Damien made his way back toward the dormitory, ignoring the sideways glances and whispers that followed in his wake. They were everywhere now—new students clustered in twos and threes, groups forming like puddles after rain. Some faces he recognized instantly: Selene Cross, poised and sharp-eyed; Silas Relmar, his silver blonde hair gleaming under the sun; and Kael Varenth, broad-shouldered with the lazy arrogance of a predator who never needed to prove himself.
The three of them stood together, speaking in low tones, their gazes drifting casually in his direction before slipping away as though he were unworthy of attention. But Damien wasn't a fool. Yesterday's little "chance" encounters—their feigned curiosity, the polite smiles, the probing questions—they had been nothing but a performance. A play designed to extract his name, his origin, and perhaps something more.
Now, seeing them together so comfortably, it was clear: he had been a test. Nothing more.
So be it.
He didn't spare them a second glance. Let them form their cliques and alliances. Let the nobles weave their networks of power, and the commoners scramble to carve out scraps of belonging. He had no place among them.
When he stepped back into the dormitory, Mistress Harrow was seated at her desk, poring over an impossibly neat stack of records. Her sharp eyes flicked up the moment he entered, suspicion flickering across her expression the way it did yesterday.
Damien approached calmly. "Mistress Harrow. Could you direct me to the training grounds for first-years?"
Her lips tightened, as though the request itself was a provocation. "Planning to get yourself in trouble, are you?"
"I'm planning to train," Damien replied evenly, though inside he bristled. Trouble? He hadn't done anything. Still, he held her gaze without flinching, waiting.
She studied him for a long, silent beat before sighing and pointing with a thin hand. "Follow the east wing path until you reach the courtyard with the bronze statue. Beyond that lies the training complex. There are open grounds for group practice, and private rooms for individual use. Don't break anything."
"I'll keep that in mind," Damien said, inclining his head politely before leaving.
****
The training complex was larger than he expected. The air smelled faintly of steel, sweat, and stone dust, and the sound of distant shouts carried from the open fields where some commoners were already beginning to spar. Damien bypassed them all, heading toward the enclosed building where private rooms were kept.
Inside, he found an old caretaker seated on a stool, his wrinkled face hidden beneath bushy white eyebrows.
"First year?" the man croaked.
Damien nodded. "Yes, sir. I'd like to use a private room."
The caretaker scratched his chin. "There are ten private rooms in total. You're lucky—no one's here yet. You'll get one to yourself. Each one has a shower and lockers. For the open grounds, there is none of that, you would have to use the dormitory open shower."
"That's fine. I'll take a private one."
The old man handed him a rusted iron key. "Room five. Don't forget to return the key."
Damien inclined his head. "Thank you."
****
The private room was massive—far larger than he had expected. Rows of gym equipment lined one side: racks of weights, strange pulleys for resistance training, stone slabs for striking practice. A narrow track circled the entire chamber, wide enough for sprints. The air smelled faintly of oil and polished wood.
Damien set the thick spell book aside on a bench, carefully stripped off his dark red uniform, and folded it into the locker. He frowned slightly. He hadn't thought to buy training clothes. A small detail, but one that nagged at his sense of order. He made a mental note to purchase some when the academy closed for the weekend.
For now, he was bare. Completely bare.
The moment he started running around the track—naked, pale skin gleaming with sweat under the lantern light—Albert nearly collapsed with laughter.
(Albert's inner thoughts)
"Oh, this… this is priceless! You're telling me the great Damien—the one who broods like some grim reaper at every corner—has reduced himself to this? Look at you! Your balls are practically a pendulum of suffering!"
Albert wheezed soundlessly, muted by the system's gag. "If anyone walked in right now, they'd die laughing! A demon in training, they'd call you—but a demon with flopping ornaments!"
The spirit rolled in hysterics, clutching his belly though no sound escaped. His amusement doubled when Damien sprinted harder, expression dead serious, utterly oblivious to the absurdity of the sight.
****
Twenty minutes later, Damien's chest burned and his lungs screamed for air. His legs trembled with exertion. He stumbled to the weights, grabbed the heaviest bars, and began lifting with reckless determination. Pain seared through every muscle fiber, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself onward, until his arms shook violently and his body nearly gave out.
"System," he rasped, voice hoarse. "Activate cultivation mode."
The familiar warmth flooded through him, aura sinking into his flesh, stitching torn fibers, reinforcing bone. He focused, trying not just to heal but to guide. Aura control—that was what mattered. To feel it, to master it, to bend it at will. Each pulse through his veins was like fire and lightning, chaotic but alive.
He lasted longer this time. Two full revolutions of aura coursed through his body before exhaustion left him gasping on the floor. A small victory, but it was progress. It seemed the amount of aura in his body has grown after yesterday's training session. It will keep on becoming more and more potent as he continues advancing in progress. More aura and more control will mean more revolutions.
When he finally staggered into the shower, he nearly collapsed from relief as steaming water poured over him, carrying away the grime and stench. His skin prickled raw from scrubbing—his compulsions gnawed at him, demanding perfection, demanding purity—but he resisted bolting mid-practice this time. Barely.
By the time he was dry and dressed again, he felt human enough to continue.
****
Damien sat cross-legged on the floor, pulling the tome Mind Castle into his lap.
"System," he murmured. "How do you guide spells?"
[The host must first read the book in its entirety. Once its knowledge is internalized, the system may access and provide guidance.]
So it was on him first. He flipped open the crackling pages and immersed himself in the dense diagrams and descriptions. Time slipped away in silence, broken only by the scratch of his steady breath.
When he finally looked up, blinking at the dim light, his stomach growled fiercely. It was already dinner time.
He shut the book, tucked it into the inner pocket of the suit, and returned the key to the caretaker with a polite thanks before hurrying toward the Great Hall.