You know those moments where you're just trying to be a background character, minding your own business, and fate grabs you by the collar and throws you into a boss fight?
Yeah.
That was today.
It all started when I got lost.
To be fair, the Academy's layout was designed by someone with a maze fetish. There were enchanted stairs, teleporting doors, and one hallway that looped endlessly until you complimented the wall paneling. (Seriously. I said "nice woodwork" and it let me through.)
I was supposed to go to Basic Spell Application.
Instead, I ended up in Advanced Enchantments: Theory and Practice.
The room looked different. Bigger. Dimmer. The air buzzed with quiet energy, like it was holding its breath. Floating glyphs rotated lazily in the air, glowing gold and silver.
There were only six students here.
All of them had that look—high-born, high-skilled, and high on their own brilliance.
I realized my mistake instantly.
This was a class for third-years.
Oops.
But before I could sneak out, a voice pinned me in place.
"You. Sit."
The voice belonged to a woman leaning against the far wall, arms crossed. She wore a long black coat with gold trim, and her expression had all the warmth of a frozen lake.
I knew her.
Professor Seraphine Vael.
The Arcane Architect.
Master of enchantments. Slayer of hopes. Once failed a student for breathing too loud during a glyph demonstration.
Why was she teaching a first-week class?
No idea. Probably a sadistic hobby.
"Did I—uh, miss introductions?" I asked cautiously.
She arched an eyebrow. "You're not enrolled."
Busted.
"But," she continued, "you're here. Which means the Academy wants something from you."
That didn't sound ominous at all.
"Sit."
So I sat.
The other students gave me the usual looks. Confusion. Contempt. A hint of "Who let the peasant in?"
I ignored them and pretended to be a lost librarian.
Professor Vael snapped her fingers.
The glyphs floating in the air rearranged themselves into a puzzle. Dozens of overlapping runes, some of which were broken or missing. The whole thing rotated slowly like a cosmic Rubik's Cube.
"This," she said, "is a containment seal. One of my own designs. It has been altered—poorly. Your task is simple: identify what's wrong."
One of the students immediately raised their hand. "Professor, this is too advanced for week one."
"Correct," she said flatly. "You may leave."
He didn't.
She gestured to the glyph again.
I watched as they moved. Slow. Shifting. Clicking into place, then sliding apart.
Like gears. Like circuits.
Like art.
I narrowed my eyes.
The students began muttering, pulling out rune guides, flipping through grimoires.
I pulled out a pencil.
No books. No notes.
Just sketching.
I traced the rotation, the flow of mana, the slight lag between pulses.
There.
A line—barely a flicker—fading too fast. One of the core stabilization glyphs had been mirrored. Which would reverse the containment output and make the seal collapse under pressure.
A critical flaw hidden in symmetry.
I raised my hand. "It's the seventh glyph from the core. The loop on the bottom spiral—it's inverted. The mana pulse skips when it tries to pass through."
Silence.
All eyes turned to me.
Professor Vael blinked slowly. "Explain."
"It's… like a music score," I said. "The glyphs are a melody. But one note's flipped. So the harmony breaks."
I realized too late how pretentious that sounded.
But the professor just stared at the glyph.
Then waved her hand.
The seventh symbol froze, enlarged.
She tilted her head.
"You're correct."
A breath caught in the room.
One of the students actually dropped their pen.
She turned to me. "What is your name?"
"…Caleb Thorne."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're not on any of my lists."
"I, uh, got lost."
"That remains to be seen."
She waved her hand again. The glyphs vanished.
"Class dismissed."
Everyone stood up in awkward silence. No applause. No glares. Just a weird buzzing tension in the air.
I moved to leave with the rest.
"Not you," she said.
I froze.
Here we go.
"You can see mana flow without casting?"
I nodded slowly. "I draw."
"Mn." She studied me like I was a museum exhibit.
"I want you in this class."
"Pretty sure I'm not qualified."
"I'm not asking."
She pulled a token from her coat. It gleamed with intricate runes. "This will override your schedule. You belong here now."
I took it, numb.
"Also," she added, "next time you get lost, don't be late."
She vanished in a shimmer of golden runes.
I stood there for a full minute.
Processing.
Then I laughed—quiet, low, just a puff of disbelief.
From simp to secret prodigy in under a week.
Guess the glow-up wasn't just physical.