Twelve days. Twelve whole days running the same routine: food, training, and sleep. Food, training, sleep.
The reflection in the cursed window suddenly filled me with a sense of melancholy. Strange. For years life had been monotonous—forests, fields, crumbling walls—and it hadn't troubled me. Why now, looking at myself, did I feel disgust?
I made no progress. Each session on the training grounds became an exercise in using my abilities without hurting anyone: I redirected everything inward, seeking workarounds. It appears that approach was wrong.
Rain droplets slowly trickled down the glass, layering over my reflection. Beyond the Academy buildings, wild lands began. How do they live in these greenhouse conditions? I murmured to myself.
Alone in my room, I still turned around—out of habit, I suppose. Then, despite a dull inner protest, I convinced myself to go to the library again. The theory went down slowly but surely. Practice, however, lagged two or three steps behind.
Delis had vanished from my only circle of company. Each time I caught her glance, she immediately stepped aside. A little—just a little—but it hurt.
Her behavior didn't match the smile that had flickered across her face during our brief meetings.
She clearly avoided me on purpose. Even now she stood by the shelves, flipping through volumes, pretending to be fully absorbed in the material. Trying not to make a sound, I approached her from behind. A light touch on the shoulder, and I waited for her to turn. Seeing me, Delis tried to flee, but I gently grasped her hand.
"Are you that unwilling to explain the confusing parts in those books to me?" I asked, puzzled.
"It's not like that…" She dropped her eyes, stumbling over her words.
"Good. Are you busy now?" I continued in the same whisper.
"Well… no," she answered and replaced the thick book on the shelf.
I even got the strange feeling she was on the run. In any case, she slowly followed me back to a reading table.
Outside the window, the wind howled: autumn was definitely taking hold here. Cold was to be expected in these lands. In my native village, snow fell at most once a winter—and even that was rare—but here by mid-fall it could already be on its second visit.
Time was slipping away. Studying works by three different authors on magic theory had not pushed me to the next step of my core. Originally it seemed development started with practice: apply knowledge, repeat, make it automatic. But everything turned out simpler and… stranger.
Stuck at the starting level, I had to try a different approach—one that began not with practice, but with basic theory. And unexpectedly, that made more sense. General gathering and regular cleansing of the external mana strengthened the channels and the core itself far more effectively than trying to 'spin' anything by mere will or calculating in my head.
Those authors were… madmen. It's as if they'd intentionally split one general method into dozens of parts, none of which I could fully grasp. The old Imperial hieroglyphs were especially tough. They appeared in many books, and if you missed a couple of signs here and there, you could still make out the gist. But once the text ran continuously, understanding vanished completely.
I found the pages where I got stuck and all the troublesome spots and laid the book before Delis. Leaning over the table, I pointed to lines with my finger and spoke my guesses aloud. She nodded and listened… for a while.
"I see what you mean," she suddenly interrupted, gently closing the book, then looking at its thick cover.
For five minutes Delis explained this author to me: how his manner of expression was inherently complicated, that I absolutely shouldn't have started with such books, and that there were much clearer textbooks—the ones you usually begin with.
As she explained, something thin twisted in my stomach. An unfamiliar feeling. Not pain. Not hunger. Something like joy… but strange, light, and warm. Almost the same feeling as when my core had first stirred.
I watched her—her quick lip movements, the way the corners of her mouth formed an awkward smile, her dimples showing. And I realized that her words truly made sense to me. As though she was translating the complex into a language I felt rather than thought.
Am I really fluttering inside just because of knowledge? Or is it something about her?
"Are you listening?" Delis snapped me out of my reverie, waving her hand before my face.
"Yes… just got lost in thought." I blinked, trying to refocus.
She studied me for a few seconds as if checking I wasn't drifting off again and continued recommending books and authors. The flood of information was difficult to contain; new ideas were pushing out the old ones.
"Let's take a break… say, five minutes," I suggested when I noticed her voice getting hoarse from constant speech.
She nodded. I settled opposite her.
But no sooner had I begun to relax than she suddenly asked, "Is something bothering you? You've been thinking deeply several times… and all you do is look at your hands."
I hid my ugly, callused palms under the table.
"Just remembered how I used to live…" I whispered.
"Tell me," she requested quietly; her eyes shone with curiosity.
"Well… nothing particularly interesting. Every day I hunted: forests, steppes… Studying the mana-mutated beasts, how to cook them…" I muttered.
Delis immediately brightened. "You hunted mana-beasts? And ate them? Are they really stronger than normal ones? Do they strengthen the core? The channels? What do they taste like?"
"Wait, wait," I stopped her. "One step at a time."
They must be prepared immediately after killing and butchering. They're juicier to taste and easier to digest… But they don't strengthen the core or mana channels at all."
"They're just ordinary, though tasty, food," I shrugged.
Our easy conversation was being eavesdropped on. The feeling of someone's gaze—a sticky, greedy glare, almost lecherous—was so repulsive that a shiver ran down my spine. I tried to locate the source, but unsuccessfully: the reading tables had emptied, and there was no one by the shelves or behind the nearest ones.
Yet the sensation didn't vanish. As if someone was standing very close—not with their body, but by their presence. For a minute it kept me on edge before easing.
Delis noticed and quietly asked if I was all right. I brushed it off. How could I explain something I wasn't even sure of? A feeling that cannot be proven or pointed to.
"Why does someone want me so badly?" my inner thoughts cried out.
"All right, I have to go. Second-year classes are starting soon; it was nice chatting!" she said, gathering books.
We said goodbye, and silence fell around me. A bit of fatigue, a touch of contemplation, a slight frustration. My gaze lingered on the window, where clouds gathered into a dense, heavy mass.
No matter how much I craved to tackle that third author—by far the toughest—today was clearly not the day. In her rush, Delis had taken not only her books but also mine.
The remaining volumes returned to shelves, and the way was clear to the closed training grounds. Deep inside, I still felt a flutter: what if this is a chance, a sign—something more should happen tonight…
By evening I staggered back to the room half-asleep, dragging my legs up each step. Hope, inner excitement, and faith in fate had mostly collapsed by now, proving to be a sham.
But not entirely.
I had managed to advance to the last step of the initial level—the solid light-black. The core polyhedron stopped being raven-black, no longer swallowing light. Its structure changed: the outgoing channels thickened, no longer resembling fine hairs.
This time the room was not half-empty; the roommates had all decided to return on time. For over a week I had seen no one but Akefir. Apparently, none of them felt like trudging through the rain in the city, so we were all hunkered down here.
Braig was the first to jump at the sound of the creaking door. Seeing me, he immediately jumped off his bed. No lamp was needed to see how glad he was of my return.
"I heard they suspended you from lessons," he began with a sneer, slinging an arm around my shoulders. His fingers dug in, squeezing ever tighter as if testing my endurance. Then he rose on tiptoe, coming closer; hot breath blew in my ear. "So you won't be chatting with the professors… Pity about you."
"Step away. That shiny head's blinding me," I said tiredly, reaching out to push him aside.
A deep, restrained chuckle sounded behind him. The short fellow's shoulders tensed, jaws clamped so that teeth gritted. I lowered my eyes and saw him shift his weight, repositioning his lead leg. Faint brown threads appeared on his knuckles—hard to see in the dim light of the twin bedside lamps.
"Mudil, I see you've been relaxing without me," Braig spat, whipping his fist into a hook.
The threads contracted into a solid layer of stone.
I didn't react fast enough—his blow grazed my cheek. The rocky knuckles scored my skin. There was almost no pain, just an unpleasant throbbing heaviness. Crimson threads flared under my eye, all too familiar, begging to be pulled.
Braig, seeing I hadn't collapsed, pressed on. He stepped forward, raising his other arm; soon new brown threads gathered around it. His face twisted with fury.
This situation was truly infuriating. My tired body no longer felt light—dodging was getting harder. The second straight punch hit my jaw. I flew into the doorway. Something cracked—jaw, spine, or the door itself, I couldn't tell.
There was no pain. Instead, the world blurred: my eyelids fell unbidden, strength draining like a mountain river. With the last of my willpower, I kept the left eye open a slit. Through a web of crimson threads—so many there shouldn't have been—I saw them extend not only from the slashed cheek but from my mouth and my chin as well.
I tried to reel them back. Imagine squeezing and twisting them, compressing everything inward.
The threads vanished, and everything got easier. Suddenly. As if someone had returned the stolen air. I ran my fingers along my cheek—it was dry. My chin was intact. But a few crimson threads still trailed from my mouth. My innards felt worse.
This time I didn't try to "gather" them. I pulled them outward.
A taste of blood filled my tongue. Parting my lips, a warm, thick stream poured out along with the threads. I aimed it sharply—like a beam—at the blowhard's leg. The stream jerked forward and pierced his thigh as if flesh were nothing but wet cloth.
He had just relaxed, thinking I was out cold. He turned away to his buddies, chuckling and raising his fists—figuring they should stop laughing at his bald head.
His chuckle died on a breath.
His leg gave out. He fell to a knee and screamed, not so much from pain as from sheer terror. Blood poured out so freely that it was immediately clear: this wasn't just a "scratch." Someone in the room yelped, and someone else slunk against the wall. Crimson threads streamed from the wound in a thick, voluminous flow. Any attempt to stop it was useless.
Until a moment.
I remembered my first uses of mana—simple, nearly harmless things. I raised my hand to the threads. Curiosity flared: the shade was no different, same color. Same blood. My thought formed too quickly: could I return the already released blood by using an external source?
I beckoned the threads with a finger. They complied. The flow obeyed, coiling into a knot. With each twist, Braig screamed louder, until, choking on snot and his cry, he flipped onto his back and tore at his pants. His pierced thigh widened with each coil. I stopped—another moment would have been too much.
The coiled clump hung motionless, solidifying into a fist-sized mass of coagulated blood. Braig thrashed as he saw the blood sphere hovering in the air, then went limp, unconscious.
Splitting the clot in half was easier than creating it. I guided one half to myself, the other back to the owner. His thigh was closer; I watched the flesh draw the blood back toward itself, edges knitting closed. The sphere retracted into my fingertip, and a rush of vigor hit me instantly. As if someone had thrown cold water on me: muscles filled with strength, breath evened. I felt fresher and more resilient than after the best sleep.
I straightened slowly, leaning on the doorframe. A chord of satisfaction and strange clarity tightened in my chest. I looked at the two remaining roommates; terror was unmistakable in their eyes. The kind that chills you to the bone and steals not only movement but thought.
Braig's leg had healed but was still bleeding, dark spots spreading on the floor. So I spoke quietly, politely, to my others: "Please, take him to the infirmary. He doesn't look well," I nodded toward Braig.
With glassy eyes, they nodded in unison. Not even putting on shoes, they bolted from their places, lifting him under the arms and carrying him off. I held the door for them, being a good neighbor.
Once they were gone behind the door, I exhaled slowly. The room smelled of blood and mildew—my blood, mixed with the rainwater brought in on clothes. My gaze fell to the floor: dark stains pooled on the boards. A few crimson droplets trembled, faintly reflecting the lamp's light.
I had to crouch and touch one of the puddles with my fingers. The blood was still warm. I traced it with my finger, and the crimson threads reluctantly reached for my hand, gathering into a small ball. The other droplets followed, merging into one mass. Moments later the floor was clean again, and a trembling ball of blood the size of a cherry lay in my palm.
A short pause—accustomed to carelessness, this was oddly precise. Previously such control seemed impossible: even simply drawing out threads took effort and always left traces. Now it happened as if by chance, like sweeping something out of the way.
The question hung in the air: was it adrenaline? Or perhaps the fact that I finally stopped holding back and let my abilities run free?
I didn't have to dwell long. Twelve days of endless caution—only to lose vigilance for a moment, and a classmate bleeds out. Irony was cruel: I'd rather have given anything, and two remained alive. That was enough.
I sighed. No regrets about Braig—he'd brought it on himself. What worried me more was what the others had seen. They certainly wouldn't go spreading rumors about the method—the fear in their eyes was too obvious. They'd not want a repeat confrontation, not even in conversation. Hopefully they'll keep quiet… at least, I hoped so.
I collapsed onto the bed and focused inward, checking my core. It pulsed steadily, like a second heart. The dark-green polyhedron spun faintly, glowing dimly. Its channels ran warm—I could feel the difference. They were wider, and stronger than they had been a half-hour ago. I was no longer stalled: I had taken a step up to the next level.
The door creaked so loudly my ears popped—that grating sound yanked me from my trance. I slowly turned my head. Two figures filled the doorway: my roommates. They peered inside as if into a cage with a wild beast. Their eyes darted around the room, but upon meeting mine, both flinched, as though I had scalded them.
They stood there a minute, shifting from foot to foot, whispering quickly to each other. Either deciding who would enter first or whether to flee altogether. Akefir gave up first. Not meeting my eyes, he slipped in like a guilty cat, heading straight to his bed.
"What did the nurse say?" I asked quietly, but clearly, over his shoulder.
In the silence, it rang like a hammer blow. He jumped and spun around quickly. His face was in shadow, but his tense shoulders made his fear clear.
"She… she said, 'Nightmare… nightmare,'" he mumbled as if trying to remember. "Then she dashed off to her place. Came back rushing with a bunch of stuff, told us not to bother her."