He was back in the black, rotting forest, where the roots whispered curses and the air was filled with death.
Kallen held the stump of his left arm, from which thick black blood flowed, but he felt no pain—it had left, along with his fear. All that remained was rage. Before him, amidst the rotten trees, stood a wave of goblins, clutching spears and axes. Some of them had human skulls strapped to their backs, while others carried tattered flags, as if mocking the very concept of honor.
"You creatures again," Kalen croaked, getting up.
He stepped forward. The shadow within him stirred, and Ward appeared, emerging from nothingness like a knight forged from the night. His scarlet eyes flashed, the patterns on his black armor glowed, and he assumed command without a word.
— Left flank first. Break through.
The goblins shouted and charged. One of them thrust a spear into Kallen's stomach, but he didn't flinch. He grabbed the spear, used his knee to crush the goblin's skull, and kicked it away.
"I don't care about the pain," he said through gritted teeth. "I deserve it."
Nearby, Ward cut through the air, leaving bloody arcs in his wake. Kalen gripped his sword in his right hand, losing his balance but continuing to fight. He fell, got up, lost consciousness, and regained it in a moan, in the mud, surrounded by dozens of corpses.
He died here every night.
Every night it rose higher.
Day
The sun was shining through the dormitory windows. Kalen sat on the edge of his bed, wiping his forehead. His shirt was stuck to his body, and the sheets were wet with sweat. His heart was pounding as if he had just run a marathon.
The room was quiet. Reina had already left, and the neatly made bed and the smell of coffee spoke for themselves.
"Another night in hell," Kalen whispered, and stood up.
He dressed himself, pulling on the Academy uniform: black vest, white shirt, the faculty emblem on the shoulder. He put himself in order and went out into the corridor. The sound of his heels echoed hollowly in the stone walls.
Today is the beginning of a new week. Full classes, seven subjects in a row. And he has to act like everything is normal. Like his insides haven't been burned a thousand times in his dreams.
He entered the "Fiction and Imaginary Manipulation" class. A young woman with black feathers in her hair and green eyes looked at him.
"Lionheart, are you all right?" You look like you've been cursed.
"I'm fine, ma'am," Kallen muttered as he took his seat. "Just a little sleepy."
She gave him a look, but didn't ask any more questions. The lesson began. He listened, but Vard's whisper still echoed in his head. A familiar ache throbbed in his chest.
Sleep wouldn't come.
If he did come, it was in the form of a shadow with fangs, screams, the smell of rot, and a sticky fear that clung to his skin.
When the bell rang for the start of the school day, Kalen was already sitting on his bed, not blinking. There were shadows under his eyes, just like in the shower. His heart beat lazily, as if to say, "You're alive, but it's only temporary."
He got up, washed his face in icy water, and got dressed, all mechanically. His body was working. His mind wasn't.
— Nine lessons. Thirty minutes each. With a ten-minute break after the fourth lesson. Great, блядь.
First lesson: Theory of First-Level Magic. Teacher: Archmage Lokhray.
"The flow of magic is not water. It does not flow on its own," the old man said, clicking his fingers. "It must be guided, held, and felt as an extension of oneself."
Kalen sat in the last row, his head almost touching the wall. His eyes were staring through the teacher. His head was buzzing. He was taking notes, but the words seemed to be dissolving.
— Flow, flow... All I can feel is my brain dripping down my neck...
Second lesson: The history of great conflicts.
"So, the Battle of Ugrebaard lasted forty-three days," boomed the gray-whiskered teacher. "The bloodiest of all... who will tell me why?"
"Because it sounds like a name from my nightmare," Kalen thought, and yawned.
Third lesson: Practice fiction.
"You are the creators of reality. One step and you create a lie that becomes a truth."
The students concentrated, pulling out the phantom threads of the illusion. Someone summoned a glowing cube. Someone else summoned a flying cat.
Kallen summoned a translucent shadow in the shape of a knife. The teacher muttered something about instability, but passed by.
"I'll definitely need a knife. I wish it were real..."
The fourth lesson: Epheota.
The theory of complex elemental interactions. Tables. Formulas. Equations. It was all on the blackboard.
Kalen looked at the circle of elements, where Shadow was still considered non-classical.
"Well, thank you for recognizing my magic as an ugly приемыш," he thought, "at least not like in the village: 'Darkness? Kill the witcher!'"
Fifth lesson: Algebra of spatial runes.
Kallen was good with numbers, shapes, and angles. But today everything was blurry. His pen scratched against the paper. He made two mistakes in a symbol, and the teacher looked at him sternly over his glasses.
"Fuck, I've been sleeping for two hours and eating once a day. And you're looking at me like I've shat your name in a pentagram..."
Sixth lesson: Combat theory.
At the blackboard is a former adventurer. Scars, a rough voice, and a look as if he just returned from the war.
"Who can tell me how to defeat an air mage in combat with only a dagger?"
"To die," Kalen muttered, too loudly.
The teacher laughed.
- Well, at least honestly.
Lesson 7: Meditation and Mana Control.
Silence. Everyone was sitting in a lotus position. Kalen was sitting too. His mind was floating between reality and pain. His own mana felt... alive. It moved along his spine, responding to his thoughts.
He wasn't meditating; he was surviving.
Lesson Eight: Herbs and Poison.
The smell of dried alder root stung his nose. Kalen sneezed, almost dropping the mortar.
"Be careful," said the girl next to him, "it's a slow-acting poison. It's unpleasant."
— To be honest, I don't really care.
Lesson Nine: Behavior in aristocratic circles.
"Keep your posture straight. Do not smile wider than two fingers. Do not look into the eyes of a third-rank lord for more than three seconds…"
Kallen wasn't listening. He was imagining himself hitting the lord with that "third finger."
When the last bell rang, Kalen was standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall.
The world was spinning. He slowly looked up at the ceiling.
"Nine laps, damn it," he whispered.