The full moon's pale light slipped through the heavy curtains of Ronin's new chamber—a royal, opulent room filled with his preserved childhood artifacts, now serving as his personal den.
He fell face-first onto the absurdly fluffy, bouncy mattress. "I overdid it..." he muttered into the fabric, letting out a low, satisfied burp. "...but Mom's cooking is a divine trap. No self-control."
He stretched out like a starfish, and his eyes caught the multifaceted rainbow glow of the gem in his ring, its light dancing across the ceiling.
His smile faded. He sat up, tracing the delicate links of the bracelet and the cool metal of the ring. "I wonder... is my Dead-man alright?"
He walked to the window, his reflection ghostly in the glass against the silvery moon. "I made a promise. And I keep my promises. Your peaceful retirement is officially cancelled."
His signature, confident grin returned. He dove back onto the bed, yanked the luxurious blanket around himself with a practiced tug, and fell into a deep, bear-like hibernation.
***
Morning.
Ronin was sprawled diagonally across the bed, one arm and leg dangling off the side. Low, rumbling snores echoed in the chamber.
BANG BANG BANG.
"Ronin! Ronin, wake up! We have to leave! Now!" Miraya's voice was a cheerful alarm clock from the other side of the door.
Ronin jolted awake, eyes widened with horror. "Fuck! Shit! The academy! Crap, crap, crap..."
He cleared his throat, adopting a weak, pathetic croak. "Mooooom... I'm sick. Terrible cold. Can't move."
Miraya's voice dripped with playful sympathy. "Oh, you're sick? What a shame. I heard the academy's Class S-1 has the highest concentration of brilliant and beautiful young sorcereresses in the kingdom. I suppose they'll have to start the semester without the great Ronin Hirata..."
WHOOSH.
Ronin appeared in the doorway in a swirl of sky-blue particles, his hair wild, his eyes suddenly sharp. "Swear you're not lying."
Miraya low giggled, smoothing down his bedhead. "Would I lie about something so important? I swear on my favorite spatula."
Ronin ran a hand through his hair, instantly attempting to style it. "Pretty ladies, you say? Well. Duty calls. Your prince must make his entrance."
After a whirlwind bath and a chaotic breakfast where he argued with Usama about the nutritional tyranny of eggs, he was dressed in his finest blue attire and deemed "ready."
The carriage rolled smoothly along the polished stone paths of the Arcane Kingdom's capital. Ronin watched the bustling streets with more interest than trepidation—markets, street performers, glittering shops.
Then, the carriage stopped with a gentle lurch.
Usama glanced back. "We're here."
Ronin stepped out. The sight that greeted him stole the breath from his lungs.
Golden spires pierced the low-hanging clouds. Pristine white walls, so bright they seemed to glow, stretched into the distance. Vast, dew-damp training grounds exuded the rich, clean scent of earth after rain. And before it all stood towering, shimmering steel gates that looked less like a school entrance and more the portal to a royal castle.
Ronin swallowed hard. A single, clear thought echoed in his mind: 'I am such an idiot. I traded my freedom for the mere ideas of pretty girls. I deserve every second of this.'
Usama tapped his shoulder. "You'll catch flies. Come on."
Miraya took his hand, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "Nervous?"
Ronin mustered a small smile. "With you here? Never. Let's get this over with."
Inside, the opulence continued—polished marble floors, vaulted ceilings, murals of legendary sorceresses.
A young man in academic robes approached and bowed. "May I assist you, Lord Hirata?"
"Please," Usama said, his tone respectful. "We need to see Principal Kuro."
The young man nodded. "Of course. Right this way."
They were led to a heavy oak door. The young man gestured, then melted away.
Inside, a man with greying hair sat behind a massive desk, shouting into a communication crystal. "—No, you imbecile! That's not what the tertiary arcane channel is for! Fix it before you blow up the alchemy wing! Out!" He slammed the crystal down and finally noticed his guests.
He startled, leaping to his feet. "Lord Usama! A surprise visit! You could have called!"
Usama took a chair and leaned forward. "I thought I'd deliver the paperwork in person. It's important."
Principal Kuro sipped his tea, regaining his composure. "Important work? Lord Yamato was just here for his daughter's admission. Seems to be the season for it."
Usama raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. I'm here for my son's admission."
Kuro almost choked on his tea. "Your son? He's... here?"
Usama gestured to where Ronin stood, examining a bookshelf with a look of profound boredom.
Kuro blinked. "This is your heir?"
"Is that a problem?" Usama's voice was calm, but held an edge.
"No, no! Of course not." Kuro cleared his throat, his gaze turning analytical as he sized Ronin up. "Before we proceed, protocol requires a brief aptitude evaluation. A formality, really."
"Proceed," Usama said.
Kuro steepled his fingers. "First question: What is a sorcerer?"
Ronin didn't even look away from the bookshelf. "An Arcane Energy practitioner who uses focused will—Mental Energy—to sharpen into primordial force reproducible, controlled phenomena called 'spells'. The definition hinges on conscious manipulation, not just innate power. A spell's magnitude can be increased by sacrificing the caster's biological fuel. Anything that fuels their body—blood, stamina, vitality, aura, etc."
Kuro's eyebrows inched upward. "Impressive. Second: How many major types of Arcane practitioners exist?"
Ronin finally turned, rolling his eyes. "Child's play. The seven core disciplines: Diviner, Alchemist, Necromancer, Shaman, Enchanter, Mage-Magis (often grouped due to mathematical formalism), and the pure Arcane Sorcerer. Each major branch has dozens of sub-specializations, of course. A 'Pyromancer' is still a Sorcerer, just a focused one."
A fascinating smile spread across Kuro's face. "That's... remarkably precise? Where did you acquire such foundational theory?"
Ronin's jaw tightened for a fraction of a second. "My master believed knowledge was the first weapon. He taught accordingly."
Kuro stood and walked to the window, his. back to them. "Final question. A scenario: A building is aflame. You have no arcane energy left. Inside are civilians. You have two choices: wait for reinforcements, or enter the blaze with only your wits and your two hands. What do you do?"
Ronin didn't hesitate. His mind trained by a decade of brutal practicality, instantly processed the variables.
He said, his voice final. "Waiting is the choice of someone who values their own safety over unknown lives. A calculated risk with my own body is preferable to a guaranteed loss of others'. I'd go in. If I burn, I burn saving someone. That's not a loss; it's a trade."
Kuro let out a low, appreciative chuckle. He turned, his eyes meeting Usama's. "Your son, Lord Hirata, is not what I expected. He's sharper."
He pulled a blank piece of parchment from his desk. With a sharp snap of his fingers, crisp black text flowed across it, forming an official admission form.
He took a pen and signed with a dramatic flourish. "Admission granted. Ronin Hirata is hereby enrolled in Class S-1. Effective immediately."
Ronin sighed with theatrical relief. "Finally! Can we go home now?"
Kuro's smile turned razor-thin."'Immediately' means now, young Hirata. Your class started ten minutes ago. A runner will show you the way."
Ronin's face fell into pure, unadulterated dismay. "What? No! Can't I start tomorrow? Please? I need to... mentally prepare!"
"Denied," Kuro said, his tone leaving no room for appeal.
Miraya cupped Ronin's face in her hands, her touch warm and steadying. "You'll be magnificent, my little star. I'll have all your favorites waiting when you return."
Ronin leaned into her touch, his cheeks flushing. "Just this once. But next time, the bribe needs to be substantially better."
Miraya giggled, kissing his forehead. "You drive a hard bargain. Be good and don't blow up class on your first day."
With final, encouraging nods from his parents, they left. The door clicked shut, leaving Ronin alone with the stern principal.
Ronin glanced down at his bracelet. He clenched his fist, feeling the familiar weight of the relic. He cracked his neck, and when he looked up, all reluctance was gone, replaced by a glint of charismatic challenge.
"Alright then," he murmured to himself, a predatory smile playing on his lips. "Class S-1. Time to make an impression."
***
And so it began.
He passed the test not with tricks, but with the hard-won intelligence his master had beaten into him.
He had the headmaster's approval.
But the true test was just beginning.
Could the great Ronin Hirata conquer the social battlefield of the academy?
Or was his legendary first day destined to become a legendary disaster?