Kinworth Academy held a grand ceremony to welcome the new students.The moment they stepped off the carriage, they were shepherded into a vast hall where hundreds of teachers were already waiting.
Clusters of firelight drifted through the air. Long tables glittered with ranks of shining goblets. Above, a velvet-black ceiling sparkled with pinpricks of starlight.
Rod had never seen a hall so magical, so opulent.
The welcome itself was magnificent, but the orientation was brief.A dean named Vira raised a glass; teachers and students drank a strange, warming liquor together—and that was that.
Yet the warmth of the faculty made it clear the Academy took them seriously.Teachers bustled about helping the newcomers with every sort of paperwork and settlement, doing everything to fold them swiftly into Academy life.
The efficiency was astonishing.Before long, Rod had collected a whole basket of issued supplies and found his assigned dormitory.
To his surprise, it was a single.
The room—about forty square meters—held a desk, shelves, a wardrobe, a proper bed, and every ordinary necessity of life. There was even a private washroom and a balcony.
For a student, this wasn't merely comfortable; it was the stuff of dreams.
Rod tried the fixtures and discovered running water—hot and cold.The drainage was advanced as well: floor traps, water seals—someone here understood engineering.
This was no ignorant nation. Even pressed beneath a brutal sky, these people had built knowledge and civilization.
He closed the door and stood in the neat, well-appointed room, and for a moment… it felt like home.On nights of terror, in a strange land, a locked, quiet space—away from threats and storms—offering comfort and calm.What else is a home?
Rod wanted to empty his hands and his mind, dump everything on the floor, and sleep without a care.But he couldn't.
He still knew far too little about this world and its many oddities.Danger hadn't truly receded; investigations would continue.The Office of Inquisition would soon interrogate him, and he did not know more of the truth than before.He had to unravel the secret of his dreams and find the threads that tied everything together.
Stay alive, Rod told himself. I have to stay alive.
…
That was easier said than done.
This place wasn't as forgiving as the world he came from. He knew no one here, and trouble clung to him.Over two hundred people from Redstone's migration party had died in the wastes; as a suspect, his current treatment was owed entirely to… his silver tongue.
It proved one thing: in conditions like these, clinging to a powerful thigh was a fine strategy.
"Looks like I need to hold on to a few big sisters' thighs," he mused. "I didn't practice my specialities for nothing."
"Shame the New King is a man—and I don't know any Banana Divine Arts."
He sighed, feeling his dignity slip a notch.But to live, dignity could be set aside.If it came to warming the bed of that bratty girl Cassandra every night—he'd accept it.
The second strategy, besides clinging, was self-strengthening.
From what he'd gathered, humanity here stood alone, besieged by darkness. Combat power would always be in demand.If he could show real potential, the Inquisition might hesitate.If his worth equaled five armored divisions, perhaps even a princess in black silk would be obliged to pay him a visit.
The problem was… he probably hadn't passed the final Fire Trial at all—and had not truly ignited his soul.Something had gone wrong; some error had produced a misjudgment.The prime suspect was that strange dream.
And many of his questions could only be answered by returning to it.
"But how do I go back?" Rod frowned. "Book another… comprehensive treatment with a church sister?"
Reasonable, perhaps, but impractical.If he returned to Yusa's clinic, Madam Yusa would surely "personally" attend to him.His tastes weren't that heavy, and his small frame might not survive.Requesting the same nun specifically was out of the question.
The only option was another church infirmary.But strangers wouldn't let him freeload. They'd charge.By Madam Yusa's account, their infirmary was a high-end establishment—meaning high-end prices.
Rod dug a hand into one pocket and drew out his weekly pay: seven small silver coins—some no bigger than a thumbnail.The minting was exquisite: anti-wear edging, the face of Trolean, the kingdom's legendary founder, on one side; a blaze of sacred fire, rimmed with shield and sword, on the other.
These were the kingdom's currency: silver marks—twenty-two marks in all.
From his other pocket he produced a silver note—delicate, thin, with filigreed cutwork. Slightly soft to the touch—pure silver.The obverse bore a sun; the reverse, a crown of flames.Face value: twenty silver marks.
From the very shape of the currency, it was plain the kingdom had markets and trade—likely a population in the tens of millions. Otherwise, rationing would suffice and coin would be pointless.Yet their money was made of precious metal rather than pure credit—proof their monetary ideas weren't fully modern, and the market not truly free.Some goods were surely under control—unavailable for mere coin.
It fit the times.Under an existential threat, a regime would centralize resources for maximum efficiency.In fact, that any free market existed at all was remarkable.
Rod weighed his funds—forty-two silver marks in total.
Wayne had said a bucket of blue mushroom soup cost one mark; a cup of blue lamp-weed fruit liquor cost two; to eat one's fill for a day took five.Even with thrift, forty-two marks would feed him for maybe ten days.
At that rate, a high-end clinic would start at a thousand marks, at least.He'd need five months of savings for a single trip into the dream?
"No. Five months is too long. By then the weeds on my grave might be ten meters tall."
What to do?
He mulled it over as he sorted his issued belongings—mostly books, clothing, a balance scale, a try square, and other tools.Then he took a long, gloriously hot bath, scrubbing away dust and blood.He tossed his torn clothes and put on the Academy uniform.
When Rod stood before the full-length mirror again, he hardly recognized himself.A clean face, damp hair, pale eyes with a curious charm, and a new, well-cut robe of pale blue—a sunny, bookish boy stared back at him.
Hoo.
Rod exhaled, and the boy in the mirror did the same.So much had happened in a single day. He'd made it this far by sheer will and a stubborn hunger to live.
Black mist. Fire. Monsters. The gifted. That uncanny dream.The capital's strange customs.This miraculous academy.Classmates warm with noisy life.
Thinking back over it all felt like a dream.Yesterday's life already seemed far away.An unknown future unrolled before him.
"If this is a dream, may I dream well.If not, then may I find my worth in the waking world."
Rod smiled faintly and lay down.His spirit was spent; the instant his head touched the soft pillow, thought dissolved into sleep.