Two days before the Academy.
The house was quiet, like it always was this early. Morning light filtered in through half-closed curtains, painting faint lines across the floorboards. A kettle hissed softly in the kitchen. Somewhere in the garden, a windchime clinked lazily.
Marth stood in front of the bathroom mirror, drying his hair with a towel. His dimensional control had improved again overnight—he could feel it. His internal anchor had stabilized, and the precision of his short jumps was getting tighter. He hadn't even practiced. Just slept on it.
Progress like that always made him grin a little.
He stepped out of the bathroom and headed downstairs.
His grandmother was already in the kitchen, seated at the table with a mug of strong tea and a thick wool shawl draped over her shoulders. Her white hair was tied up in its usual knot, and her eyes—sharp despite the years—glanced up when he entered.
"You're up late," she said, sipping her tea.
"It's still morning," Marth replied, grabbing a slice of bread and tossing it onto a plate. "Just not your morning."
She snorted. "Hmph. If the Academy doesn't teach you better discipline, I will."
"Maybe they'll assign me to a class where I get yelled at professionally."
They shared a short moment of mutual silence. The kind that only came from familiarity. No drama. No tension. Just quiet, ordinary routine.
Marth sat down across from her and poked at his food while she returned to some old gardening almanac. The pages were brittle, probably older than he was. He wasn't really hungry, but going through the motions helped.
It was strange, really. Sitting here, like this, after everything. With all the weight of his past lives and knowledge pressing quietly against the edges of his thoughts—and yet this felt... normal. Familiar. Maybe even comforting.
It wouldn't last.
Tomorrow morning, he'd be heading to Aetherion Academy. The train left before noon. Not a teleportation spell, not a spatial fold—just a long-distance enchanted railcar, powered by mana channels woven into the track and frame. Fast enough to cross the continent in a day or two. Old-school tech, but reliable.
His destination?
Caelmoor. The academic capital of the Starfall Empire. Built right on top of one of the largest mana wells known to man, the whole city pulsed with ambient energy. It was the kind of place where the air itself felt charged—where spell matrices ran under the roads, and even the streetlamps ran on leyline currents.
It was also where Aetherion was built.
Aetherion wasn't just an academy—it was the academy. Mages, summoners, theorists, artificers—anyone who was anyone had passed through its halls. Nobles sent their kids to secure family prestige. Commoners fought for scholarships. Talents from across the continent showed up with bright eyes and burning ambition.
And Marth?
He'd earned his spot through official channels. Some record-breaking test scores, a bit of small-town hype, and a conveniently timed display of magical aptitude.
Unofficially, he was more prepared than most professors.
He'd been buried in books since he was six. Not because someone forced him to, but because hoarding knowledge was second nature. He'd devoured tomes on enchantment, anatomy, planar theory, and soulcraft long before the average student learned to shape a basic mana circuit.
His grandmother looked up from her reading.
"You packed already?"
"Mostly," he said. "Just need to toss in a few more things."
"Don't forget your winter cloak. Caelmoor's colder than here. Wind bites."
Marth raised an eyebrow. "Didn't know you'd been."
"I haven't," she replied, taking another sip. "But I read things. You should try it sometime."
He snorted. "Only every day of my life."
She gave him a look over her cup. "Smart mouth."
"I'll work on my humility."
"Try not to blow yourself up."
"No promises."
They went back to silence for a while—her flipping through pages, him chewing slowly, mind already running simulations and reorganizing his spellbook.
Later that day, he checked over his bags again. Rebound a few notes. Adjusted the inner lining of his coat to better conceal a few rune-inscribed tools. Standard prep.
It was strange how ordinary it all felt. Two lives behind him, and the third was just beginning to stretch its legs. No grand speeches. No trumpet blasts. Just breakfast, packing, and a train ticket to the future.
Tomorrow would be a new beginning.
But tonight?
Tonight, he was still home.