The quiet hush of the library deepened, the scent of old parchment lingering in the still air. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, scattering golden dust across rows of shelves. Somewhere beyond those endless aisles of knowledge, two figures in flowing robes moved softly, the faint whisper of their fabric brushing against the silence.
They wore the distinctive robes of the Orland Magic Academy—deep blue, trimmed in silver thread that shimmered faintly with enchantment. The heavy folds of the garments concealed the budding grace of youth, replacing girlish charm with an air of scholarly poise. The robes lent them an austere elegance—intellect cloaked in formality.
One had chestnut-brown hair tied neatly behind her shoulders, her expression serene but touched with quiet pride. She held several books close against her chest, as though the knowledge within them belonged as much to her as to the library itself.
Beside her walked a second girl, with long hair of a rich burgundy hue that caught the light in soft ripples. Her skin was fair and luminous, and her eyes—clear, lake-blue—seemed to hold an effortless mischief.
They moved together between the shelves, the soft click of their boots echoing faintly, until the girl with chestnut hair stopped abruptly.
She stood before a tall shelf, gaze fixed beyond it—toward a quiet corner where a young man sat, reading. His posture was calm, his focus unbroken. A faint line of concentration drew across his brow as his fingers turned the pages with rhythmic speed, too fast for an ordinary reader yet too deliberate for chaos.
Her companion followed her gaze and, after a beat, broke into a low laugh.
"Well, well," she whispered. "To think that the famous Bellis—the cold witch of the third-year class—would stop for a boy. The academy's ice queen caught staring? If your poor suitors knew this, they'd be weeping in disbelief."
The chestnut-haired girl didn't turn her head. "Helen," she said quietly, "he's my brother."
Helen blinked. "Your—oh." Her voice faltered, eyes widening. "He's the Talentless brother?"
"Lucien," Bellis said simply. The word left her lips with the cool finality of a closed door.
Helen winced. "Sorry," she murmured quickly.
Bellis shook her head, the motion slow, deliberate. "No need. You're not wrong. He's… ordinary. Three years at the Knight Academy, and he's still only a first-level apprentice. Even I find it shameful."
Helen tilted her head, her blue eyes flicking back toward the young man. "He doesn't look ordinary," she mused. "Strange—he's reading magic texts, isn't he? I see the symbol on that spine. 'Basic Magical Materials.' Shouldn't a knight student be buried in sword manuals instead?"
Bellis's gaze softened for a heartbeat—barely noticeable. "He's always been like that," she said quietly. "Chasing what doesn't belong to him."
Helen smiled faintly. "And you're not going to say hello?"
"There's no need." Bellis turned, the folds of her robe whispering against the polished floor. "I do him no kindness by appearing before him. My existence is burden enough."
Helen chuckled, shaking her head as she followed. "Indeed. The shining genius sister might wound the pride of a brother left behind."
The two walked away, their figures vanishing into the golden light between the shelves.
Lucien looked up moments later, his eyes scanning the aisles. Only the faint echo of departing footsteps remained. He frowned slightly. For a brief instant, he'd felt a presence—a flicker of familiarity he couldn't place. Then it was gone.
He shrugged it off.
"The storage is complete," he murmured.
The light-blue progress bar hovering in his vision filled and faded away. The chip's voice chimed softly in his mind.
Information on 'Basic Magical Materials' successfully recorded.
A flood of data unfolded behind his eyes—formulas, diagrams, notations on alchemical interactions, toxicity tables, and latent properties of magical flora and fauna. It was as though the knowledge had been etched directly into his neurons, bypassing the slow crawl of study.
Lucien blinked, steadying himself. The effect was intoxicating.
He moved down the aisle, selecting several more volumes—manuals on warbeast materials, potion distillation, and common magical reagents. Each was absorbed by the chip in turn, stored away like data in an invisible vault. To onlookers, it would seem he was devouring entire books in a single sitting.
When he finally left the library, dusk was painting the academy in shades of amber and violet. The air outside smelled faintly of maple leaves and cool stone.
Lucien's thoughts burned brighter than the sinking sun.
Back in his dormitory, the small lamp on his desk flickered softly as he drew out the crystal vial—the one he'd purchased earlier at such painful cost. The liquid inside shimmered with a soft, red luminescence, like diluted blood under candlelight.
He unsealed the cork and brought it to his lips. The scent was faintly metallic, with a sour edge.
"Here goes," he murmured.
The liquid slid down his throat with a subtle sting, leaving behind a fishy bitterness. A warmth bloomed in his chest, spreading slowly through his limbs, not unpleasant but strange—like heat trapped beneath his skin.
He clenched his fists experimentally. The strength that came was… disappointing. Barely perceptible. His muscles felt no heavier, his pulse no quicker.
The chip reported flatly: Strength increase: approximately 0.05 units.
Lucien exhaled, frustrated. "So much for miracles."
He stared down at the empty vial, rolling it between his fingers. "No wonder the nobles drink these by the dozen. One drop means nothing."
Still, curiosity outweighed disappointment.
"Analyze the potion," he commanded silently.
Analyzing composition… analysis complete. Formula extracted: Low-grade Strength Potion.
The chip recited the ingredients in its steady monotone: Blood of a first-order Demon Bear. Bitter silver leaf. Demon vine blossom… thirteen components total.
Lucien frowned, his mind whirring. He recognized barely half the names. Some were common—others rare or toxic. Still, this was a map, however incomplete.
"Then we start with the materials," he muttered.
He gathered the few remaining coins from his box—ten gold in total—and pocketed them. Then he slipped into his coat and left the dormitory, disappearing into the deepening dusk.
Two hours later, Lucien returned.
The pouch at his belt jingled faintly with the weight of newly bought ingredients. He spread them out carefully on the desk: small paper packets labeled in looping script—powders, leaves, crystals, dried roots.
The scent that filled the room was a strange blend of sweetness and rot.
He'd only managed to buy enough for two experimental sets, and even that had cost three gold coins. Many of the rarer reagents were far beyond his reach.
"Analyze," he said quietly.
He picked up a thin, silvery leaf—the bitter silver leaf mentioned in the formula—and hesitated only briefly before placing it on his tongue.
The taste was awful. Acrid and metallic, it burned faintly as it dissolved. He grimaced, waiting.
"Analyze composition," he ordered.
Analyzing… no strength-enhancing compounds detected.
Lucien spat the bitter residue into a cloth, wiping his mouth. "All right," he muttered. "Next."
He moved methodically through the pile. One by one, he tasted, smelled, or burned small portions, allowing the chip to catalog their effects.
Analyzing… no enhancement detected.
Analyzing… no enhancement detected.
Each result was the same. His patience thinned, though his expression never changed. The chip's voice was calm, detached; his determination was not.
He reached the last few samples—a cluster of pale blue fruits, small as plums, their surface faintly translucent.
"Blue orange fruit," Lucien read from the label. "Cheap, at least."
He bit into one. The flavor was tangy, almost refreshing. As the juice slid down his throat, the warmth that followed felt different—gentler, yet more alive. He froze.
"Analyze," he whispered.
A long pause.
Then the chip replied: Enhancing compound detected. Substance contains a strength-boosting element. Consistent consumption—fifty doses, three hundred grams per cycle—estimated total increase: two units.
Lucien's heart leapt. He closed his hand around the fruit, feeling its cool skin against his palm.
"Really…" he breathed. "Something so ordinary."
He laughed quietly, half in disbelief, half in triumph. Among all the expensive and exotic ingredients, it was this—the simplest, cheapest fruit—that held the true potential.
He scrolled through the rest of the data as the chip processed. Only two of the thirteen materials showed measurable physical enhancement: the blue orange fruit, and the blood of a high-grade demon bear. But the fruit, humble as it was, produced better results.
He couldn't help the grin that spread across his face.
"Then it's settled," he said softly. "Blue orange fruit it is. The rest can wait."
The plan crystallized in his mind at once—sustained training combined with steady intake. Progress through persistence, not potions.
For the first time that day, he felt the spark of momentum catch fire again.
Just as he was about to rise, the chip chimed once more.
Detected potential optimization. Low-level Strength Potion can be refined. Proceed with optimization?
Lucien blinked. "Optimization?"
The possibilities raced through him. If the chip could strip away inefficiencies from swordsmanship and footwork, could it not also refine alchemy itself? What could it make of a potion that even the academy's pharmacists considered crude and wasteful?
His pulse quickened.
"Yes," he said aloud. "Optimize it."
Optimization confirmed. Beginning process…
The faint hum returned, filling his mind with that steady rhythm of invisible computation. A soft blue light shimmered at the edge of his vision as the progress bar began to crawl forward.
Lucien leaned back in his chair, eyes half-closed, the flicker of the lamp reflecting in his dark pupils.
Outside, the wind rustled the silver maples beyond the dormitory window, and the campus settled into its quiet night.
But within Lucien's mind, the storm of change was already building—silent, unseen, unstoppable.