Three days passed between the Welcome Ceremony and the start of real lessons.
In that time, Kyle finalized his course selections, submitting them through the slate system linked to Sanctum Magna's internal network, conveniently named ManaLink.
He chose Combat Arts as one of his core classes—surprising both Mirai and Orin—and World Magic History as the second. It was an easy class; Kyle had already consumed volumes of historical texts in his spare time before the semester began.
For electives, after some internal debate, he picked the two "neglected" courses: Void Studies and Forbidden Thaumatology.
Practical and scholarly. With a touch of mystery. A balanced layout.
Orin, on the other hand, signed up for Ancient Languages and Cryptography as well as Runes and Enchantment—with all the enthusiasm of someone volunteering for a public execution.
"I just want to be able to read ancient treasure maps and make support tech," Orin said, utterly serious.
Kyle didn't bother arguing. He already had experienced enough tiresome conversations after asking Mirai about her classes and her response was, " A lady must at least have some secrets don't you think?"
The first class on Kyle's schedule was Combat Arts, held in one of the Academy's outdoor spell courts—a wide-open field encircled by warded lines etched into the ground itself.
By the time Kyle arrived, about thirty first-years had already gathered.
Some chatted nervously. Others practiced minor tricks—floating sparks, bending light, casting tiny illusions.
Kyle folded his arms, surveying the scene.
I know I picked this to make up for my weaknesses, but I feel like a weakling among the newbies right now.
Before he could sink deeper into self-doubt, a sharp crack of magic split the air.
A man stood at the centre of the field: their instructor.
Professor Owl.
Sharp-eyed and clad in simple combat leathers instead of robes, his presence sliced through the chatter like a blade.
"Welcome to Combat Arts," he said briskly. "This is not an academic course. You will learn by doing—or you will fail by doing. There is no middle ground."
Several students stiffened.
Kyle smiled grimly. This was exactly the kind of teaching he respected.
"Today, we begin simple. Controlled projection. Any idiot can throw a fireball; my job is to make sure you don't burn your own face off in the process."
A ripple of laughter followed—mostly nervous.
Great. I'm going to be the first idiot to fail and burn my face off.
Kyle closed his eyes and extended his hand as instructed, focusing mana into a steady, visible line of light. Simple projection magic—the first real test of raw control.
Around him, orbs flickered into being. Some sputtered weakly. Others blazed too hot, popping like soap bubbles.
Kyle, deep in concentration and doubt, didn't realize his orb had already formed. It hovered steadily—quiet, bright, and unwavering.
Before Professor Owl could comment, a soft chime echoed across the field.
A system notification from the Academy's internal network.
Professor Owl frowned and tapped his own slate. "Line up," he barked.
Kyle's orb vanished, unnoticed by its creator.
The students shuffled into loose rows as a group of Deans escorted a single boy onto the field.
The new arrival was striking—tall, lean, with sunlit blond hair that gleamed almost metallic under the afternoon light.
His uniform was crisp. His stance, casual. But something about the way he stood suggested a strength honed far beyond his years.
Whispers erupted.
"Is that...?"
"Why is he here?"
"I thought transfers weren't allowed after the first month?"
A Dean stepped forward. "Students, meet your new classmate: Christopher Malloran, transferred from Caerwyn Academy."
Kyle stiffened.
Malloran.
He knew that name all too well.
The Malloran family ruled the southern region—including the miserable little village where Kyle had grown up under their indifferent, parasitic governance.
To Kyle, Malloran meant cruelty, greed, and abandonment.
And now their heir was here? Standing like he belonged?
"Bullshit," Kyle muttered under his breath—loud enough for the nearest students to hear.
Chris Malloran's gaze flicked toward him. There was a glint of something unreadable in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or recognition.
He smiled faintly. Not mocking. Not kind. Just... assessing.
Professor Owl didn't acknowledge the tension—or ignored it on purpose.
"Transfer or not, he passed the admission standards," one of the Deans said flatly. "If you have problems, deal with them on the field."
Kyle's jaw tightened.
Oh, I will.
Chris took his place at the end of the line, unbothered by the cold stares and prickling resentment radiating from Kyle.
Class resumed, but Kyle's mind drifted.
He kept glancing toward the boy who'd slipped into their ranks like a polished dagger hidden among farm tools.
It wasn't fair. Kyle knew he'd gotten in on special consideration too—but he hadn't come here to represent a broken system. He hadn't come here wearing the name of the people who let his home rot.
Maybe Chris wasn't like the rest of his family.
Maybe.
But rage didn't listen to reason.
He wears their name like a badge, Kyle thought bitterly. That's enough.
After class, students broke into small groups—some chatting excitedly, others nursing singed fingers from overzealous spells.
Kyle made straight for the exit path, ignoring everyone.
"Hey," a voice called behind him.
Kyle didn't stop walking.
Chris Malloran caught up effortlessly, matching his pace with ease.
"You seem to have an opinion about me already," Chris said conversationally, like they were discussing the weather.
Kyle stopped.
He turned to face him.
"I don't have an opinion," he said, voice low and even. "I have facts."
Chris tilted his head slightly. There was curiosity in his eyes.
Kyle stepped closer—close enough that only Chris could hear his next words.
"Your family lets good people rot," he said. "Don't think you'll buy respect here with a new uniform and a winning smile. At least not from me."
For a moment, Chris just looked at him.
Then he smiled—genuine, quiet, not mocking.
"Good," he said softly. "I wouldn't want it that easy."
Then he turned and walked away, leaving Kyle standing alone in the fading afternoon light—his heart hammering harder than any spell could explain.