The stairs ended in a subway that predated language.
Columns of black basalt leaned like tired giants, their surfaces scarred by student numbers no one had ever passed. Amber globes hung from rusted chains, flickering Morse that translated to find a seat or become one.
Dylan stepped off the final stair and the air locked. Not thick—locked. As if someone had pressed pause on wind itself. His boots scuffed dust that hadn't moved in centuries.
Ahead, the tunnel widened into a cavern so wide the opposite wall was rumor. In the center yawned a pipe big enough to swallow a dragon—copper, seam-welded by extinct volcanoes, lip polished by generations of desperate palms. Above it, carved into the stone, the words Origin Pipe. The Resonance Well's mouth.
And around that pipe: desks.
Not metaphor. Desks.
Hundreds. Slate tops, ink wells, legs bolted into the rock. A perfect circle, row after row, descending like an amphitheatre toward the copper maw. Most seats already filled. Hoods, scarves, iron masks—applicants from every crevice of the city. All silent. All staring at the pipe as if it might cough up a syllabus.
A single empty desk remained—third row, left aisle, legs shorter than the others so it wobbled. A bronze plaque read #013.
Status text blinked.
[Prerequisite 1/3: Claim seat #013 before the pipe speaks.]
[Timer: — —]
No numbers. Just em-dashes. Great. A pop quiz with no clock.
Dylan started down the aisle. Every step echoed louder than physics allowed, announcing the new kid. Eyes lifted. Some glowed with mana, others with simple hunger. A girl in mercury-colored armor smirked. A boy no older than twelve cracked his knuckles—bone-white, too many joints. No one spoke. Conversation was expensive; silence was free.
He reached #013. The desk wobbled when he touched it, protesting in advance. He sat. The wood was warm. Someone else's pulse still lived inside it.
The pipe exhaled.
A single note—middle-C—rolled out of the copper throat, bounced off the cavern roof, and landed inside every skull. Desks vibrated. Ink trembled. Dylan felt the after-ring in his ear snap into perfect tune.
[Prerequisite 1/3 achieved: Seat claimed.]
[Pipe will speak once more. Do not interrupt.]
The note faded. Applicants leaned forward, pens poised, mana flaring in discreet colors. This was orientation. Also elimination.
A ripple moved through the circle—teachers arriving. They stepped from shadows that hadn't been there moments before. Seven figures, robes stitched from different centuries, faces hidden by masks of office: Clock, Scales, Mirror, Quill, Blade, Coin, Bell. Each carried a gradebook bound in student skin. They moved to the rim of the pipe, forming a second ring, backs to the applicants.
Ledger—his copper-shop creditor—was among them, ink-veins now glowing beneath the mask of Coin. She didn't acknowledge him; customer service ended at the door.
The pipe inhaled.
Air rushed across the amphitheatre, tugging hoods, rattling chains, stealing breath. Dylan's lungs fought for ownership. Pages of blank gradebooks flipped, hungry. Then the pipe spoke—not words, but equations. They spilled out like liquid sound, glowing glyphs that hung mid-air before diving into each desk.
His slate lit up. Ink pooled from nowhere, forming the first question:
1. Define Mana without using the word "energy."
Time limit: heartbeats left until you die.
Dylan's pulse stuttered. He had no pen. He had no chalk. The desk drank ink faster than he could think. Around him applicants scribbled with fingernails, stylus of bone, drops of their own blood. Answers flared, some accepted, some erased with the fingers that wrote them. A boy two rows ahead failed question three—his scream became the ink for question four.
Dylan forced air into his chest. Define mana without "energy." He pressed his palm to the slate. Arc-Siphon woke, tasting the equation in the air. Instead of writing, he siphoned—a hair-thin thread of lightning licked the glyph, unraveled it, re-wove it into his own answer:
Mana: the echo of want, measured by what reality refuses to give.
The desk accepted. The ink settled, glowing his color—cranberry bright. One down. Nine to go.
Each question came faster, crueler.
2. Calculate the interest on a stolen childhood.
3. Trace the lineage of a lie.
4. Balance the equation between recoil and regret.
He answered with voltage instead of verbs, lightning instead of logic. The fork on his back drank ambient mana, converted recoil into speed, let his fingernails move faster than thought. Ink didn't dry—it signed.
On question seven the desk beside him cracked. Applicant #012—a girl with quartz eyes—had written her true name as collateral. The slate collected payment; her body folded into the wood until only her pupil remained, blinking in the grain. The seat didn't wobble anymore.
Dylan's stomach lurched, but he kept writing. Survive first, mourn later.
Question ten arrived:
10. State your price for becoming the villain.
He hesitated. The amphitheatre had shrunk—rows of desks now empty, applicants erased, tuition paid in flesh and memory. Those still breathing waited, pens poised, for his answer.
He wrote three words:
Cheaper than justice.
The slate flared white-hot, then cooled. Across the circle, the seven teachers turned as one. Bell raised a hand; the pipe purred. A roll of parchment unfurled from the copper lip, drifting down like a graduation ribbon. It landed on Dylan's desk, sealed with a gear-shaped wafer.
[Prerequisite 2/3 achieved: Oral exam passed.]
[Prerequisite 3/3: Survive the bell ceremony.]
Bell reached into robe, withdrew a handbell no larger than a teacup, and rang it once.
Sound became a wall. Applicants were thrown from seats, desks splintering. Dylan tucked the parchment into shirt, gripped Lightning Fork, and rode the wave—recoil converting to speed, boots skimming stone as shockwave cracked the amphitheatre in half. Those still standing became projectiles; those seated became mortar.
Bell rang again.
The copper pipe split at the seam, revealing a spiral staircase descending into glowing dark—steps narrow, walls wet with condensed answers. The teachers walked forward, gradebooks open, collecting the wounded with polite efficiency.
Dylan didn't wait. He sprinted, fork sparking, and dived into the pipe's throat as the third bell rang behind him. Sound became silence—thick, absolute, the kind that forgives nothing.
Below, the Resonance Well waited, tuition due on arrival.
He descended, smile crooked, cranberry ink still warm on his hands.
Next lesson: pay the interest.