BAM!
SPLASH!
The training trunk shook from top to bottom.
A compressed whirl of water exploded against its right side, blasting shards of wet bark several meters away. When the pressure fell, nearly ten centimeters of wood had been torn from the surface it had struck. Not enough to bring the trunk down, but more than enough to rip a chunk of flesh from a man.
Davin remained still, his arm still extended.
A spinning sphere of water had just dissipated into the air, leaving only cold moisture and the green scent of split wood behind.
I finally did it.
The spell was slow, unstable, still badly aimed.
But it existed.
It had a simple name: Swirling Water Sphere.
A basic Adept spell, according to the book. Basic did not mean easy. Davin had understood that from the first attempt, when his water had simply collapsed onto the ground with all the dignity of an overturned basin.
On paper, the logic seemed almost insultingly simple: create a mass of water, stabilize it, compress it, impose rotation, then launch it. Five steps clear enough to create the illusion of mastery, and five distinct opportunities to fail completely.
The standard Water Sphere spell could be used for many things: producing water, moving it, pouring it, sending it forward with moderate pressure. But the swirling version changed the nature of the impact. The water no longer struck only as a liquid mass; it gnawed, tore, drilled, then burst outward in a brutal spray of pressure.
A small drill made of mana and force.
Davin slowly lowered his hand.
It had taken him two weeks to form his first proper Water Sphere. Four more days to succeed with this modified variant. It was not merely a matter of mana. A Mage had to know every detail of a spell's structure: its flow, rhythm, mental image, breaking points, incantation, activation.
Modifying a spell meant touching a mechanism while it was moving.
Combining multiple effects was even worse.
The Swirling Water Sphere was not a great spell. For Davin, however, it represented something precious: proof.
Not only that he could cast a spell.
That he could understand, adjust, and obtain a result different from what the manual intended.
That mattered more than a small victory.
It was a method.
[BEEP. Spell analysis complete.]
[Observed structure: 78% stable.Rotation: irregular.Compression: acceptable.Trajectory deviation: 14.7 degrees to the right.Recommendation: wrist correction and flow stabilization before projection.]
The aim is still mediocre. But with the A.I., this will become terrifyingly efficient.
He inhaled slowly.
The days had passed at a strange speed.
Arcane speech lessons, translated reading, physical training, meditation under the crystal, repetition of the basics, one-hour visits to the library: again, again, and again, as the days slipped by. His body protested, his mind grew heavy, and the reasonable part of him demanded rest. He tried to ignore it, as always, but sometimes he had no choice but to let go and sleep a few hours longer.
The common language was beginning to settle in.
So was arcane grammar.
As for spoken arcane, it remained difficult, but his progress was real. His mouth found certain sounds more easily. His breathing no longer ruined one incantation out of two. His mana responded better to the activation syllables.
He was no longer blind before symbols.
He was no longer entirely deaf before sounds.
Some students spent months building a proper foundation. Without the A.I., Davin had no certainty he would have been exceptional. Perhaps he would have been merely decent. Perhaps even mediocre, with enough pride to lie to himself and too little talent to survive believing it.
The thought did not irritate him.
Not really.
A lever remained a lever, even if the hand using it had nothing divine about it. The important thing was not whether the advantage was fair. The important thing was to exploit it before someone else discovered how to tear it away from him.
He extended his hand toward the trunk again.
This time, he did not chant.
He simply circulated his mana, feeling the zones of tension in his wrist, his shoulder, his breathing. The A.I. overlaid the corrections mentally, but Davin did not cast the spell again.
Not yet.
The training courtyard was busy enough for caution. Several students practiced at a distance, each absorbed in their own failures. A boy in midnight blue was trying to maintain three water blades around him; the third collapsed onto his boots every time with humiliating consistency. Farther away, a girl in red hammered a wooden mannequin with mana-reinforced fists, her face closed, her knuckles already reddened despite the protection.
No one was really watching him.
Which did not mean no one could see him.
Davin closed his fingers.
Another two weeks and I might be able to hit what I'm aiming at without apologizing to chance.
He left the training area without hurrying.
The success of the spell should have satisfied him more. It did, of course. But above all, it revealed the size of the gap. He knew one imperfect water spell, had a few basics of reading, a few saber movements, a handful of information stolen from the library, and an anomaly in his chest that he could show to no one.
In a village, that would have been enough to make him someone.
At Aethelgard, it made him an interesting recruit to dissect socially.
He quickly washed his hands at a stone basin, recovered his saber, and crossed the outer grounds. The Academy buzzed around him with its usual activity: dull impacts from the martial courtyards, dry detonations behind closed amphitheaters, hurried whispers from students burdened with books, smells of food drifting from the refectories, traces of mana clinging to the stone like invisible dust.
He passed a group of candidates being escorted toward the exit by two staff members.
A new test had probably just ended.
Some wore the empty stare of people who had just understood their dream had been allowed to breathe only so it could be strangled more cleanly.
Davin did not slow down.
Good luck to you. Or not. This world rarely runs out of replacements.
He continued toward the back of the estate.
To reach the alchemical sector, he had to cross part of the inner gardens, then skirt the mission buildings. It was a busy route. Recruits in gray, students in red, green, off-white, or lavender violet came and went, some in a hurry, others carrying bags, crates, or vials protected in leather cases.
In front of the great mission hall, the air was louder.
An immense board covered the outer wall, saturated with pinned parchments, colored seals, and sketches of beasts. Several counters opened directly onto the courtyard, where students came to declare departures, collect authorizations, or exchange components for points.
It was the perfect place for opportunities.
And therefore, naturally, for parasites.
Davin noticed them before they called out to him.
Five students in red occupied the passage. Their weaponry sector clothes were well-fitted, reinforced at the shoulders and forearms, with Aethelgard's castle embroidered on the chest. None wore a visible star, but their sabers, short spears, and reinforced gloves announced their domain before they even spoke.
They were not extraordinarily powerful.
They did not need to be.
Together, their pressure exceeded what an isolated recruit could ignore.
One of them, a tall student with cropped hair, had just blocked a gray-clad student who was trying to pass with a purse clutched against him.
"You going on a mission?"
"No, I… I'm just going to check the boards."
"So you're planning to leave soon. That takes preparation."
The gray student stepped back.
"I don't have—"
The punch came.
Sharp, short, violent.
It smashed into his mouth. A clean crack followed, and the student dropped to his knees, one hand pressed over his lips. When he opened his fingers, a white tooth rolled into his palm, covered in blood.
One of the red students burst out laughing.
"Now you've got something to offer. A lesson for everyone."
No one intervened.
Students passed around them with their eyes turned away. A few slowed to watch, then continued on. A mission hall employee glanced over from a counter, sighed, and returned to his registers.
Davin understood immediately.
It was not forbidden.
Not really.
Not here.
The Academy did not punish extortion between students as long as it remained within a certain limit. No public murder. No damage to important property. No attack against the wrong person's protégé.
The rest was part of the ecosystem.
Kings and dogs. Administrative counter version.
The leader of the red students turned toward him.
"You. Gray. Where are you going?"
Davin stopped.
Five against one. No allies. No spell fast enough to neutralize the group. His saber would change nothing. He might be able to injure one, two with luck and surprise; afterward, the others would crush his ribs until breathing became an interesting theory.
He relaxed his expression.
Neutral, without visible submission, without useless provocation.
"Alchemical sector. No mission."
The tall red student looked him over.
His gaze caught on the starless castle embroidered on Davin's chest.
"Adept?"
"Initial."
"You got money?"
Davin did not answer too quickly. Lying outright to five useless predators would gain him nothing. Showing too much would be no better.
"Ten silver coins."
Another red student snickered.
"Ten coins? What kind of Adept walks around with only that?"
The kind who knows how to count his chances of survival.
The leader held out his hand.
"Show me."
Davin looked at him for a second. Not long enough to provoke. Just long enough to carve his face into memory.
Then he took out the ten silver coins and placed them in the outstretched palm.
The red student weighed them in his hand, made them clink between his fingers, then shrugged.
"No mission, no loot. You can leave."
He closed his fist over the coins.
Davin did not move.
A second passed.
Then he turned on his heel.
Ten silver coins to avoid five fractures, a longer public humiliation, and several days lost recovering. An acceptable rate.
He had not forgotten the leader's face.
He would not forget the price either.
The other red students had already turned their attention to a group of three recruits leaving the mission hall with heavier purses. There, they became more insistent. A hand on a shoulder. A smile. A low threat. One of the gray recruits quickly handed over several copper coins and a yellowish vial. Another protested, received a slap hard enough to spin him halfway around, then paid.
Davin had nothing left to put away.
He left at a normal pace, with no theatrical slowness, no haste.
I can't do anything today.
The thought was cold, clear, unpleasant.
But I won't forget your faces.
The rule was simple: if they targeted the apprentice of an important professor, the consequences could go far beyond a simple sanction. Expulsion would almost be gentle compared to what an offended Mage could do to students without backing.
But Davin was not anyone's apprentice yet. For now, he was only a gray recruit with a crest on his chest, visible enough to attract attention and not protected enough to make anyone fear the consequences.
He continued toward the alchemical sector.