Gio slowly closed the diary. He let out a quiet sigh, the sound unfamiliar coming from Wyatt's throat. The overwhelming tide of the wyatts tragedy—the dead family, the impossible debt, the fragile ambition—was a bit edgy. He felt a moment of genuine, bitter regret over his necessary, destructive act. He had killed a kid. An edgy 17 year old orphan.
He pushed the thick, coil-bound notebook away, forcing his mind back to the immediate problem he almost forgot about. The crates. Leaving the two bulky, heavy wooden boxes in the dorm was an issue, mainly because he didn't know who's or what they had in them. The Academy was clearly a place of rules and regulations, and stealing supplies was a quick ticket to an interrogation gio wanted no part in. He stood, pushing past the exhaustion, and bent to retrieve the first crate, then the second. The action anchored his mind firmly back to the present.
He left Room 412 and descended the flights of stairs, and across the field He replaced the two crates, ensuring they were positioned exactly as he had found them. The physical labor of the return journey cleared his head, leaving space for the new idea of R.I.S.
The R.I.S. is not a scholarship; it is a debt-for-education contract that defines a student's entire future. Succeed in school and get a high paying poison your R.I.S can be paid off in a couple years. Drop out early and you're a servant for life, work where the crown tells you, live where the crown wants you, and pay off your R.I.S. by the time you die or your kids carry it on.
If you have time you can earn money and pay it towards your contact but most don't have time once their task is assigned and even if they did they don't have the skills to earn enough money to make a difference. honestly not the worst system they could have seems like there's no taxes for one once you pay the crown your dues your free as a bird. A bird that can shoot for balls too.
I will not be a servant. I'll make money and pay it off by the time I graduate. As long as I don't get kicked out after this next test at least.
Gio trudged back across the small, no longer dew-covered field back toward the dorm, the returned crates now no longer his problem. His initial, frantic energy was gone, replaced by the profound exhaustion of Wyatt's fragile body and the cognitive drain of the soul transfer. He didn't just feel tired; he felt wrong, a physical sensation of being stretched thin.
He reached Room 412, sealed the door, and slumped against it, letting the silence wrap around him. The metallic, smoky scent of the ritual clung to his clothes and skin. He needed to wash away the evidence, both physical and psychological.
His eyes swept the cramped room. Beyond the messy desk and the narrow bed, a door led to a small, utilitarian washroom. It was as sparse as the rest of the dorm: a sink, a toilet, and a narrow shower stall—all cold granite and worn chrome. At least he didn't have a room mate.
He stripped the academy tunic and the clothes underneath. Standing under the weak, lukewarm spray, Gio conducted a ruthless, inventory of his new vessel.
The seventeen-year-old body was thin, almost sickly. The muscles were stringy and lacked the dense, coiled power he'd spent two decades building.
He noted a deep, purple bruise on the back of his neck where the grizzly sow had crushed his vertebrae—a phantom injury now overlaid with the magical aches of the transfer.
But what truly held his gaze were the scars. Faint, crisscrossing lines covered his forearms and palms—old, clean cuts that didn't look like accidental childhood injuries. They looked deliberate.
No time to dissect the psychological baggage, he thought, scrubbing the grime from his new skin. The skin itself was pale and soft. "I will fix this," he muttered, the vow cold and absolute. The weakness of this body was a liability that Gio would not tolerate. But God it feels gross to be naked in someone else's body.
After the shower, feeling marginally cleaner but no less exhausted, he pulled on a clean, threadbare academy shirt.
Gio knew exactly where to begin his studies. Not with the complicated, esoteric formulas Wyatt had fixated on, but with the lay of the land. A strategy always began with terrain and enemy forces. In this new world, the enemies weren't just the R.I.S.; they were the competing systems outside the academy walls.
He pulled a massive, rolled-up parchment from the disastrous pile on the desk. It was a current map of the known world, clearly marked and labeled in the dense, technical script of the academy. Shockingly, he memorized the information nearly instantly. Most likely from a combination of Wyatt's previous study and his new brain that Wyatt was so proud of.
The world wasn't a globe of continents and nations; it was a patchwork of conflict.
The Fracture and the Empires
The map centered on the Cinderlands, the vast, unstable territory where the Fracture—the historical collapse of the millennia-old central empire—had occurred. From the wreckage, large metropolitan areas had risen, carving out territories that were less like nations and more like aggressive, competing city-states. From what he could see there were 87 territories
Each empire was surprisingly small—roughly the size of a modern U.S. state. This restricted size meant resources were perpetually scarce, and borders were fiercely contested. Every single empire was in direct, active competition with its neighbors minus the flimsy alliances they held. The fight was not over ideology, but territory, resources, and power projection. Empires were constantly pushing outward, establishing fortified towns and exploiting newly claimed mineral and magical resources. The spaces between the empires were not empty. They were known as the "Veiled Territories," thick with unstable ambient magic and creatures. Taming these wild areas—making them safe for civilian use—was the main task of the upper-tier students and Guild specialists. The creatures of this world were threats, and resources. Eradicating them, or caging them for arcane use, was a highly valued, high-risk profession.
Gio ran a finger across the map, tracing the border of the domain Arcturus Academy stood in. This wasn't a cold war; it was a perpetual, low-intensity conflict zone where the currency was specialized talent and the military strategy was magic. The world was organized for constant war and competition.
The knowledge from Wyatt's journal—that his academic knowledge was weak, but his logistical and resource training was strong—clicked into place. Arcturus Academy wasn't training philosophers; it was training high-value specialists for a hostile, fractured world where military success meant economic survival for the whole region. The Royal Indenture System wasn't just a loan; it was a military draft targeting those with magical affinity. Fail the exam, and you're not just a servant; you're a low-tier grunt assigned to the most dangerous, unforgiving tasks in the Veiled Territories.
Gio closed the map, his mind fully engaged. He had a battlefield, clear enemy objectives, and a personal stake in the outcome. The chaos of his rebirth was finally resolving into a solid mission structure.
Now, he needed to understand the weapon.