The morning came like a whisper. The golden sunlight filtered through the tall stained-glass windows of the Floyen manor, painting Loyaid's room in soft hues of crimson and gold. The warmth on his face felt like a distant memory, like something once cherished but now alien.
Loyaid sat at the edge of his bed, staring at his hands. They no longer glowed. Whatever had happened last night—it was gone. A dream? A memory? No. It had felt too real. He remembered the warmth of the mana, how it hummed under his skin like a dormant storm. His body had rejected it, or rather, restrained it. Like water behind a dam.
He reached for the pendant, still glowing faintly, its magic waning. It held more than memories. It held echoes.
Knock. Knock.
A timid knock on the heavy oak door snapped him back.
"Young Master Loyaid? Your father requests your presence in the main hall," a servant said from the other side.
Loyaid sighed, got dressed quietly, and tucked the pendant under his collar.
---
The Floyen main hall was grand, gilded with banners of ancient wars and portraits of past Archmages. The air carried the scent of magical incense, and the marble floor reflected the towering figure of Dion Floyen as he stood waiting.
Reliana and Airen stood beside him, both silent, their eyes on Loyaid as he approached.
"You're alive," Dion said, voice cold. "And yet, you claim demons attacked the countryside."
Loyaid stood still. "I don't claim it. I lived it."
Airen smirked. "Convenient. No one else survived."
Reliana folded her arms. "You couldn't even open your mana veins, and now you expect us to believe you escaped a Demon Commander?"
Dion raised a hand. "Enough."
He stepped down from the platform and walked toward his son.
"The Empire is listening. The Mage Council has requested an inquiry. There are whispers that the Demon King's forces are moving again. If what you say is true, we cannot ignore it."
Loyaid said nothing.
"You will testify," Dion said. "Before the High Council. And you will also join the Mage Academy."
Loyaid blinked. "What?"
"You have lived long enough in hiding," Dion continued. "If demons are truly targeting you, then we must understand why. Whether you like it or not, you're a Floyen. You'll be monitored. Trained. Watched."
Airen chuckled. "The trash attending the most prestigious academy in the empire. What a circus this will be."
Reliana didn't laugh. Her expression darkened. "If he disrupts our family's name again, I won't remain silent."
Dion turned away. "You leave at dawn tomorrow."
---
The following morning, a carriage waited at the gates of the estate. Loyaid stood in simple black robes, a traveling satchel over his shoulder. The pendant hung under his shirt, close to his heart. No one came to see him off.
Only the steward, an old man named Harnen, bowed deeply as Loyaid passed.
"Your mother left this for you," he said, handing over a small, wrapped parcel. Inside was a woven scarf—familiar in texture. Worn. It still carried her scent.
Loyaid clutched it gently.
---
The journey to the capital's Mage Academy took two days. As the city approached, the roads thickened with carriages, merchants, and pilgrims. The spires of the academy rose in the distance, more cathedral than school. Floating platforms moved between towers. Mana lights glimmered along the road like stars.
At the gates, rows of armored mages stood watch. As Loyaid stepped out of the carriage, all eyes turned.
"Is that him?"
"The Floyen failure?"
"No mana? Why is he here?"
Whispers followed him like shadows. He said nothing.
The Academy was a place of discipline. It trained warriors, healers, and scholars. Its students were nobles, chosen for their gifts. Loyaid was neither gifted nor wanted.
A short, plump woman with violet hair greeted him at the entrance.
"You must be Loyaid Floyen. I'm Master Hestia, Head of Dorm Four. You'll be placed with the First Year initiates."
Loyaid nodded.
She eyed him with mild curiosity. "You've drawn attention, boy. Be careful who you talk to."
---
Dorm Four was modest. A circular stone tower with ivy crawling up the walls. Inside, he was given a room—a plain chamber with a bed, desk, and wardrobe.
His roommate, a thin, quiet boy named Elric, barely looked up from his book.
"You're the one without mana, right?"
"Yes."
Elric nodded. "Don't worry. They'll either break you or ignore you."
---
The next day, classes began.
The first was *Mana Theory*. Master Velros, a stern man with silver eyes, stood before a blackboard covered in runes.
"All beings are born with mana," he said. "Those who are not are either cursed... or liars."
Loyaid stared ahead, saying nothing.
"Floyen," the instructor called.
"Yes, sir."
"What is your mana type?"
"I have none."
Chuckles. Snickers.
Velros narrowed his eyes. "Then you will fail here. Magecraft is not kindness or politics. It is power. Without mana, you are little more than a spectator."
---
And so the days passed.
Loyaid endured insults. His name was mocked. His food was sabotaged. In training, he was given broomsticks instead of staffs. No spells to cast. No duels to fight.
Yet, he watched. Observed.
And remembered.
Each rune drawn. Each chant spoken. He recalled it all from his past life. Though he couldn't cast, he could predict outcomes. Spot flaws in spells. Suggest improvements.
Some instructors noticed. Master Leona, of Spellcraft Strategy, pulled him aside one day.
"How did you see that shield spell's weakness? You've no mana."
"I just... guessed."
She stared, then smiled faintly. "You're no ordinary failure."
---
At night, he practiced alone. Not magic—but **control**. He'd begun meditating again, trying to reconnect with the echoes in his soul.
On the seventh night, he felt it again. A flicker. A whisper of mana pulsing through his veins. He tried to grasp it. It fled.
Then pain.
A sharp burn across his chest. He opened his robe—**a glowing symbol** was seared into his skin. Ancient. Forgotten.
Max Van's seal.
"You're not ready," a voice whispered inside his mind.
He collapsed.
---
Elsewhere, far to the east, inside a crimson cathedral of bone and fire, the Demon King stirred.
A demon knelt. Horned, plated in dark armor. "My King. The boy lives."
The Demon King smiled, his teeth black.
"Then let him grow. Let him remember. I want him to be whole before I break him."
He rose from his throne.
"Send the next commander. Let's see if his soul awakens."
---
Back in the academy, Loyaid stood at the edge of the training field.
Master Leona had assigned him to observe a duel between two elite students. The crowd gathered. One of them—a tall girl with golden hair and flame-touched eyes—noticed him.
She walked over.
"You're the trash Floyen, right?"
"Loyaid. Yes."
She smiled, not unkindly. "Name's Celia Dranheart. Top of the class. Want to place a bet on who wins?"
"You will. The other has a mana delay in his third stance."
She blinked. "What? How did you—"
He smiled faintly. "Guess."
Celia walked away, intrigued.
The match began. She won easily. After, she approached him again.
"You have no mana, but you see things no one else does. I like that."
He nodded. "I see what others forget to look for."
And in that moment, Loyaid realized something.
Maybe he wasn't here to fight.
Maybe he was here to remember.
And maybe—just maybe—he could change everything.
-----