at his hand—faint soot still smudged his glove.
'Interesting.'
That night, back in his room, he sank into the chair near the window, watching the stars rise above the academy walls.
His muscles ached. His mana reserves felt like shallow cups.
But his spirit?
Steady.
Clear.
'Five days down.'
'And for once… I don't feel behind.'
'Let the story begin.'