The week before classes began settled into a rhythm that Oryth found surprisingly comfortable.
Each morning, he woke early—before the sun had fully risen, before the dormitory corridors filled with the sounds of other students stirring. He'd dress in his training clothes and head to the grounds while the air was still cool and the world was quiet. The training grounds were empty at that hour, giving him space to work through his physical routine without an audience.
He'd start with stretching, the familiar sequence Davan had drilled into him over years of instruction. Then basic exercises—push-ups, squats, lunges, core work—pushing his body until his muscles burned and his breath came hard. After that, practice forms with a wooden sword, working through the patterns until they felt smooth and automatic. Sometimes he'd move to the archery range, spending time with the practice bows until his fingers grew raw and his aim steadied.
The physical training cleared his mind in ways nothing else could. When his body was exhausted, his thoughts stopped circling the same frustrating loops. The grief that still surfaced at unexpected moments, the guilt that sat like a stone in his chest, the desperate hope that drove him forward—all of it faded to background noise when he was focused on the simple, immediate demands of physical exertion.
After training, he'd bathe and head to the cafeteria for breakfast. Selene was usually there by then, already seated at one of the tables with a plate of food and a cup of something that steamed. She'd wave him over, and they'd eat together, the conversation easy and unforced.
Their friendship had settled into something comfortable. She was sharp and perceptive, quick to tease but equally quick to drop it when she sensed he wasn't in the mood. She asked questions that showed genuine interest—about his family, his home, his training—and she listened to his answers without the dismissiveness he'd half-expected from someone of her standing.
In return, she shared fragments of her own life. Her family's holdings along the northern coast, the expectations that pressed down on her, the careful dance of noble politics she'd grown up navigating. She never complained directly about her circumstances, but he could read between the lines. The title she'd inherit came with chains she couldn't break.
Sometimes they'd spar after breakfast, and those sessions were always interesting. Selene was genuinely skilled with a blade—not the casual competence of someone who'd had a few lessons, but the practiced ability of someone who'd trained seriously for years. She moved with a fluid grace that made her attacks hard to predict, and her footwork was impeccable.
She won more often than not. Oryth let her, most of the time. Not deliberately throwing matches, but not pushing himself to his full capabilities either. The physical enhancement he'd built through years of mana training gave him advantages she didn't know about, and using them would have raised questions he didn't want to answer. So he kept his speed and strength within normal bounds, let her win her victories, and learned from watching how she moved.
Occasionally, when he saw an opening she'd left, he'd take it. A clean strike that she hadn't expected, a feint that drew her guard the wrong way, a counter that caught her off balance. He never let the victories come too easily—always made it look like he'd gotten lucky, like she'd made a mistake rather than him being genuinely better.
She'd grumble about those losses, but there was always a gleam in her eyes when it happened. She liked being challenged. Liked having to work for her wins.
"One of these days," she said after one such match, rubbing her shoulder where his wooden sword had connected, "you're actually going to hurt me."
"You attacked too quickly," he said, not bothering to hide his grin. "Left your flank open."
"Flank. Listen to you, talking like a real soldier."
"My teacher was a soldier and he was pretty good."
"Clearly not good enough to teach you proper defense. I still got you three times."
"Two of those were lucky."
"Luck is a skill."
The afternoons were for meditation. He'd retreat to his room—or sometimes find a quiet corner of the grounds where he wouldn't be disturbed—and turn his attention inward. The first channel he'd opened had been pure luck—a fluke breakthrough on his first attempt that had given him a glimpse of his childhood classroom. But the adjacent channels? Those were proving to be the slowest, most frustrating work he'd ever undertaken.
He'd found a particular blockage that felt different from the others. Not weaker, exactly, but more... promising. Like it led somewhere significant. He'd been focusing on it for days now, pushing mana against its resistance with the kind of stubborn persistence that came from years of nightly training.
Progress was almost imperceptible. He'd work at it for an hour, two hours, with nothing to show for it. The blockage would yield slightly, then hold. He'd make a tiny gain, then stall. The resistance was stubborn and unyielding, like trying to force water through stone.
The mental exhaustion was immense—comparable to the early days of discovering his mana core, when every pathway felt like pushing through rock. But at least then he could feel himself making progress. Now, it felt like he was banging his head against a wall.
He remembered the book's warning clearly. The clerk had nearly given up multiple times. Had spent weeks making almost no progress. The process wasn't supposed to be quick or easy. It was supposed to be a grind.
So he kept at it. Day after day, hour after hour, focusing on that one stubborn blockage. It was the only one he'd found that seemed to have any give at all. The others were completely sealed, utterly impervious to his efforts. This one, at least, felt like it might eventually yield.
And then, finally, on the third day of focusing on it, something happened.
The blockage gave way. Not all at once, not with the sudden rush of his first breakthrough, but slowly, incrementally, like a dam finally cracking under sustained pressure. Mana trickled through newly accessible pathways, and with it came a memory—clearer than any he'd experienced before.
He was in his room from his previous life, sitting at his computer. A teenager, maybe fifteen or sixteen, with that particular look of intense concentration that only came from doing something you absolutely should not be doing. The screen glowed, the browser open, and he was searching for something that made him flush with embarrassment even now, decades and a lifetime later.
He recoiled from the memory before it could fully form, shoving it back into whatever dark corner of his brain it had crawled out of. Whatever it was, it was absolutely not worth remembering. Not useful. Not helpful. Just mortifying.
The memory faded, leaving Oryth blinking in the darkness of his dorm room, his face inexplicably warm.
He sat there for a long moment, breathing hard. All that work. All that focus. Days of pushing against that blockage, and what had he gotten for his trouble? A memory so embarrassing that even his reincarnated soul couldn't bear to relive it.
His first channel had been luck, and it had given him something useful—a glimpse of his childhood classroom, a foundation to build on. This channel had been pure effort, and it had given him... that.
He sighed, rubbed his face, and decided to focus on something more productive. Like rune translation. Or literally anything else.
---
The upperclassman tour happened three days before classes began.
A group of senior students—fourth-years, by the look of them—gathered the new intake in the main hall and split them into manageable groups. Oryth ended up with Selene and about fifteen other students, all of them following a tall girl with dark hair and a no-nonsense expression.
"My name is Vara," she announced, not bothering with pleasantries. "I'm a fourth-year specializing in combat magic. I'll be showing you the layout of the academy, explaining how things work, and answering your questions. Try to keep up and don't wander off."
The tour was thorough. Vara led them through the main buildings, pointing out classrooms and explaining which subjects were taught where. The building's design was practical rather than decorative, focused on function over aesthetic appeal. Wide corridors, well-lit spaces, multiple exits. Oryth took note of the floorplan, filing away the mental map for future reference.
The combat magic training area was an open space outside the main buildings, surrounded by tall stone walls that had clearly seen their share of spell impacts. The space was vast—large enough for students to practice safely without endangering anyone nearby. At one end stood a raised platform for demonstrations, with rows of benches arranged in a triangular shape facing it. Large blackboards on sturdy frames flanked the platform. A simple roof structure extended over the platform, the blackboards, and the student benches, shielding them from rain and sun while leaving the rest of the training ground open to the sky. The roof was visibly basic—rough-hewn timbers and plain wooden planks, nothing decorative about it. What caught Oryth's attention was how often it had clearly been repaired. Patches of newer wood stood out against older, weathered sections, and some beams showed fresh scorch marks alongside older ones. It was the kind of structure built to be cheap and easy to fix, because apparently students had a habit of accidentally destroying it.
"The combat magic training ground," Vara said, gesturing broadly. "You'll spend a lot of time here. We keep it outside because combat spells can be... destructive. Better to scorch the dirt than bring down a wall. The roof gets replaced more often than you'd think—some students have a gift for aiming poorly." A pause. "During lessons, the instructor will ward the platform for safe demonstration—anything cast on it stays contained, so you don't accidentally set your classmates on fire. Mostly."
"What do you mean, 'mostly'?" someone asked nervously.
Vara's expression didn't change. "I mean that wards can fail occasionally. Usually when someone tries to cast something they don't fully understand, or when a spell is more powerful than the instructor anticipated. Don't do that, and you'll be fine."
The healing magic classroom was nearby, a proper building with small beds lining one wall. Vara explained that the academy used prisoners who had been sentenced to death as practice subjects for the students. They were properly immobilized, of course, and heavily sedated—the prisoners didn't feel anything, and the students could practice their healing spells on living bodies without causing additional suffering. Anatomical charts covered the walls, detailed diagrams of the human body that Oryth studied with interest. The arrangement was practical, if grim—the beds were positioned so students could work in small groups, each one taking turns practicing their techniques under the instructor's supervision.
The classrooms for non-magical subjects—mathematics, biology, physics, natural philosophy—were located in a separate building. They were spacious rooms with rows of benches facing a raised lectern at the front, blackboards lining the walls. Vara explained that the Theory of Magic classes were held in these same rooms.
"Theory of Magic," Vara said as she gestured toward one of the rooms, "is where you'll learn the basics—where mana comes from, what they know about the mana core, theories about how it functions, the origins of the runic language, and the grammar rules that govern how runes can be combined. Most of your first year will be theory. You need to understand how magic works before you can effectively cast it. Some of you might find that frustrating, but trust me—it's necessary."
"The more you know about how the world actually works," Vara continued, "the better you can adjust your spells. Parameters need to be set precisely, and that precision comes from knowing what you're manipulating. A fire spell that doesn't account for the fuel's properties won't burn properly. A healing spell that doesn't understand anatomy might do more harm than good."
Oryth nodded along. Of course. He'd already known that magic worked this way—it was the same principle as programming, where understanding the underlying systems was essential for creating effective code. He'd always assumed that was obvious, that any competent mage would figure it out eventually. It was reassuring that the academy understood this too.
The library had its own building, and Oryth's pulse quickened when they approached it. He'd already visited once, but the sight of it still stirred something in him. The heavy stone walls, the high windows, the knowledge waiting inside—he couldn't wait to get his badge and start reading everything. For now, it remained forbidden fruit, just out of reach. The tour moved on, but his mind lingered on the stacks he'd glimpsed through the windows.
She led them past the library to the adjacent grounds, where a cluster of buildings housed the practical training areas. The training grounds were extensive—open courtyards for combat practice, covered pavilions for magical demonstrations, obstacle courses designed to test speed and agility.
"The dueling ground," Vara said, pointing to a wide, flat expanse marked with boundary lines. "This is where you'll earn most of your points. Matches are held weekly, starting in your second month. Winning duels is the fastest way to advance through the rankings."
"Points?" someone asked. "What points?"
Vara turned to face the group, her expression shifting to something more serious. "The academy runs on a point system. Every class has assignments, both written and practical. Those assignments are worth a certain number of points. Your duels are worth points. Even attendance is tracked—miss too many classes, and you'll lose points."
She paused, letting the information sink in.
"At the end of the year, the points are totaled. Students who don't meet the minimum requirement—" she named a number that made several of the new students wince, "—are held back. They repeat the year, with all the costs and consequences that entails."
"How many people get held back?" Selene asked.
"A few each year. It's not common, but it happens." Vara's expression softened slightly. "The good news is that the minimum is achievable. Most students who put in the work pass without issue. It's the ones who slack off, who skip classes, who don't take their studies seriously, who end up repeating."
She gestured toward the dueling ground. "The three highest-ranked students at the end of the year receive gold prizes. Significant amounts—enough to make a real difference in your lives. And beyond that, the top students receive priority for internships, research opportunities, and letters of recommendation for the King's army or other royal service."
She moved on to the dueling ground, explaining the rules and how matches were conducted. Selene fell into step beside Oryth as the group walked.
"So," she said, keeping her voice low, "planning to be one of the top three?"
"Wouldn't that be nice," he replied. "The gold would help fund my expeditions."
"Right, the ruins." She shook her head. "I still think you're insane for wanting to go into those places."
"Probably. But with enough gold, I could hire people who actually know what they're doing. Guides, guards, maybe a healer."
"Ah, so you're not planning to die alone in some forgotten crypt. That's almost responsible."
"Something like that."
She smirked. "Well, if you do make top three, at least you'll be able to afford better equipment for all that dying you plan to do."
---
The opening ceremony was held on the first day of the academic year.
The main hall had been transformed since the entrance exam. Banners hung from the ceiling, displaying the academy's crest—a simple thunderbolt, stark and unmistakable against the fabric. Oryth studied it as they filed in, wondering if the academy knew any spells that could actually create lightning. The combat magic he'd studied so far covered fire, water, air, and earth. But electricity? That would be something else entirely. Something powerful. He filed the question away for later.
Rows of chairs had been arranged facing a raised dais, and the room was packed with students in their formal robes.
Oryth sat near the back, Selene beside him. They'd arrived early enough to secure decent seats, not quite close enough to the front to draw attention but close enough to see the proceedings clearly.
The ceremony itself was formal but not overly long. The headmaster—a tall, silver-haired woman with an air of quiet authority—welcomed the new students and spoke about the importance of study, discipline, and community. She introduced the faculty, each professor rising briefly to acknowledge the applause. She outlined the expectations for the coming year and wished everyone success in their studies.
And then came the badge distribution.
Each new student was called forward individually to receive their badge—a small metal pin bearing the academy's crest, a simple thunderbolt design. Oryth had been told that the badge served as identification, and that only students wearing them could access certain areas like the library and training facilities. The librarians would recognize the badge as proof of enrollment, and the guards at various entrances would let students pass based on what the badge represented. He assumed there was some system in place to prevent forgery or theft—maybe a register of names and badge numbers. He noticed that the teachers and headmaster wore different badges—more ornate, with additional markings—and the guards had their own distinct pins as well. Clearly the badges served to distinguish rank and role within the academy, not just confirm enrollment.
The list wound through the letters, names being called and students walking forward. Oryth waited, patient, watching the faces of the new students as they received their badges. Some looked proud. Some looked nervous. A few looked like they were already regretting their life choices.
"Oryth Morvhal."
He stood and walked forward. An academy official—a severe-looking woman with a ledger—waited at the dais with a tray of badges. She checked his name against her list, took a pin from the tray, and fastened it to his robe. The metal was cool against his chest for a moment, then warmed to his body heat.
"Welcome to the academy."
Oryth returned to his seat. The weight of the badge was minimal, but the significance was enormous. This was his key to the library. His key to the knowledge he needed.
He was still examining it when Selene's name was called. She walked forward with practiced composure, had her badge pinned in turn, and returned to her seat.
Selene leaned over as she sat down. "You're staring at it like it's the most precious thing in the world."
"It is," he said quietly. "This is my library access."
Her eyebrows rose, catching the deeper meaning. "Ah. That's what all the excitement was about."
"Pretty much."
"A man of simple tastes."
"You're just jealous that I have a hobby and you don't."
The ceremony continued. More speeches, a few more formalities. But Oryth barely noticed. He was already planning his first trip to the library, already running through the list of books he needed to borrow. The badge burned against his robes like a promise.
As the ceremony wound down and students began to disperse, Selene found him standing off to one side. He was still touching the badge pinned to his robe, running his fingers over the metal, a small smile on his face.
"Still staring at it?" she asked, amusement in her voice.
"I'm super excited about finally getting access to the library, okay? You wouldn't get it."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "You're ridiculous."
"Probably."
"Definitely." She paused, then added, "Come on. We have classes to get to."
He followed her out of the hall.
---
After the ceremony, the new students dispersed to their first classes. Oryth had two sessions scheduled for the day—an introductory lecture on the theory of magic, followed by a practical combat assessment.
He was on his way to the classroom when he spotted Cael Torm in the corridor. The boy from the bookshop was wearing his own student robe, and he looked like he was heading in the same direction.
"Oryth," Cael said, brightening when he recognized him. "Good to see you. I thought I was going to fall asleep during the headmaster's speech."
"Honestly, same. I think I saw a few people actually nodding off."
Cael grinned. "At least I didn't trip on the way to get my badge. Could have made a memorable first impression."
"Probably best to save those for later."
Cael laughed. "True. Plenty of time to embarrass myself properly."
They walked together toward the theory classroom, falling into easy conversation. Cael was nervous about the work ahead—he was from a modest background, no noble family backing him, no tutors to smooth the way. He'd earned his place through sheer determination and whatever natural talent he had.
"My family can't afford to send me to the academy," Cael admitted. "The shop owner's sponsorship covers the tuition, but everything else—supplies, books, the extras—that's on me. I'm going to have to work hard to keep up."
"That's not a disadvantage," Oryth said. "Not really. The people who had everything handed to them don't always know how to work for it. You'll probably be ahead of them by the end of the year."
Cael looked at him, surprised. "You think so?"
"I know so."
The classroom was already filling up when they arrived. Oryth found a seat near the middle, Cael settling in beside him. The room was arranged with rows of benches facing the front, where the professor would stand at a raised lectern. Blackboards lined the walls on either side, already covered with diagrams and notes. It looked like any lecture hall from his previous world—familiar enough that the nostalgia hit him unexpectedly.
The professor was a portly man with a thick beard and a deep, rumbling voice. He introduced himself as Master Aldric, and his subject was the foundational principles of magical theory.
"This class," he began, "is the most important one you will take in your first year. Everything you learn in your other courses—casting, healing, combat—all of it rests on the principles we will cover here."
He launched into the first lecture without further preamble. The topic was the runic language—specifically, the individual runes that made up the basic fire sphere spell.
Oryth settled into his seat, resigned. He'd known the first lessons would cover material he'd already mastered. But knowing it didn't make sitting through it any less tedious.
"Each rune in this sequence," Aldric said, pointing to the blackboard, "represents a specific concept. This one indicates combustion. This one defines the element as fire. This one sets the size parameter..."
Oryth already knew all of this. Every rune of the four basic spells, translated into his framework, cast hundreds of times. And beyond the basics, he had his own creations—spells that existed purely in his programming syntax, a language no one else in this world could read. The standard sequences held no secrets for him.
Aldric continued, walking through the spell rune by rune, explaining each one in exhaustive detail. The lecture was thorough, methodical, and utterly useless to Oryth.
"Knowing what each rune means," Aldric emphasized, "is crucial. I believe that with a deeper understanding of the runic language—truly understanding it at this level—we will be able to construct any spell we can imagine."
He paused, his expression shifting to something more somber.
"But I must be honest with you. Our understanding is limited. The noble houses hoard their secrets—they keep entire libraries of runic sequences locked away, passed down through bloodlines for generations. Runes that could expand what we know, that could open doors we don't even know exist—all of it hidden behind walls of wealth and privilege."
Oryth's attention sharpened. This was new.
"The academy will teach you what it can," Aldric continued. "But the sad truth is that our collection is limited. The more runes we understand—the wider our vocabulary—the closer we come to that goal of creating anything we can imagine. Unfortunately, many of those runes are simply not available to us."
He let that sink in for a moment before returning to the lecture.
Oryth couldn't wait to move on to more complex spells. Or at least any spell he didn't already know. But apparently, the first-year curriculum started at the beginning—probably to not leave anyone behind. It was material he'd mastered years ago.
Oryth kept taking notes, kept his expression attentive, but his mind was already elsewhere. He'd need to find other sources of knowledge. The library, perhaps. Upper-year students. And now, thanks to Aldric's warning, the noble houses themselves—though that path would be far more difficult.
The academy clearly had more to offer, but he'd have to dig for it.
For now, he'd sit through the basics and pretend he was learning something new.
---
The class ended with a list of required texts.
"All of the required texts are available at the library," Aldric said. "You are expected to have read them before the relevant lectures. The library has multiple copies, but demand will be high, so I recommend you reserve your copies promptly."
Oryth made a note of the titles.
The nostalgia hit him unexpectedly as he gathered his things. This was so familiar—the classroom, the notes, the list of required books. It reminded him of his school days in his previous life. The academic structure, the rhythm of lectures and assignments, the thrill of learning something new.
Back then, he'd studied diligently, hoping for a well-paying job, a comfortable life, and maybe—if he was lucky—the chance to accomplish something meaningful. And now here he was, doing the same thing all over again. Study hard, get good results, hope it leads somewhere.
Something about it didn't sit right anymore. He'd done things the proper way his whole life, and all it had brought him was suffering. There was no guarantee this world would be any different. A growing urge whispered that he should take every shortcut he could find.
---
After the theory class, there was one more session scheduled—a practical combat assessment held on the outdoor training grounds.
The instructor was a woman Oryth hadn't seen before, tall and broad-shouldered with the bearing of someone who'd spent years in active combat. She introduced herself as Commander Vaelin, and her voice carried the kind of authority that didn't need to be raised to be heard.
"I'm not here to teach you anything today," she said, scanning the assembled first-years with a critical eye. "I'm here to see what you can do. Which combat spells you can cast, how well you can cast them, and where your current limits are. This will determine how we group you for future lessons."
She gestured toward the practice targets at the far end of the grounds. "One at a time. You'll cast each combat spell you're capable of. Don't try to impress me—I've seen every variation of showmanship and none of it helps. Just show me what you've actually got."
The students lined up, and one by one they stepped forward to demonstrate. Most managed two or three of the basic spells, their spheres functional but unremarkable. A few struggled with even one. A handful showed genuine skill—clean casts, decent control, the kind of foundation that suggested proper training.
When Oryth's turn came, he stepped forward and cast all four basic combat spells in sequence. He kept each one controlled—nothing flashy, nothing that would draw unwanted attention. Solid, competent casts that would place him comfortably above average without making him stand out.
Commander Vaelin watched without comment, then nodded once. "Next."
When the assessment ended, she dismissed them with a brief wave. "Results will be posted tomorrow. You're free to go."
---
The rest of the first day passed slowly. There were no more scheduled classes, so Oryth used the time to walk the corridors and familiarize himself with the layout—memorizing which staircases led where, where the notice boards were posted, and how long it took to get from the dormitories to the main academic buildings.
---
He finally got his chance in the late afternoon, returning to the building he'd already visited during the tour.
The entrance hall was cool and smelled of old paper, just as he remembered. The reception desk sat at the far end, the same woman behind it, looking up from whatever she'd been reading. She recognized him from his earlier visit and smiled.
"Back already? You're certainly eager."
"Just getting the books I need for classes," he said, returning the smile.
Her eyes flicked to the badge pinned to his robe. "Ah, you have your badge now. I remember telling you about that." She gestured toward the stacks. "Let me go over the rules quickly, since you're new. Books can be borrowed for two weeks at a time. If no one else has requested them, you can extend the loan. Lost or damaged books must be paid for—replacements aren't cheap, so take care of them. And bring them back on time."
"I understand. Thank you."
"Go ahead, then."
Beyond the desk, the building opened into reading areas—tables, chairs, quiet corners for study. The shelves lined the walls and formed aisles through the space, but it was clear that most of the square footage was dedicated to places for students to sit and read, not to house books.
The problem wasn't the quantity of books, which numbered in the hundreds. The problem was that most of what occupied the shelves were duplicates.
He pulled books from the shelves at random, checking spines and titles, and found the same volumes repeating over and over. The required texts for the first-year curriculum were stacked in enormous quantities—dozens of copies of each, presumably so every student could borrow one without waiting. Beyond those, the shelves held more copies of the same material, edition after edition, as if the library had spent its entire budget restocking the same handful of titles rather than expanding its collection.
He moved along the aisles, checking the shelves. There were other books—histories, theory texts, instructional volumes on the basic spells—but the selection was thin, and the duplicates far outnumbered anything new. The library had variety, but not depth. What was here could support the first-year curriculum and little else.
He collected his required texts first. He was pleased that the library had copies of everything on the list, so there was no need to purchase anything himself.
And the more he looked, the more he realized something else. He'd known the noble houses hoarded their secrets—Aldric had said as much—but he hadn't understood how badly. The academy's collection was limited not because magical knowledge was scarce, but because so much of it was locked away in private libraries, unavailable to anyone outside a handful of bloodlines. What remained here was the scraps, the common knowledge, the things no noble family had bothered to claim for themselves.
He also found the healing section, which was similarly modest. He chose three books on healing magic—introductory texts that covered the basics of diagnosis, treatment, and recovery. These would serve a dual purpose: he'd memorize the runic versions so he could cast them the traditional way if the need arose, and eventually he'd try to translate them into his programming syntax. But translation wasn't just a matter of filling in missing knowledge. The spells did describe how they worked—the runes explained what each part of the spell did, how the magic interacted with tissue, what it was meant to accomplish. But the descriptions weren't detailed enough for what he needed. The hardest part was the target object itself—the body the spell was meant to heal. The runes described it only in simplified terms, a rough outline of the systems involved without the depth he'd need to rebuild it properly. He also had no clear idea how the architecture of his code should even look for something as complex as healing. The spells he'd built so far were simple—projectiles, spheres, straightforward constructs. Healing was something else entirely. He hoped that reading more books on the subject, both on the body and on the spells themselves, would give him the insight he needed.
He brought his selections back to the reception desk. The librarian set down her pen and held out her hand.
"I'll need your badge for a moment."
Oryth unpinned it from his robe and passed it to her. She turned it over, examining the back, then wrote something in a ledger beside her—a number, he assumed, matching the badge to his name. After a moment, she handed it back.
"These are due in two weeks," she said, stamping the books. "Bring them back on time, and you'll be fine."
"I will. Thank you."
He left the library with a stack of books in his arms, already mentally planning how he'd organize his studies.
---
Back in his dormitory, Oryth settled into the routine that was already becoming familiar.
He began with physical training—a quick session to clear his mind and work off the tension of the day. Then he bathed, ate a light dinner at the cafeteria, and returned to his room to study.
The theory texts were shallow. Oryth worked through them quickly, and the more he read, the more convinced he became that they wouldn't give him what he was looking for. There was plenty of surface-level explanation—definitions, basic principles, the kind of material any first-year student would need—but nothing with enough depth. The details weren't there. These books could help someone better understand the runes. But for him, they didn't bring much value.
Still, the reading wasn't wasted. The familiar terminology and repeated explanations jogged something loose in his memory, bringing back fragments of knowledge he'd absorbed during his own solitary study years ago. Base principles he'd half-forgotten. Connections he hadn't consciously made at the time. It wasn't enough to solve his problem, but it was a start.
After an hour of reading, he turned to the healing texts. He worked through the spells carefully, trying to see if anything new jumped out at him. The healing spells had been far more helpful than the theory texts—the runic explanations of how the magic interacted with the body gave him a foundation to work with, even if the details were still incomplete.
Maybe he could write his own versions in his programming syntax now. Rough ones, certainly, but it would be a start.
By the time he finished, it was late. His eyes were burning with fatigue, his mind was full of runic symbols and healing theory, and his body was demanding rest.
He performed his nightly mana depletion—the familiar routine, the steady drain until his core was empty—and lay down in the darkness.
His mind drifted as sleep approached. Whatever the academy had to offer, he hoped it would be something he couldn't have figured out on his own—some insight that would push him further than solitary study ever could. He hoped it wouldn't be wasted time.