The two of them walked toward class, continuing their conversation along the way, with James firing off curious questions and Michael patiently answering them.
They eventually drifted into talking about video games.
It turned out Michael had spent his free time grinding extra levels on that new werewolf action-RPG they had both bought, leaving James feeling thoroughly annoyed.
"That is such a dick move. I barely had time to touch my character before everything blew up," James grumbled.
Michael simply offered a smug, peaceful smile. "Sucks to suck."
He was sitting comfortably at level 70 right now. Considering James had only managed to log a couple of hours before he had to leave for the territory and his entire life turned upside down, he was stuck at a pathetic level 17.
He had a long, painful grind ahead of him if he ever wanted to catch up, but he figured he could manage.
Still, realizing how packed his schedule was about to become, James worried he might not have any free time left for gaming at all.
Then again... with how flexible magic seemed to be, he was dead certain some bootleg shadow clone spell had to exist out there in the arcane world.
The second he got back to the pack's base, he was definitely going to ask around about it.
He also made a mental note to start learning an actual martial arts style.
He had noticed how effortlessly Mira and Talia moved in combat, blending multiple fighting disciplines seamlessly.
Given their advanced age, they had possessed decades to master their craft.
James, on the other hand, now had the potential to live a ridiculously long time, though he wasn't entirely sure if he was truly immortal.
Based on the age of the previous pack leader, he estimated his upper lifespan to be around two thousand years at best.
Wait—he had a two-hundred-year-old walking textbook right next to him.
"Yo, Michael," James called out as they approached a sharp corner in the stone hallway.
Michael raised his head, looking over with mild curiosity. To Michael, James felt like a newborn baby exploring the world for the very first time.
There was an earnest wonder in his eyes, an infectious excitement about the hidden rules of the universe, and a raw vitality that made the world around him seem impossibly vibrant.
Michael used to have that exact same shine in his eyes centuries ago.
Now, it was mostly gone—crushed under the heavy weight of vampire aristocracy, the ruthless politics of his own kind, and a lifetime of rigid expectations and hidden failures.
"What's on your mind?" Michael asked softly.
"So, like... are werewolves and vampires genuinely immortal, or do they just live for a really long ass time?"
Michael simply shrugged, staring ahead. "The hell do I know?"
James's brow furrowed in irritation. "You're supposed to be the resident expert on this supernatural stuff."
"Like I told you before, I'm practically a child by our standards," Michael countered smoothly, though James could tell he was pulling his leg.
Catching the look on James's face, Michael let out a soft sigh and offered a faint smile. "If you really want my unscientific opinion, it's probably true immortality."
James raised an eyebrow, picking up on the hesitant note in his friend's voice. "Elaborate."
As he asked, James actively tuned out the hushed, excited whispers echoing from a group of female students walking past them.
"Is that the guy from the humanities department?"
"Look at his coat... he's so ridiculously handsome."
"Do you think he has a girlfriend?"
James ignored the soft giggles and blushing glances entirely. None of his business.
"Well," Michael explained, adjusting the strap of his crossbody bag, "vampires and wolves don't really die of natural causes or old age. What usually happens is that they eventually become hella arrogant and stubborn over the centuries. They try to start some massive conflict, overplay their hand, and end up getting brutally slaughtered by someone or something stronger than them."
James blinked. Wow. That was certainly one way for Michael to describe his own immortal lineage.
"That's... definitely something," James muttered.
Before he could ask a follow-up, James's hybrid senses picked up a subtle shift in the air.
Michael's shoulders had imperceptibly stiffened, and his scent spiked with a sudden, metallic tang of deep discomfort.
His body language was silently screaming at James to drop the topic immediately.
James had rarely seen Michael this guarded, but maybe he had always been like this—James just hadn't possessed the heightened senses to notice it before.
Deciding to be a good friend and bail him out, James seamlessly pivoted the conversation.
"So, anyway... can I borrow your history notes?"
Michael turned his head, staring at him. "Why?"
The look of confusion on Michael's face was so painfully exaggerated it belonged in a bad daytime soap opera.
"Because I've been missing for an entire month, dumbass, and I am ridiculously behind," James deadpanned.
As the words left his mouth, they crossed the threshold into the lecture hall, arriving right on the dot.
The moment James stepped through the doorway, a violent shudder ran down his spine.
The ambient temperature in the room seemed to plummet, and his newly awakened instincts flared to life, screaming a silent, urgent warning in the back of his mind. Danger.
James instinctively looked up, his eyes locking onto the figure standing at the front of the room near the podium: Professor Merrow Blackthorne.
Standing at a tall, commanding six-foot-one, the history professor practically radiated a heavy, suffocating aura of cold, quiet authority.
Sharp, angular features were framed by messy dark hair that fell loosely around a pale complexion, and his striking light eyes seemed capable of peering directly through flesh and bone into a person's soul.
He was dressed impeccably in layered, gothic Victorian-style attire.
A dark, full-length trench coat with intricate silver embroidery along the stiff high collar draped over a tailored double-breasted vest, a crisp white collared shirt, and a dark silk tie.
Layered silver chains glinted softly against his dark vest, catching the overhead fluorescent light, and tailored trousers fell cleanly over polished leather boots.
Resting firmly under his gloved hand was an ornate, dark metal walking cane featuring an intricately carved, decorative handle—a subtle accessory on the surface, yet held with absolute, effortless poise.
As the professor turned his icy gaze toward the doorway, James held his breath, his hybrid blood churning nervously beneath his skin.
James was painfully aware that he had missed a ridiculous amount of class over the past month.
Walking up the stepped aisle of the dimly lit lecture hall, he braced himself, hoping against hope that he wasn't completely fucked when it came to his final grade.
"Ah, Mr. Smith. It has been quite some time since you last favored us with your presence."
The professor's voice was smooth, quiet, and chillingly calm—which made the situation ten times worse in James's opinion.
If the man had sounded even slightly agitated, James might have known how to handle it. But now, even with his newly awakened hybrid senses turned up to max, he couldn't catch a single whiff of the man's emotional state.
Apart from a faint, sophisticated scent of expensive cologne masking the air around the podium, there was no fear, no anger, no impatience—nothing.
Looking at the professor's posture, there wasn't a single micro-expression or tense muscle to give him away. He stood there like a stone monument, completely blank and heavily guarded.
James had always known Professor Blackthorne carried an air of dignified, ancient nobility, but standing under his direct gaze made James feel exposed.
Gathering what little courage he had left, James scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. He instinctively glanced around the room for some moral support, only to realize his so-called best friend had completely abandoned him.
Michael was already comfortably settled in a middle-row desk, casually pulling out his tablet and pretending James didn't exist. He had left James entirely to the wolves—and it certainly wasn't the first time he'd pulled that trick.
Fucking traitor, James thought, glaring daggers at the back of Michael's neatly styled blond head. Goddamn rat.
Feeling Blackthorne's icy, unblinking glare lingering on him, James cleared his throat and forced himself to make direct eye contact.
"Yeah... sorry about that, Professor," James said. Despite the nervous flutter in his chest, his newly enhanced physical control allowed his voice to come out surprisingly steady and confident.
"I was away due to some urgent family matters that came up out of nowhere."
It was the exact cover story he'd been instructed to use, and he delivered it as smoothly as he could.
Professor Blackthorne tilted his head slightly, his striking light eyes scanning James up and down with an unreadable, intense scrutiny that made James's hybrid blood itch beneath his skin.
"I see," the professor murmured softly, leaning a fraction of his weight onto his ornate dark metal cane.
"I hope whatever family affairs required your undivided attention have been thoroughly resolved. You are a full month behind on your coursework, Mr. Smith."
You really don't need to remind me, James thought dryly. He knew he was facing a mountain of catch-up work; it didn't take a genius to figure that out.
"I know," James said, keeping his tone carefully respectful. "I was planning on pulling a few all-nighters to get caught up as fast as possible."
"I have noticed," Blackthorne replied, raising a dark gloved hand slightly. "You submitted seven backlogged assignments early this morning, spanning between midnight and six in the morning."
James let out a faint, sheepish grin. He had indeed spent his entire night furiously typing away at his desk.
"I planned to finish the rest within the next two days," James added calmly.
"That won't be necessary," Blackthorne said, waving his hand dismissively. "Given the nature of an extended family absence, I will grant you a two-week extension on all remaining backlogged assignments. However, I expect every submission to be delivered with absolute thoroughness. Am I clear?"
James let out a quiet, genuine sigh of relief, feeling the weight lift off his shoulders. "Extremely clear. Thank you so much, Professor."
"Go take your seat."
James gave the professor a quick nod and practically hurried up the carpeted steps of the lecture hall, sliding into the empty desk right next to Michael.
"Traitor," James muttered under his breath, pulling his notebook and pen out of his heavy backpack.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Michael whispered back, turning his head with an expression of pure, innocent confusion. "I was simply securing our prime seating real estate."
Before James could kick him under the desk, Professor Blackthorne tapped the tip of his metal cane sharply against the wooden podium.
The crisp clack echoed through the wide auditorium, instantly hushing the lingering chatter among the students.
"Now that we are all present," Blackthorne began, his voice carrying effortlessly to the back row as he turned toward the massive digital screen behind him,
"we shall resume our unit on the American Civil War—specifically, the technological logistics surrounding the Confederacy's mid-war offensive."
He tapped a control key on the podium, bringing up a detailed, high-resolution historical schematic of a vintage firearm.
"While traditional history curriculum often paints the conflict through the lens of standard muzzle-loading muskets, as we discussed prior to the break, the rapid boom of mechanical engineering in the 13th century laid the groundwork for an advanced 19th century,"
the professor explained, pacing slowly along the front stage with measured, rhythmic steps.
"By the time the Confederacy launched its push north, the widespread adoption of early-pattern gas-operated automatic rifles—ancestors to what we now classify as the modern AK-47 architecture—completely altered standard infantry tactics."
James leaned back in his wooden seat, staring at the schematic on the screen.
It was crazy to think about how fast history had diverged. Tech was moving so fast nowadays—artificial intelligence was taking off, and there were even rumors floating around online about fully immersive neural virtual reality games launching in a few years.
Mankind had been tinkering with primitive VR gear since the early 1900s, so with modern infrastructure, a true virtual world wasn't even that far-fetched anymore.
"The introduction of high-capacity magazine feeds to the front lines created unprecedented suppression capabilities," Blackthorne continued, his deep voice echoing with a heavy, solemn weight.
"However, it also introduced massive logistical vulnerabilities. An infantry unit capable of firing hundreds of rounds per minute is only as effective as its supply chain's access to refined brass, lead, and gunpowder..."
As the professor delved deeper into the tactical errors and supply line failures of the campaign, James pulled up Michael's shared drive on his phone.
He began cross-referencing the detailed lecture notes with the slides on screen, keeping one ear tuned to Blackthorne's commanding lecture.
He really needed to brush up on his history studies, but as he stared at the screen, his mind naturally drifted back to the mechanics of magic. Once he got his fundamental control down, what secondary element should he focus on expanding?
He was pretty sure his hybrid nature gave him a natural baseline affinity for the raw core elements, but he needed to be strategic.
The smart move was to keep refining his control over shadow and darkness manipulation. High-tier mages could probably fuse darkness directly into elemental spells to create horrifying combinations—like a bolt of black lightning that pulled targets inward while disintegrating them, or a dark vortex wind spell that trapped enemies in place while shredding them with compressed air blades.
The offensive synergy was absurd.
And as much as he loved the sheer, flashy destruction of lightning—because honestly, who didn't?—he knew he needed to prioritize defense.
His offensive output was already solid, but he'd been knocked unconscious way too many times recently. His defensive toolkit was slacking.
That left him considering Earth or Water.
He made a mental note to ask Caius later whether complex variants like Plant magic were created by combining Water and Earth, similar to how elemental bloodlines worked in anime.
Was Plant magic considered a synthetic, fused element, or a primary natural one? Probably natural, considering forests existed long before humans started weaving mana.
The seven primary natural elements were universally recognized: Water, Air, Earth, Fire, Lightning, Light, and Darkness.
So where did specialized fields like Steel or Plant magic originate? Were they just sub-categories of a primary element, or required multi-elemental fusion? Plain Earth and Water would logically just yield mud, so plants required something more—maybe a trace of Light magic to simulate growth?
He let out a quiet breath, writing the question down in the margins of his notebook. He'd bug Caius about it later. He was, after all, a very curious guy.
A/N Quick exposition, i am aware they only 6 primal magic element, his ass added lightning on instinct because once more, he is following Naruto format.
I should have next chapter ready by wednesday.
Also, 2.5k words.
Vote with powerstones.