The sky was still dark when Max left the Alpha Wing dining hall, but the horizon had begun to lighten—deep purple bleeding into gray. He'd wolfed down breakfast in ten minutes, ignoring Beck's attempts at conversation, his mind already on the next class.
Mana Control and Manipulation with Magister Elara Windborne.
The Fourth Wonder.
Max's pace slowed as he crossed the central courtyard, other students flowing around him toward their respective classes. He pulled his schedule from his pocket, pretending to check it, buying himself a moment to breathe.
'Elara Windborne.'
In Timeline 1, he'd never met her. Gamma students didn't rate a Wonder's attention. He'd seen her from a distance a few times—a tall elven figure moving through the academy grounds with fluid grace, surrounded by an aura of power that made even senior students step aside.
But he'd heard the stories. Everyone had.
The Windborne Equation. The revolutionary mana efficiency formula that had changed how magic was taught across the continent. Barrier magic so powerful she could shield entire cities. Combat magic precise enough to kill from five miles away.
And in Timeline 1, Max had seen her corpse.
The Eastern Gate. Three days into the final siege. Max's unit had been part of the relief force—too late, always too late. They'd found her body at the center of a crater filled with demon ash. Fourteen Demon Generals, the survivors had counted. She'd killed fourteen of them before falling.
She'd been smiling.
Max had thrown up when he saw her. Not from the gore—he'd been numb to that by then. From the waste of it. One of the six strongest people in the world, dead because she'd stood alone while everyone else retreated.
While Beck had been gods-knew-where, probably sleeping.
Max forced the memory down and kept walking.
The Mana Control classroom was in the Academy's central spire, a specialized chamber accessible only to students with sufficient mana density to pass through the wards. Max felt the tingle of magical detection as he climbed the spiral staircase, the enchantments scanning him, measuring him, deciding whether he belonged.
The wards let him through without resistance.
He emerged into a circular room that took his breath away.
The chamber was enormous—easily a hundred feet in diameter, with a domed ceiling that rose another fifty feet above. The floor was inscribed with intricate magical circles, layers upon layers of overlapping formulae that pulsed with faint light. Mana crystals floated throughout the space at varying heights, orbiting like a miniature solar system. The walls were lined with bookshelves that defied gravity, extending in directions that shouldn't exist.
And high above, the ceiling displayed a perfect map of the night sky—constellations rendered in points of real starlight, complete with slowly moving planets.
Max had forgotten how beautiful this room was.
In Timeline 1, he'd seen it once during a campus tour, peering through the doorway while an upperclassman explained that only Alpha and Beta students could enter. He'd stood there thinking how unfair it was, how much he wanted to learn in a place like this.
Now he was here, and all he could think about was the woman who'd designed these wards dying alone on a battlefield.
"Early."
Max turned. Seria Windwhisper stood a few feet away, her silver hair pulled back in a practical braid, amber eyes studying him with mild curiosity. She moved past him without waiting for a response, selecting a seat near the eastern windows where natural light would supplement the magical illumination.
Other students began filtering in. Draven Crossblade entered with his usual swagger, armor gleaming even in the soft light, flanked by two human students who seemed to orbit him like lesser moons. Yuna Swiftpaw arrived silently, her golden eyes immediately finding Max and tracking him as he moved to take a seat.
Max chose the middle rows again—not conspicuous, not invisible. He sat down, pulled out a notebook, and tried to look like a normal student waiting for class to start.
"Saved you a seat!"
Max's eye twitched. Beck dropped into the chair beside him, grinning, somehow managing to look rumpled despite having just left breakfast twenty minutes ago.
"You're late," Max said.
"Class doesn't start for another five minutes."
"You're supposed to be early."
"Why?" Beck stretched, yawned. "The teacher isn't even here yet."
Max bit back his response. Around them, other students were settling in—twenty-five total, the full Alpha Class roster. Some chatted quietly. Others were already reviewing notes from previous classes. A few stared at the floating mana crystals with poorly concealed wonder.
At exactly eight o'clock, reality folded.
Max felt it a split-second before it happened—a shift in the ambient mana, space bending in ways that shouldn't be possible. The air in the center of the classroom rippled, and a woman stepped out of nothing onto the raised platform at the room's heart.
Magister Elara Windborne had arrived.
She was tall—easily six-foot-two, towering even over most human men. Her silver hair was woven into an intricate braid threaded with hair-thin wires that pulsed with captured mana. Amber eyes swept the classroom with the precision of a master appraiser, seeing through flesh to the mana cores beneath. She wore flowing robes that shifted colors based on the ambient magic—currently deep blue fading to silver at the edges.
Her presence filled the room.
Max had forgotten what it felt like to stand in the aura of a Wonder. The sheer density of her mana signature made the air feel thick, substantial. Every breath tasted of ozone and possibility. Some students shifted uncomfortably. A few looked awed.
Beck just looked interested.
"Mana," Elara said, her voice carrying effortlessly without amplification, "is will made manifest."
She raised one hand. Above her palm, raw mana coalesced—visible, tangible, a sphere of brilliant blue-white light that cast dancing shadows across the inscribed floor.
"You have heard this from Professor Vael. He is correct, but his explanation is incomplete." The mana sphere began rotating, its internal structure becoming visible—geometric patterns of impossible complexity. "Mana is also 'intent'. Your will shapes it. Your desire directs it. Your purpose gives it form."
She closed her hand. The sphere compressed, density increasing until it hurt to look at directly.
"But intent can be corrupted."
Elara's other hand rose. A second sphere appeared—and the classroom recoiled.
This mana was wrong. Sickly green-black, pulsing arhythmically like a diseased heart. The light it cast was oily, wrong, making shadows bend at unnatural angles. The air around it seemed to decay.
Max's stomach twisted. He knew that feeling. Had felt it a thousand times on battlefields, fighting enemies whose very presence corrupted the ground beneath them.
"This is tainted mana," Elara continued, her voice harder now. "Mana that has been twisted by foreign intent—usually demonic in origin. It does not follow natural laws. It spreads like infection. And it will corrupt anything it touches."
She brought her hands together. The two spheres met—and the corrupted mana tried to spread. Max watched its sickly tendrils reach out, seeking to contaminate the pure mana beside it.
Elara's will clamped down. The pure mana blazed brighter, and the corrupted sphere began to burn away, dissolving into ash that evaporated before hitting the ground.
"Purification," she said simply. "Is possible. But it requires perfect control and sufficient power. Most of you do not have either yet."
Both spheres vanished. The oppressive feeling in the air lifted.
"Today, we begin with fundamentals. I will teach you to perceive mana—your own and others'. To control it with precision rather than brute force. To recognize corruption before it takes root." Elara's gaze swept across them. "These skills will save your lives. Learn them well."
She gestured, and the floating crystals throughout the room began to descend, one settling in front of each student. Max's crystal was clear quartz shot through with veins of blue—a mid-grade mana conductor, worth perhaps fifty gold on the open market.
"Place your hands on the crystal," Elara instructed. "Channel mana into it slowly—not a flood, a trickle. The crystal will react based on your control. Blue means efficient. Green means acceptable. Yellow means wasteful. Red means dangerous."
Max placed his hands on the crystal and closed his eyes.
He'd done this exercise before. In Timeline 1, as a Gamma student with a different instructor, he'd managed yellow after an hour of trying. The instructor had called it "adequate for your level."
Now, Max had six years of combat experience burned into his muscle memory. He'd channeled mana while bleeding out. While exhausted. While watching friends die around him. He knew efficiency not as theory but as survival—every wasted drop of mana was time you didn't have, strength you couldn't spare.
Max breathed out slowly and let his mana flow.
The crystal lit up blue immediately.
Around him, other students were struggling. Draven's crystal flickered between yellow and green, his technique all power and no finesse. Several crystals glowed red, their owners yanking their hands back with yelps as the stones grew hot from waste heat.
Beck's crystal was, of course, perfect blue. He looked mildly surprised, like he'd expected it to be harder.
Max opened his eyes to find Elara standing in front of his desk.
"Efficient," she said, her tone neutral. She studied his crystal, then him. "How long have you been training mana control?"
"Since I awakened my talent, Magister. About three years."
"Most students train for five years to achieve this level." Her amber eyes narrowed slightly. "And your technique is not self-taught."
Max kept his expression carefully neutral. "I studied from books. Practiced regularly."
"Which books?"
'Shit.'
"The Fundamentals of Mana Theory by Grekas. Advanced Control Techniques by—"
"Grekas's work focuses on raw power amplification, not control." Elara's voice remained even, but Max felt her attention sharpen. "Try again."
Max met her gaze. "I practiced what worked. Read what I could find. Some techniques I figured out through trial and error."
It wasn't a lie. Just not the truth she was looking for.
Elara studied him for a long moment. Then she moved on to the next student, offering corrections, adjusting hand positions, explaining where power was leaking.
Max exhaled slowly and glanced down at his crystal. It still glowed steady blue.
"Show-off," Beck whispered from beside him.
Max didn't respond. He was too busy processing the fact that Elara Windborne—the Fourth Wonder, one of the six strongest people alive—had just scrutinized him and found something off.
He needed to be more careful.
The rest of the class proceeded through basic exercises. Mana circulation patterns. Efficiency drills. Perception training where students tried to sense each other's mana signatures across the room.
Max performed well but not perfectly. Enough to belong in Alpha, not enough to raise more questions. He deliberately fumbled one of the perception exercises, "failing" to detect Yuna's signature from across the room even though he could feel it clearly—sharp and predatory, with an edge that spoke of her Insight talent.
When Vael had said talent was the lens through which will took shape, he'd been exactly right. You could read someone's personality in their mana if you knew how to look. Yuna's was precise and analytical. Beck's was vast and effortless. Draven's was loud and insecure.
Elara called a break halfway through. Students stretched, chatted, examined the floating crystals with varying degrees of wonder.
Max stayed seated, reviewing his notes. They were deliberately basic—nothing that would suggest he already knew this material inside and out.
"Keath."
He looked up. Seria stood beside his desk, her expression composed but her eyes curious.
"Yes?"
"Your control is exceptional for a first-year." It wasn't a compliment, just an observation. "Have you trained with an elven instructor before?"
"No. Why?"
"Your technique has certain characteristics. Efficiency over power. Minimal waste. It's similar to elven methodology." She tilted her head slightly. "Most humans favor the opposite approach."
Max chose his words carefully. "I read that elven techniques were more sustainable for extended combat. Seemed practical to learn them."
"Reading about technique and executing it are different things."
"I practice a lot."
Seria's gaze didn't waver. "Clearly."
She returned to her seat without another word, but Max felt her attention on him for the rest of the class.
Great. Now both Seria and Yuna were paying attention to him. And Elara had noticed something off. At this rate, he'd have half the class suspicious before the end of the week.
The second half of class focused on theory. Elara lectured on mana density, core development, the difference between pool size and channel capacity. It was information Max knew intimately, but he took notes anyway, playing the part of an attentive student.
"Your mana core is not static," Elara explained, magical diagrams appearing in the air above her. "It grows through use, through stress, through pushing your limits. A larger core means more power available. But size without control is meaningless."
She gestured, and the diagram shifted—a core fragmenting under strain.
"Overextension can shatter your core. The results are catastrophic. Permanent loss of magical ability if you survive at all." Her expression was grave. "I have seen it happen to students who pushed too hard, too fast, without proper foundation."
Max remembered. There'd been a Beta student in his Year 2 who'd tried to rush his advancement, channeling more mana than his core could handle during a dungeon run. He'd survived, technically. But he'd lost his magic. Last Max had heard, he'd been working as a clerk in some inland city.
Lucky, really. He'd missed the war.
"Safe advancement requires discipline," Elara continued. "Push your limits, yes. But gradually. With control. Your talent gives you a unique path, but your foundation must be solid regardless of what lens you express power through."
She paused, her gaze distant.
"I have seen many talented students burn brightly and die young because they mistook raw power for mastery. Do not be one of them."
The warning hung in the air. Several students shifted uncomfortably.
Beck yawned.
Max's hands clenched under his desk.
'You're the most talented one here and you're not even paying attention. In six years, we'll need every ounce of power you could develop. And you're wasting it.'
"Now," Elara said, her tone shifting to something more practical. "We will discuss corrupted mana detection."
Interest rippled through the room. This was advanced material, not usually covered until Year 2.
"Corruption has a signature," Elara continued. She produced another sphere of tainted mana—smaller this time, contained. "It feels wrong. Your instincts will recognize it before your conscious mind does. Nausea, unease, the sense that something is fundamentally off."
She gestured, and the sphere began moving through the classroom, floating from student to student. As it passed, reactions varied. Some students grimaced. Others looked confused, not sensing anything unusual.
When it reached Max, he felt his gorge rise.
He knew this feeling. Had felt it thousands of times. Demon blood smelled like sulfur and tasted like ash. Their mana signatures felt like insects crawling under your skin. You learned to recognize it instantly because hesitation meant death.
Max kept his face neutral, but his hands were shaking.
"Keath," Elara's voice cut through his spiral. "Describe what you feel."
Max forced himself to focus. To put words to the visceral wrongness.
"Wrong," he said quietly. "Like... like reality is bent in a way it shouldn't be. Like something foreign is trying to reshape the world into something it's not meant to be."
The classroom was silent.
Elara's expression was unreadable. "That is remarkably accurate for someone who has never encountered corrupted mana before."
'Because I've bathed in it. Bled in it. Watched it consume everything I cared about.'
"Educated guess, Magister," Max said.
"Mm." She recalled the sphere, and Max felt the oppressive presence lift. "Most students describe it as 'feeling sick' or 'uncomfortable.' You described the fundamental nature of corruption—reality rejection."
She didn't say anything else, but Max felt her attention settle on him like a weight.
"Corruption spreads," Elara continued, addressing the class again. "Through contact. Through exposure. Through proximity to a sufficiently powerful source. It can taint locations, objects, living beings. And once established, it is extremely difficult to purify."
She produced a map—magical projection showing the continent. Red markers dotted the borders, concentrated in the north and east.
"These are confirmed corruption zones. Most are contained within dungeon breaks or isolated incidents. The Adventurer's Guild monitors them closely." Her expression darkened. "But the number of incidents has increased over the past five years. Substantially."
Murmurs rippled through the class. A human boy raised his hand.
"Magister, is it true that the border zones are seeing more demon activity?"
"Yes."
Blunt. Direct. No sugar-coating.
"The causes are unclear. Natural fluctuation in dungeon activity. Increased aggression from existing demon populations. Some theorists suggest a coordinated effort, though that would imply organization far beyond what demons have historically demonstrated."
Max's jaw tightened. 'It's not theory. It's preparation. The Demon Lord has been planning this for decades. Building his forces. Corrupting key locations. And you won't realize it until it's too late.'
"However," Elara said, and her tone hardened, "speculation is not my domain. What matters for this class is that you learn to recognize corruption, avoid it when possible, and purify it when necessary."
She demonstrated purification techniques—complex mana manipulation that required precise control and significant power. Most students struggled to follow even the basic pattern.
Max watched carefully, committing it to memory. He'd never learned proper purification in Timeline 1. Nobody had taught them—there hadn't been time. They'd just fought and died and hoped the corruption didn't take root before they bled out.
Class ended at ten o'clock sharp.
"Office hours are Tuesdays and Thursdays, fourteen hundred to sixteen hundred," Elara announced. "Come prepared with specific questions. I do not tolerate wasted time."
Students began filing out, chattering about the lesson. Several clustered around Elara, asking questions about advancement rates and core development.
Max gathered his things slowly, watching. Elara answered questions with patient precision, but he could see the calculation in her eyes—assessing each student, measuring their potential, deciding who was worth her time.
In Timeline 1, she'd been one of the few who tried. Who actually prepared for the possibility of large-scale combat. Who developed techniques specifically designed for fighting demons.
And she'd died anyway.
Max was halfway to the door when her voice stopped him.
"Keath. A moment."
His stomach dropped. Beck glanced back, curious, but kept walking when Max waved him on.
Max approached the platform where Elara stood, now alone in the gradually emptying classroom.
"Yes, Magister?"
She studied him with those amber eyes that seemed to see through flesh to whatever lay beneath. When she spoke, her voice was pitched for his ears alone.
"Your control is exceptional. Your theoretical knowledge exceeds what any first-year should possess. And your reaction to corrupted mana suggests familiarity, not education."
Max kept his breathing steady. "I take my studies seriously, Magister."
"That is not an explanation." She stepped closer, and Max felt her magical perception wash over him—a sensation like being scanned, measured, dissected. "You carry more mana than your official assessment indicated. Considerably more. And your channels show signs of extensive use that should take years to develop."
Max said nothing. What could he say?
Elara's expression softened slightly. "I am not accusing you of anything. But I have taught for sixty years, Maximilion Keath. I recognize when a student is hiding something."
"Everyone has secrets, Magister."
"True." She moved to her desk—a massive thing carved from black wood and covered in papers, crystals, and instruments Max couldn't identify. "When I was your age, I was certain war was coming."
Max's attention sharpened.
"Everyone told me I was paranoid," Elara continued, not looking at him. She picked up a mana crystal, examined it absently. "Elves do not see short-term threats the way humans do. We live centuries. What is a decade of increased border activity? What are a few corrupted zones? Insignificant in the grand sweep of time."
She set the crystal down.
"I prepared anyway. Studied combat magic instead of pure theory. Learned barrier techniques designed for siege warfare. Developed purification methods for large-scale corruption." Finally, she turned back to him. "Twenty years later, war came. The Third Demon Incursion. I was one of the few prepared for it."
Max knew this story. Every student of magical history did. Elara had been instrumental in defending the eastern territories during the incursion, holding positions that should have fallen, saving cities that should have burned.
"By the time the war arrived," Elara said quietly, "I was ready. But I was also alone. Most of my peers had ignored the warnings. Hadn't prepared. When the fighting started, they died quickly."
She met Max's eyes directly.
"You move like someone preparing for war, Maximilion. You train with the intensity of someone who expects to need it soon. And you look at corrupted mana like you've seen what it can do."
Max's heart hammered. He couldn't tell her. Even if she'd believe him—which she wouldn't—changing too much too fast could make things worse. The butterfly effect worked both ways.
But maybe... maybe he could plant seeds.
"What if you were right again?" Max asked quietly. "What if the increased corruption isn't random? What if someone is watching the patterns and seeing war coming, even if nobody else does?"
Elara's expression didn't change, but something shifted in her eyes. Recognition, perhaps. Or concern.
"Then that someone should be very careful," she said. "Paranoia can save your life. It can also isolate you. Make people think you're unstable. Dangerous."
"Is that what happened to you?"
A slight smile. "I am a Wonder, Keath. I earned the right to be called paranoid." The smile faded. "You are sixteen. If you try to convince people war is coming, they will dismiss you as a child with an overactive imagination."
"Then what should I do?"
"Prepare yourself. Train as hard as you clearly are. Learn everything you can." She pulled open a drawer, removed a small crystal—clear quartz shot through with silver. "Come to my office hours. Twice a week, minimum. I will teach you advanced detection techniques. Purification methods that aren't in the standard curriculum. Combat applications for mana control."
She held out the crystal. Max took it, feeling the hum of captured mana within.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because you remind me of myself at your age." Elara's expression was serious. "And because if you're right to be this worried, we will need every prepared fighter we can get."
Max closed his hand around the crystal. "Thank you, Magister."
"Don't thank me yet." She turned back to her desk, already pulling out papers, preparing for her next class. "If you're wrong, you'll have wasted years preparing for nothing. If you're right..."
She didn't finish the sentence.
She didn't need to.
Max left the classroom, the crystal warm in his pocket, his mind racing.
Elara suspected. She didn't know, but she suspected enough to help him prepare. That was more than he'd expected, better than he'd hoped.
One potential ally. One person who might listen when the time came.
It was a start.
---
Max had a free period until his next class—Monster Biology at one o'clock. He should have gone to the library, studied, reviewed notes. Instead, he found himself walking toward the central campus common areas, the spaces where students from all three years mixed.
He needed to see something. Needed to confirm a memory that had been nagging at him since Elara's class.
The common areas were busy at mid-morning. Students clustered in lounges, studied at tables, practiced spells in designated zones. Max scanned the crowd, looking for—
There.
Near the western windows, a group of Year 3 students held court. Six of them, all wearing the distinctive crimson trim that marked seniors. They lounged with the casual confidence of people who'd survived three years and were already thinking about their post-graduation lives.
And among them, tall and dark-haired with a face that could have been carved from stone, sat Kieran Ashfall.
Max stopped walking.
He knew that face. Had seen it covered in blood, twisted in pain, frozen in death. Kieran Ashfall, the Wolf of the Southern Gate. The man who'd held a chokepoint against three demon waves for eighteen hours before finally falling.
Max had been part of the relief force that found him. Too late. Always too late.
Kieran was currently laughing at something one of his companions had said, relaxed and alive and completely unaware that he had two years left to live.
"You're doing it again."
Max flinched. Yuna had appeared at his shoulder, silent as always, her golden eyes tracking his line of sight.
"Doing what?"
"Staring at people like you're seeing ghosts." She studied him, then Kieran. "You know him?"
"No."
"You're a terrible liar." Yuna's tail swished once. "That's Kieran Ashfall. Year 3 Alpha. Top of his class. Interning with the Crimson Empress's personal guard next month. And you're looking at him like your world just ended."
Max forced himself to turn away. "I just... I've heard of him. His reputation."
"Everyone's heard of him. That doesn't explain why you look like someone killed your dog."
Max started walking. Yuna fell into step beside him, uninvited.
"I'm curious about you, Max Keath," she said conversationally. "Your technique is too good. Your reactions are too fast. You know things you shouldn't know and see things nobody else does. And now you're staring at a senior you've supposedly never met like he's already dead."
"Your imagination is running wild."
"My talent is Insight. I don't imagine. I observe. I analyze. I see what's really there." She stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop. "And what I see is someone carrying knowledge they shouldn't have. Experience they shouldn't possess. Grief for people who are still alive."
Max's blood ran cold. Her Insight was better than he'd thought. Far better.
"You're wrong," he said evenly.
"Am I?" Yuna tilted her head. "Then explain why you move like a veteran. Why you knew exactly how to coordinate that Treant kill with people you'd never met. Why you ask questions about corrupted mana like you've fought demons before."
"Training. Study. Preparation."
"Bullshit." The word was flat, certain. "I've seen trained fighters. You don't move like someone who trained. You move like someone who survived."
They stared at each other. Around them, other students passed by, oblivious to the confrontation.
Max could deny it. Should deny it. But Yuna's Insight was too sharp, her observations too accurate. She wouldn't stop digging.
So he gave her a partial truth.
"What if I told you I think war is coming?" Max said quietly. "Real war. The kind that will kill most of the people in this academy."
Yuna's ears flattened slightly. "Based on what?"
"Border activity. Corruption spreading. Demon incidents increasing. All the signs are there if you know how to read them."
"The guild is monitoring it."
"The guild is reactive, not proactive. By the time they realize it's a coordinated threat, it'll be too late." Max held her gaze. "So yes, I train like a veteran because I want to survive what's coming. I study corrupted mana because I'll need to fight it. And I look at people like Kieran Ashfall and wonder if they'll make it."
It wasn't the whole truth. But it was enough truth to be believable.
Yuna studied him for a long moment. Then her expression shifted—not softening exactly, but something changing.
"You're serious."
"Yes."
"Most people would call that paranoia."
"Most people aren't paying attention."
"And you are?" She crossed her arms. "What makes you so sure?"
"Pattern recognition. Historical precedent. The fact that every major demon incursion in recorded history started exactly like this—increased border activity, rising corruption, incidents dismissed as isolated until they weren't." Max shrugged. "Call me paranoid. I'll call it prepared."
Yuna's tail swished thoughtfully. "If you're right..."
"Then we need to be ready. All of us."
"And if you're wrong?"
"Then I've wasted time getting stronger. I can live with that."
She considered this. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled—sharp and vulpine.
"I think I like you, Max Keath. You're either brilliant or insane, and I haven't decided which yet." She stepped aside. "But I'm going to keep watching. If you really are preparing for war, I want to know why. And how."
She walked away, leaving Max standing in the corridor.
He'd just made either a potential ally or a dangerous complication. Possibly both.
Max checked the time. Forty minutes until Monster Biology. He should—
"MAX!"
He turned. Beck was jogging toward him, grinning, seemingly immune to the concept of walking at a normal pace.
"There you are! I've been looking everywhere. Want to grab an early lunch? I heard the Alpha hall is serving actual roasted chicken today. Real meat!"
Max looked at his friend. At the prophesied hero who would let the world burn. Who was currently excited about chicken.
And Max felt something crack inside him.
"Beck, can I ask you something?"
"Sure, what's up?"
"Why are you here?"
Beck blinked. "What do you mean?"
"At the academy. Why did you come to Fey?" Max stepped closer. "You have Blessing. You could do literally anything. Learn anything. You're naturally better than everyone at everything. So why bother with three years of formal training?"
Beck's smile faded slightly. "I... because that's what you do? Go to the academy, get certified, join the guild or military or whatever?"
"That's what normal people do. You're not normal. You're the prophesied hero."
"Okay, that's weird." Beck laughed uncomfortably. "Where is this coming from?"
"I'm trying to understand you."
"Understand what? I'm just a guy, Max. Yeah, I got lucky with my talent, but that doesn't mean I want to be some lone wolf adventurer. I like being around people. Having friends. Doing normal stuff." He shrugged. "The academy seemed fun."
"Fun," Max repeated.
"Yeah, fun. Is that so weird?"
'Yes.' Because in six years, everyone here will be dead or broken, and you'll be sleeping under a tree somewhere because you thought it would be "fun" to skip the final battle.
But Max couldn't say that. So he said nothing.
Beck's expression shifted to concern. "You okay, man? You've been weird since we got here. More intense than usual."
"I'm fine."
"You don't seem fine. You seem..." Beck searched for words. "Like you're carrying something heavy. If something's wrong, you can talk to me about it."
Max almost laughed. The irony was suffocating.
"I'm just taking training seriously," he said finally. "This place is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I don't want to waste it."
"See, that's what I mean. It's not a waste if you're having fun too." Beck clapped his shoulder. "Come on. Let's get lunch. You can tell me more about why Elara kept you after class."
They walked to the dining hall together, Beck chattering about something he'd seen in the library, Max only half-listening.
His mind was already on the afternoon. Monster Biology with Professor Harken Cross. A class he'd never taken in Timeline 1.
And in that class, somewhere among the thirty or so students, would be a boy named Stark Reis.
Max's hands clenched.
'Stark Reis.'
The spy. The traitor. The only person who'd ever fought Beck to a standstill.
In Timeline 1, nobody had suspected him. He'd been a model student—skilled but not exceptional, friendly but not memorable. He'd graduated with honors, joined the military, and three years later revealed himself as a demon general.
The Silencer, they'd called him. His talent had allowed him to nullify other talents within a certain radius. In a world where power was defined by unique abilities, Stark had been able to reduce everyone to baseline human.
Including Beck.
Max had never seen their fight personally, but he'd heard the stories. Beck and Stark, battling for six hours across a ruined city. Beck trying to use Blessing, finding it suppressed. Stark matching him blow for blow with pure technique and desperate fury.
Beck had won. Barely. But it was the only time anyone had seen him truly struggle.
And Max still didn't know what Stark's original talent had been. What it had evolved into under demonic corruption. Only that it had been strong enough to challenge a Wonder-level fighter.
Max hadn't known Stark was a spy until it was too late. None of them had.
But now, he had advance warning. Three years to watch him. To figure out what he was, what he wanted, maybe even what his talent was.
The question was: what would Max do with that knowledge?
Kill Stark now? Expose him? Try to turn him?
'Later,' Max decided. 'First, I need to see him. Confirm it's really him. Then I'll figure out what to do.'
They reached the dining hall. The scent of roasted chicken was real and glorious. Beck grabbed a tray with enthusiasm.
Max ate mechanically, his mind already on the afternoon.
On a spy who didn't know he'd been identified.
On a Wonder who'd agreed to train him.
On a war six years away that nobody believed was coming.
And on six hundred days until everything started falling apart.
Max had a lot of work to do.