Controlled Improvement
As the first bell rang across the Academy, marking the start of the strict new timetable, George, Nana, and Kayn navigated the corridors together. They spoke in low, animated tones, exchanging stories from their month of respite.
"I'm telling you," Nana said, adjusting her bag, "the Grand Library in Elysium was incredible!"
George smiled, though his eyes remained sharp and observant. The atmosphere shifted instantly as they stepped into the General Studies hall. Professor Log stood at the front, chalk clicking rhythmically against the board. Without turning around, he wrote in large letters: NON-MAGIC PHENOMENA
"Today we focus on non-magic zones," Log announced, his voice echoing through the hall, "or, in some cultures, dead zones. What they are, why they occur, and why they are inherently lethal."
He motioned for the class to follow him outside to the training field. Bathed in the sharp morning light of the coast, four gargoyle statues stood in a square formation, weathered stone faces staring inward. "These are anti-magic conduits," Log explained, folding his hands behind his back. "Who can define the zone they create?"
Faust raised his hand tentatively. "Non-magic zones—often called dead-magic zones or anti-magic fields—are areas where magical energy and supernatural abilities cannot function, rendering them useless."
"Correct, Faust. Well done," Log nodded. "These are pockets of space where magic has ceased to function. Most span only a few yards, though historical records show some as large as entire city districts. These four statues generate a ten-foot-wide sphere that removes all magical forces within its boundary." He gestured toward the center. "Step forward. Attempt to activate your conjure balls."
One by one, the students entered the invisible boundary. George focused, attempting to channel energy into his sphere, but the device remained cold and dormant.
"It's like trying to breathe underwater," George muttered, frustration tightening his jaw.
"It's worse," Nana whispered as she stepped back out of the zone, shivering. "It's like a part of my soul just… went numb."
"The worst situation you can find yourself in," Log warned, "is one where your magic is rendered useless while surrounded by assailants. You must understand the physics of the boundary. If a fireball is cast from outside and its trajectory crosses this threshold, the energy bead simply vanishes. It does not explode. The magical fuel is severed." He paced along the field. "If a blast occurs just outside the zone, the flames expand until they meet the boundary. To those inside, it appears as fire pressing against a glass dome. Physical heat may transfer, but magical flame cannot cross."
Nana raised her hand. "Can magical creatures survive inside one?"
"A debated topic," Log admitted. "Magical beasts such as griffins or phoenixes usually survive because they are biological entities—but they are grounded. A dragon can still bite you, but it cannot breathe fire. A displacer beast loses its blur and becomes fully visible. Constructs, however—such as golems—become inert. Stone without will."
Silence fell over the class as the reality of vulnerability settled in. After hours of instruction, the bell rang, dismissing them.
The Cafeteria Confrontation
The cafeteria buzzed with conversation and clattering plates. The rich aroma of stew and spices only sharpened their hunger. George and his friends had barely begun eating when a shadow fell across their table. Magnus stood before them, his cronies close behind.
"Oh look," Magnus sneered. "The big guy whose family was exiled has made some friends. I bet you haven't told them about your family yet, huh, Kayn? Do they know they're sitting with a traitor's blood?"
Kayn went pale, his grip tightening around his spoon.
George stood slowly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor as he clenched his fists. "If you don't leave Kayn alone, Magnus," George said quietly, "I'll punch you in the face again."
Magnus's smile faltered as he instinctively touched his nose, memory flashing in his eyes. "If I recall, you went flying from my fireball last time."
George smirked. "I remember. I've been wanting to pay you back tenfold. Want to see if I've gotten faster?"
Before the tension could snap, the bell rang.
Magnus scoffed, straightening his uniform. "Saved by the bell, peasant. Don't mistake a lucky punch for talent."
The Art of Conjuration
During Conjuration Studies, Professor Jinx distributed charcoal and parchment instead of spell diagrams.
"Professor," George said, staring at the blank page, "I think I've got the wrong materials. Are we actually… drawing?"
"To conjure," Jinx replied calmly, pacing the room, "you must understand form. How can you bring something into existence if you cannot visualize every curve, every shadow, every detail? Magic begins in the mind."
George sighed, examining his crude sketch. "Looks like my infinite potential is stuck at stick figures."
Combat Studies: The Sacrifice Throw
Combat Studies began with three brutal laps under Professor Ironheart's watchful glare. "No magic!" he barked.
George was paired against Onyx.
The larger student cracked his knuckles. "Don't worry. I'll make it quick."
The fight was vicious. Onyx's fist connected with George's face, sending his vision swimming. George retaliated with a headbutt, pain exploding through his skull. Moments later, Onyx slipped behind him, locking him in a chokehold. As his vision darkened, George remembered his grandfather's voice—"Listen to the wind. Don't fight strength. Redirect it." George drove his elbow into Onyx's sternum. As the grip loosened, he dropped his weight, planted his foot, and used Onyx's momentum to hurl him over his shoulder. Onyx hit the mat with a thunderous crash. The room fell silent. George rose slowly, blood on his lip, chest heaving. Nana and Kayn rushed to his side.
"That was incredible!" Kayn said. "Where did you learn that?"
George shook his head, breathless. "I… don't know. I just did it."
Ironheart stepped forward, eyes narrowed. "Combat is not about strength alone. It is about adaptation. Flexibility is survival."
He turned to the class. "You're dismissed. Zorro will expect your aura control to match that reflex."
That evening, the group wandered the markets of Alexia, the cool air soothing George's bruised face. Lanterns flickered above the cobblestone streets. For the first time, George felt it clearly.
He wasn't there yet. But he was getting closer.