You ever try pretending to be a perfectly normal magical noble student when you've been in a coma, are secretly a reincarnated truck victim from another universe, and your magic core is cracked like a dropped egg?
Yeah.
That was my Tuesday.
I woke up the morning after orientation in a bed that was too soft, in a room that was too big. Sunlight filtered through enchanted glass windows, gently warming the polished stone floor. Everything smelled faintly of lavender, parchment, and crushed ego.
The school uniform — black jacket with silver trim, white undershirt, tight charcoal pants, and a single sapphire pin shaped like a flame — hung on the wardrobe door like it was judging me.
It took me twenty minutes to dress. Not because of vanity. Because of buttons. Tiny cursed things. Every movement burned, like someone was braiding my nerves into macramé. But I managed.
Barely.
I stood in front of the mirror, hands in my pockets, trying not to look like I was about to throw up.
I looked like I was about to throw up.
The halls of Cyran Academy were already buzzing by the time I arrived. Students passed me in clusters — laughing, gossiping, wearing enchanted satchels and casting harmless light spells for fun. Everything screamed "magic prep school," but instead of teen drama, half of them had blades or grimoires strapped to their backs.
I kept my head down. Partly to avoid making eye contact.
Partly to not pass out from sheer oxygen loss.
Because let's be clear — I was still adjusting. My stamina was somewhere between "light jog" and "roll me into a wheelbarrow and push me home."
People stared.
Of course they did.
Noah Drakopoulos, the ghost son. The miracle coma boy. The embarrassment of House Drakopoulos who'd returned to school after a two-month disappearance looking somehow paler and skinnier than when he left.
If I were them, I'd stare too.
My first class was Magical Theory & Elemental Foundations. Which is fancy speak for "Here's how magic works so you don't explode yourself."
I shuffled into the lecture hall and slid into the back corner like the social turtle I am. The room was all high ceilings, floating chalkboards, and pew-style desks. Ancient arcane glyphs shimmered lazily along the walls.
The professor, an elf with a beard so long it touched his belt, walked in five minutes late and tossed a book onto the podium.
"Morning," he said in a voice like dust and cynicism. "Welcome to hell."
I liked him immediately.
He launched into a lecture on mana flow, elemental harmonics, and the risks of overchanneling. I caught maybe 10% of it.
Which, to be fair, is more than I expected. Thank you, half-remembered web novel lore and whatever Noah's original soul left behind like ghost cheat codes.
The gist was this: magic came from the core. Everyone had one — some brighter than others. Nobles typically had larger cores, commoners had smaller ones, and freaks of nature like Aeron had god-tier blazing suns in their chests.
Me?
I had a cracked lightbulb.
A weak, flickering, sputtering little thing that made every use of magic feel like someone wringing water from a stone with their bare hands.
Still, I took notes. I faked confidence. I made it through the class without fainting, vomiting, or being called on to demonstrate a fireball.
That, my friends, is what we call winning.
Break time was worse.
Students gathered in the courtyard under trees that shaded marble benches. Some practiced their spells, others laughed and chatted in tight circles. I stuck to the far edge, nursing a mug of something called "revitalizing chai" that tasted like moss and suffering.
A group of boys wearing the silver crest of House Velmour passed by me, their voices intentionally loud.
"Didn't he almost die over summer?"
"Thought he already did."
"I heard his core's fractured. Like, permanently."
I sipped my tea.
Let them talk. They weren't wrong.
Noah had nearly died.
What they didn't know was that death had already claimed him once — and failed. I wasn't going to give it another chance so easily.
Then she showed up.
"Mind if I sit here?"
I looked up. A girl stood there holding a tray of fruit and bread. She had skin like moonlight, curly white hair tied in twin braids, and violet eyes that scanned me like she was already writing a psychological profile.
"No," I said. "I mean, yes. I mean, sure. Sit."
She smirked and sat down, unbothered by the awkwardness. "You're Noah."
"Unfortunately."
"I'm Liora. Top of the class. Voted most likely to stab a teacher and get away with it."
"Impressive. I was voted most likely to collapse in the hallway and be mistaken for a corpse."
She grinned, and for a second, I forgot I was supposed to be a bitter side character spiraling toward doom.
We ate in silence for a bit before she spoke again.
"You've changed."
I blinked. "I… excuse me?"
"I remember you from first year. You didn't talk. You didn't look people in the eye. You flinched every time Aeron walked into a room."
Oh. Right. That.
Old Noah.
The one with the inferiority complex so big it had its own gravitational pull.
"I had a spiritual experience," I said. "Woke up different."
"Mmhm. I bet."
She gave me a look — one that said she didn't buy it, but wasn't going to push. Then she reached into her bag and tossed something onto the table.
A crystal ring. Small. Dull gray.
"For your mana output," she said. "It stabilizes fluctuations. Might keep you from combusting mid-practical."
I stared at it.
"Why?"
She shrugged. "I like underdogs."
Afternoon classes were brutal.
Elemental Application involved sparring dummies and offensive spells, which I was excused from (blessedly). History of the Grand War was 90 minutes of propaganda and noble posturing. Magical Conduct was basically "don't duel your classmates unless it's in an approved arena."
I barely made it through the final bell without collapsing.
But I did it.
One day survived.
One step forward.
One small act of defiance against the fate written in ink.
That night, I sat in my dorm room — same tower view, same soft bed — holding the mana ring Liora gave me.
I turned it over in my palm, feeling the faint hum of stabilization magic. It wasn't much. But it was something.
I still had a cracked core. I still had no allies, no prestige, no future written in gold. But I had one day.
And I'd make sure I had another.
And another.
End of Chapter 3