The day of departure arrived.
I stood in my room, already dressed in the Royal Academy uniform: crisp black tunic with silver trim, fitted trousers, polished boots, and a short cloak pinned at the shoulder with the academy's crest. The fabric felt foreign—too clean, too structured—but I wore it without complaint, the yellow vow-mark on my palm hidden beneath the sleeve.
In the course of my training with Michael, through endless drills and private tests with my unique mana, I had gained control over the black in my eyes. The endless void no longer leaked uncontrollably; I could mask it now, forcing the irises to appear a deep, almost natural gray when I chose. It was a small thing, a tool for blending in, but useful. Those dark eyes of mine were helpful too. They were the reason I understand Mana Flows so easily. I see the world in much greater detail and precision—every thread of mana, every subtle current, every fluctuation laid bare like lines of code. It's a strain on my brain, constant pressure behind my eyes, endless data pouring in, but I like it.
It makes everything clearer, sharper and more honest. I call it Eye Null. It can be turned off. I do so when I need to blend in, or when the input becomes unnecessary. But when it's active, nothing escapes it. No flow, no lie in the mana, no hidden intent.
Everything is visible.
Everything is known.
But everytime it's on, the mark on my chest pulsed grew louder—approving—as if acknowledging its use.
Outside the manor gates, the carriage waited—two black horses stamping impatiently, driver holding the reins with practiced stillness.
I stepped out of my room and made my way through the corridors, boots quiet on the marble. I reached the front hall and continued toward the gates.
Two figures waited there: one was the diligent guard I had spoken to yesterday—Salome Primo—standing tall, spear at his side, posture rigid with duty. The other was the old butler who had guided me on my first day in the manor, gray hair neatly combed, uniform immaculate, expression calm but watchful.
They both straightened as I approached.
Salome nodded once—respectful, wary.
The butler bowed slightly.
"The carriage is ready, young master," the butler said quietly.
"Young master?" I said with a curious and surprised tone as I stopped before them, my normal gray eyes drifting from one to the other.
The diligent guard straightened further, spear at his side, and bowed his head slightly.
"I am Salome Prismo, young master," he introduced himself, voice steady but laced with caution. "Low-level Knight. White mana color."
The old butler beside him bowed deeper, gray hair neatly combed, uniform immaculate.
"Vincent," he said simply. "Just Vincent."
I nodded once—small, mechanical—taking in the names without comment. For a moment, I tried turning my Eye Null on, but if for some reason, in any circumstances, Vincent had his reasons to hide anything, then I would respect their privacy.
I slowly approached the carriage with Vincent carrying my luggage—a modest trunk filled with the clean clothes and necessities Michael had provided—while Salome followed a few steps behind us.
I entered the carriage first, stepping up into the enclosed cabin with its padded bench seats and small curtained windows.
Vincent secured the trunk on the rear luggage rack at the back of the carriage, strapping it firmly with leather belts and buckles to keep it from shifting during the journey. He checked the straps once more, then climbed up to the driver's seat at the front.
Salome mounted his horse—a sturdy bay gelding saddled and ready—and took position alongside the carriage as an escort.
With a quiet crack of the reins from Vincent, the two horses leaned into their harnesses, and the carriage lurched forward, wheels rumbling over the cobblestones.
We slowly departed through the manor gates, Salome riding steadily beside us on his horse, spear upright, eyes scanning the road ahead.
The ride toward the academy spanned only 2–3 hours, since it lay close to Michael's manor. The so-called Tempest Academy sat just beside the capital, as I'd read in the document Michael had given me. The dean, a former Royal Scientist of the kingdom, was named Vator Goldstein.
The road was bumpy, the carriage jolting over uneven stones and ruts, making the atmosphere inside feel a bit gloomy. Vincent sat across from me, eyes closed as if asleep. I sighed and looked out the window. Villages passed by, reminding me of my past—of my hunger. I wanted more, but right now I was restricted. I needed to find a way to break this Oath that Michael had specifically used to bind me. I had tried many ways, but I failed miserably, always ending with me throwing up huge amounts of blood.
But that won't stop me.
Nothing will.
...
With only a 2-hour ride, we reached our destination as quickly as possible. It was also thanks to the hard-working driver who found a shortcut to escort us in the fastest way, though the terrain was rough and bumpy, making the entire ride impossible to enjoy.
Aside from that, the Academy was in an uproar when I arrived. Something must have happened before I even got here and the semester began.
"What happened here, Vincent?" I asked.
"It seems like a student rally—with commoners and those from low families fighting for equality."
Even here there is no equality among humans. Interesting. Do us low-lifes still treat each other as low-lifes too? How amusing.
I stepped out of the carriage at the grand entrance of Tempest Academy, the massive stone gates already open. Salome dismounted and took position behind me, spear at his side, while Vincent handed the luggage to waiting academy attendants.
Michael had arranged for a private meeting with the dean—his old friend and former master. The dean, Sidno Reaver, awaited in the reception hall just inside the gates. He was an old man—tall, thin, silver hair tied back in a neat queue, sharp eyes behind thin spectacles, dressed in a simple yet elegant black robe embroidered with faint gold runes. His face carried the quiet authority of someone who had once shaped the kingdom's magical doctrines and trained disciples like Michael.
Sidno smiled faintly as I approached, a small, knowing curve of the lips.
"Azriel Vaelthorn," he said, voice low and measured. "Michael spoke highly of you. Come, let us speak briefly before the semester begins."
I inclined my head slightly—polite, mechanical—and followed him into a side chamber off the hall.
The dean closed the door behind us.
Michael's mentor.
Michael's friend.
Another piece in the game.
I waited, eyes steady, waiting for the dean to speak.
"So," he coughed, clearing his throat. "Welcome to Tempest Academy. As the name suggests, students here are always caught in a storm. Lately, though… the storm is only getting stronger."
I looked at him intently, trying to figure out what he was trying to say, before he looked back at me with relaxed eyes and a soft smile.
"Inspect everything around you," Sidno said quietly. "In this academy, I'm sure you'll know what I mean."
He reached into a drawer of his desk and withdrew a small brass key attached to a leather fob, along with a polished academy ID card etched with silver runes.
"Your dorm key," he explained, sliding both across the desk. "Your ID—every student needs it to access classes, and facilities."
I took them without a word, slipping the key into my pocket and the ID into the inner fold of my uniform.
Sidno leaned back in his chair.
"After you've settled—put down your bags, freshen up—you'll need to go to the testing hall. They'll check your mana color and elemental percentage there. Standard procedure for new students. The results will be recorded and sent to your instructors."
He paused, eyes lingering on me a moment longer.
"Again, I welcome to Tempest Academy, Azriel.
I expect… interesting things from you."
I nodded once—small, mechanical—and turned toward the door.
The dean watched me go, the faint smile still on his lips as I made my way towards my dorm with Vincent and Salome following behind me.
After putting the luggage down, I made my way toward the exam hall. It was packed with first-years—some lacking mana entirely, others showing clear talent. But the most exceptional ones I noticed were a man ahead of me and a girl already at Bright Silver Core.
I'll keep an eye on them.
It was now my turn. I stepped onto the circular platform, its surface engraved with intricate markings. A pale-blue light enveloped my body, cool and probing.
For a split-second, all I saw was nothing but darkness.
Then I returned to the hall, the light fading.
I looked up at the Magic Projection above the platform.
It flickered erratically, symbols scrambling before freezing on a single word:
ERROR
The hall erupted into murmurs. Students whispered among themselves, glancing at me with confusion and suspicion.
"Error? That's impossible."
"Did the platform break?"
"Who is that guy anyway?"
The professors in charge—three older men and one woman in academy robes—immediately stepped forward. One adjusted the runes on the platform's edge with a small crystal stylus, frowning. Another tapped the projection orb, muttering incantations under his breath. The woman scanned me with a handheld mana lens, her expression shifting from curiosity to unease.
"Please wait a moment," the lead professor said, his voice strained. "This has never happened before, so we're not sure why"
He paused, eyes widening in shock, causing the students' murmurs to swell louder. He coughed sharply, cutting through the noise like a knife.
"…We will try again."
All the professors stepped back as they restarted the process.
But once more, the projection flickered and froze on the same word:
ERROR
The professors exchanged confused glances, muttering among themselves. The lead professor looked at his colleagues, then approached me again.
"I'll try the old method we used to use," he said. "It's a bit painful—I'll be injecting my own mana directly into you. Will you continue?"
He looked firmly at me before speaking once more.
"I sense mana in you but at the same time I don't. So just to make sure, we're going to go with the traditional way."
I nodded slightly.
The professor motioned for me to sit on a low stool in the center of the testing circle. The students around us fell silent, watching intently, their earlier murmurs dying into tense stillness. The lead professor sat opposite me on another stool, placing his hands on my shoulders. He closed his eyes, breathing steadily as he extended a thin thread of his own mana into me.
At first, he saw nothing but darkness—an endless, swallowing void. Yet he still felt the mana in it, faint and elusive, like a current hidden in black water.
He pushed deeper.
The mana lingered, then clung. It stuck. Then it pulled—sucking his own mana inward with quiet, relentless force. The professor's eyes snapped open. He yanked his hands back, gasping, chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face in heavy beads. His breathing came ragged, as though he'd run for miles.
I looked at him with emotionless eyes, expression unchanged.
He stared at me for a long moment, voice hoarse when he finally spoke.
"...Pale Silver Core stage."
The hall remained silent. No one moved. The professor wiped his brow with a trembling hand, still panting. The projection above flickered once more—then stabilized on the result.
Pale Silver Core
The students exchanged glances, whispers starting again—low, uneasy. I sat there, calm.
The professor rose slowly, still unsteady.
"Next student," he said, voice rough.
But his eyes lingered on me a second longer, I stood without a word. The test continued.
And the academy had just begun to notice.
...
After the test, the lead professor requested a private talk with me. I was certain it was about what had happened earlier.
I soon arrived at his office, unaware of the storm I was approaching. I entered—unprepared for the series of questions that awaited.