The Weight Beneath Routine
A full week had passed since the dawn of the new school year, and the Larissian Magic Academy had settled into a rigorous, almost mechanical rhythm. George adapted quickly to the strict timetable, rising hours before sunrise to begin each day. More often than not, he found himself standing by his window, watching the first threads of dawn spill through the glass—brief moments of stillness before the grind began Each morning, George met Nana and Kayn in the central courtyard. Dew clung to the grass beneath their boots as they exchanged excited theories about spells, techniques, and fragments of lessons from the day before. Normally, Nana dominated these conversations, her fiery energy impossible to ignore. Today, she was quiet. George noticed it immediately. Her posture was tense, her gaze unfocused, as if her thoughts were far from the academy grounds.
"Nana," George said carefully, studying her posture, "What's wrong?"
She hesitated before answering. "I heard something last night."
Kayn's expression darkened. "What kind of something?"
"A group of third-years were talking in the west corridor," Nana said, lowering her voice. "They mentioned Juna."
George frowned. "Who's Juna?"
"A third-year student," Nana replied. "She disappeared a few days ago. Her friends think she was taken."
The words hit harder than George expected. A kidnapping—inside the academy. "That doesn't make sense," George said. "This place is supposed to be... safe?"
Nana cut in quietly. "That's what everyone says."
Kayn shifted beside them. "Last year, there was a rumor," he said. "A teacher vanished too. Mr. Arbadin. No announcement. No explanation. He was just… gone."
A cold tension settled over the courtyard. The sun had fully risen now, but its warmth did nothing to chase away the unease clinging to George's chest. As they headed toward General Studies, George noticed clusters of students gathered near the message boards. Conversations were hushed. Eyes darted nervously. Several parchment notices had been pinned up—missing persons posters. Four names. Four disappearances in the past two years, including Juna. For the first time since enrolling, the academy's towering walls felt less like protection and more like a façade.
General Studies: The Hierarchy of Power
Professor Crane stood before the chalkboard, hands clasped behind his back as he addressed the lecture hall. "As you are aware," he said, voice steady and authoritative, "the magical world is governed not only by laws, but by structure. Power must be measured." He outlined the ranking system with practiced precision. The journey begins at the Academy Level, the foundation for all students. Above that lies the Class Two Mage, possessing command over basic aura control. The Class One Mage represents the third tier, mastering mid-to-high level spells. The Star Mage follows, commanding advanced elemental arts. Higher still are Magicians and Sorcerers; while both command advanced aura forms, the Sorcerer is distinguished by superior physical stamina and endurance. Finally, the Grand Master stands at the seventh tier, possessing a complete mastery of aura and physical capabilities that transcend standard human limits. "Within each rank," Crane continued, stepping away from the board, "mages are categorized further into Low, Medium, and High sub-tiers. This allows us to accurately assess combat viability and strategic deployment. The sole exception is the Grand Master rank, which exists beyond standard classification."
George took notes, but his focus wavered. His thoughts kept returning to Juna. To the silence from the faculty. To the posters that no one addressed directly. When the bell rang, it felt like an escape.
Aura Conjuration: The Art of Scale
Aura Conjuration that afternoon was led by Professor Jinx Starwind, whose boundless enthusiasm filled the classroom the moment she entered. She moved as if carried by invisible currents, her gestures fluid and expressive.
"Today," she announced brightly, "we're discussing Scale." With a flick of her wrist, she conjured a small flame. As she fed more aura into it, the fire swelled, growing until it bathed the room in warm light. "Conjuration isn't just about form," she said. "It's about volume. The more aura you commit, the greater the manifestation." She smiled, eyes gleaming. "Of course, next year you'll learn Aura Condensing—how to compress that same power into something small enough to destroy a mountain."
In the training yard, students practiced expansion. Flynn summoned a towering inferno with ease. Davina, Nana, and Nora followed close behind. Ren shocked everyone by maintaining two simultaneous manifestations. George struggled. No matter how he pushed, his aura resisted, pressing against an invisible barrier.
"Aura flow isn't about force," Jinx murmured as she passed him. "It's about feeling the movement. Let it breathe."
George nodded, frustrated but determined.
Combat Studies: Tactical Survival
Professor Ky Iron-heart wasted no time softening them up. Students were paired and bound together—ankles tied, one blindfolded, the other gagged. "Combat strips comfort away," Iron-heart growled. "You may lose sight. You may lose speech. Instinct is all you'll have."
George was paired with Flynn. It went terribly. They pulled against each other, movements uncoordinated, frustration mounting with every step. They were the only team unable to complete the course.
"Leadership is irrelevant without trust," Iron-heart snapped afterward. "You don't move alone."
Flynn exploded the moment they were released. "I don't fail," he snarled at George. "I am a Nightwing." He drove his fist into the stone wall, cracking it open, before storming away.
Aura Control: The Friction of Flow
The final class was Aura Control with Professor Zorro Diego, who lounged against a pillar, flipping through a poetry book as if utterly bored. "Aura flow," he sighed, "is like a river. Remove the dam and it moves freely. Direct it poorly, and it destroys everything in its path." He distributed balloons filled with water. The task was simple: circulate the water using aura without breaking the latex. George's balloon burst within minutes. Scalding water burned his hands as he cried out. Across the field, balloons popped one after another. Even the strongest students ended the lesson red-handed and exhausted. Zorro observed it all with lazy interest. "Direction," he muttered. "That's what separates amateurs from survivors."
That evening, George, Nana, and Kayn walked along the river near the edge of town. They laughed, joked, and tried to reclaim the feeling of normalcy—but it rang hollow. As the sun dipped below the horizon, long shadows stretched across the water. Juna's name lingered unspoken between them. And somewhere beneath the routine of academy life, something dark was beginning to stir.