Murmurs rose across the lecture hall almost immediately.
"Negotiate with ether…?" someone whispered in disbelief.
"That's nonsense," a noble kid scoffed openly. "Power is drawn from the Bloodmark. Ether is just the fuel. Everyone knows that."
Professor Voss did not raise his voice. He simply waited for the murmur to end as though he was already used to this sights.
The murmurs slowly died as students realized he was watching them with the same gentle smile, with an unbothered and patient attitude.
"Good," he said at last. "Those questions that you have right now mean you are thinking."
He turned and resumed his slow pacing across the platform.
"Most failures occur because students misunderstand their exhaustion," Professor Voss continued. "You believe you are running out of power. In truth, you are damaging your ability to interact with ether by prolonged use."
Several students stiffened.
"When ether resists you," he explained, "it is not because the world is empty. It is because your pathways are strained, unstable, or misaligned with your Bloodmark's rules."
He stopped and looked directly at the hall.
"If you force ether too quickly, it will tear at your circulation. Hold it improperly and it stagnates. If your attempt to shape more than your framework allows, the ether pushes back."
A low murmur followed, this time with a more confused expression.
"That pushback," Professor Voss said calmly, "is what many of you mistake for a limit. But its not wrong either to call you run out of ether, either. Because the results were the same. You cannot use ether anymore."
Dominic felt a quiet chill run through him. The words aligned uncomfortably well with injuries he had suffered back then when he suddenly collapsed.
Professor Voss raised one finger.
"Ether Theory exists to prevent that," he said. "Before you are taught how to fight, reinforce, or manifest abilities, you must understand how ether behaves when treated properly."
He gestured toward the ceiling.
"Ether seeks balance. It follows paths of least resistance. When guided correctly it flows smoothly and returns naturally. When abused, it becomes hostile."
A student near the front raised a hand hesitantly. "Professor… does that mean talent doesn't matter?"
Professor Voss smiled.
"Talent matters, of course," he said. "But not in the way you think."
He tapped his chest again.
"Talent determines how complex your framework is and your discipline determines how good you will be able to use it."
The hall fell quiet. Everybody starts to think.
"In this class," Professor Voss continued, "you will learn how to listen before you do anything else with your ether. You will learn why stillness and calmness improves your circulation, why reckless movement and usage disrupts it, and why those who rush your power tend to break first."
Dominic nodded his head. Sevran beside him wrote it on his notebook
"By the end of this term," Professor Voss said, "you should understand why ether answers some of you more easily than others, and why that answer can change."
His gaze swept the room once more.
"Remember this, my beloved students, ether is not your servant," he said gently. "It is your partner. If you forget that, the world will remind you."
He clasped his hands together and nodded.
"That will be all for today. Next lesson, we begin with sensing exercises."
As the hall stirred back to life, voices overlapping once more, Dominic remained seated for a moment longer, thinking.
Sevran turned toward Dominic and nudged his shoulder. "Let's go to the next class."
Dominic nodded and rose with him, falling into step as the wave of students began to flow toward the exits.
They had barely taken a few steps when the noise ahead of them changed.
There was no usual laughter or chatter there, but a commotion.
Sevran let out a tired sigh. "Why is someone already fighting when the first class just ended?"
Dominic frowned. His irritation also came quickly. If things escalated the next lesson would be delayed and he didn't want that.
A sharp voice cut through the crowd.
"Shut your mouth before I rip it open."
Gasps followed immediately, rippling outward from the center of the crowd.
"How could she say something like that to Lady Leon?" a girl whispered near Dominic and Sevran, her voice filled with disbelief.
They exchanged glances at each other. Lady Leon. That sounds like something addressed to a noble. And not a minor one, judging by the reaction.
Then it happened.
PLAK!
The sound of a slap cracked through the air, loud enough to silence nearby murmur.
"How dare you speak to me with that filthy mouth!" another female voice shrieked. "That mouth of yours, heh, I bet you use it the same way your mother did, selling herself."
There was a heartbeat of stunned silence among the crowd, like nature holding breath before a storm.
Then the dull sound of a kick could be heard.
A sharp scream followed.
"AKKH!"
"You—" another voice roared. "You daughter of a whore!"
The tension snapped.
The crowd surged forward all at once, curiosity and excitement overpowering them.
Dominic and Sevran were shoved from behind. Their balance lost as bodies pressed in from every side.
Before they could recover they were pushed straight into the center of the forming circle and fell and hit the floor hard.
"Urgh… Damnation," Sevran murmured with a grunt.
Dominic grunted as well and pushed himself up on one elbow. His palm stung where it had struck the stone floor.
When he lifted his head he immediately understood why the crowd had gone quiet.
They were already in the middle of the circle.
Three girls stood facing one another.
Two of them stood side by side, their robes neat, posture proud, eyes sharp with open disdain.
The lone girl stood several steps away from them. Her clothes were disheveled, a faint red mark blooming on her cheek, yet she stood straight.
Too straight.
Her eyes were locked onto the two in front of her, burning with killing intent so naked it made Dominic's skin prickle. It was the kind of gaze that did not just shout insults or threaten. It promised.
Before anyone could speak again, the air above them cracked. Not with sound, but with pressure.
Space itself seemed to fold inward, then split apart like torn fabric. From the distortion a man stepped through.
He wore a black robe trimmed with dark crimson lines. His long black hair fell loose down his back. His eyes were cold, sharp, as if showing that he was a man that was utterly uninterested in excuses.
The moment he appeared, the crowd recoiled instinctively, a clear space forming without anyone needing to be told. His aura alone pushed them.
His gaze swept across the scene once and saw two students on the floor. The three girls and the crowd.
There was no surprise in his expression, only confirmation, as if he had already known exactly what had happened.
"You," he said, his voice flat and carrying easily. He pointed, counting without looking twice. "All five of you come with me."
There was no raised tone or anger. Just finality. The words left no space for protest, explanation, or denial.
Dominic felt his stomach sink.
"Damnation…" he muttered helplessly.
—