"Explain to me again why our instruments exploded."
Archmage Celethine stood in the Academy's monitoring chamber, surrounded by smoking ruins of what had been sophisticated magical detection equipment. Her black eyes fixed on the technician with an intensity that made the poor woman visibly sweat.
"I... I don't know, Archmage," the technician stammered. "Six days ago, there was a massive energy spike from the labyrinth's central chamber. Off the scale. Our equipment registered it for approximately seventeen seconds before catastrophic failure."
"Seventeen seconds," Celethine repeated. "And in those seventeen seconds, what did you detect?"
The technician consulted her notes with shaking hands. "Reality manipulation on a scale we've never recorded. Fundamental restructuring of existence parameters. Something... something edited the universe's base code, Archmage."
Celethine turned to face the window overlooking the Academy grounds. Below, students went about their daily routines, unaware that reality itself had been fundamentally altered less than a week ago.
"Which team was in the central chamber at that time?"
"Group Seventeen. Team leader Kael Mordren. Members: Lyris Thorn, Mira Ashten, Brick Stoneheart, and..." The technician paused. "Qaftzi'el Aigle."
"The lucky survivor."
"Yes, Archmage."
Celethine smiled, and the temperature dropped. "Bring me everything we have on Qaftzi'el Aigle. Every test result, every observation, every instructor report. I want to know who—or what—that boy really is."
I woke to someone pounding on my dormitory door.
Not knocking. Pounding. The kind of aggressive percussion that suggested either emergency or imminent violence.
I opened the door to find Lyris, crackling with more lightning than usual.
"We need to talk," she said. "All of us. Now."
Twenty minutes later, our entire team sat in a secluded corner of the Academy's eastern garden—a space protected by privacy wards that Kael had meticulously activated.
"Okay," Lyris said without preamble. "We need to establish some ground rules about what happened in the labyrinth."
"Do we though?" I asked. "Can't we just... not talk about it?"
"No," Kael said firmly. "We can't. Because whatever you did—whatever you are—it's going to have consequences. The Academy monitors everything. They know something happened."
"They know energy happened," I corrected. "They don't know what or why."
"They'll investigate," Mira said quietly. "They always investigate anomalies. And we're the anomaly."
Brick nodded his massive head. "Questions will come."
I sighed. They were right, of course. Mortals were endlessly curious about things that didn't fit their frameworks. It was one of their more endearing and frustrating qualities.
"Alright," I said. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything," Lyris said. "Start with what you actually are."
I considered how to explain existence that predated explanation.
"I'm what happens when consciousness emerges before reality establishes rules about what consciousness can be," I said. "I exist outside the normal hierarchies. Nascent God or Narrative Absolute God, if you need a classification, though that's imprecise. I'm not more powerful than lower tiers—I'm orthogonal to the concept of tiers entirely."
"That's not helpful," Kael said.
"Would you prefer a metaphor? Imagine reality is a book. Most beings are characters in the book. Some powerful beings can read ahead in their chapter or flip back to earlier pages. I'm the person holding the book. I can read it, edit it, rewrite sections if necessary. I'm not stronger than the characters—I'm categorically different."
"That's terrifying," Mira whispered.
"Is it? I think it's quite practical."
"Why are you here?" Lyris demanded. "Why pretend to be a student? What's your actual goal?"
"Entertainment," I said honestly. "And curiosity. I've existed for so long that most experiences blur together. But watching mortals—watching you—navigate existence with your limited time and unlimited determination... that's endlessly fascinating."
"So we're entertainment to you?" Lyris's voice carried an edge.
"No. You're..." I struggled for words. "You're beautiful. All of you. You rage against infinity with candle flames and call it defiance. You build towers toward heaven with matchsticks and faith. You know you're temporary and you live anyway. That's not entertainment—that's inspiration."
Silence.
"That's actually kind of sweet," Brick said eventually.
"Don't encourage him," Kael muttered. Then, to me: "Can you at least try to be more... normal? If the Academy discovers what you are, there's no telling what they'll do."
"Define normal."
"Stop talking to inanimate objects. Stop making reality bend around you. Stop drawing cats during apocalyptic events."
"But I like drawing cats."
"Qaftzi'el."
"Fine, fine. I'll attempt normality. Though I should warn you, my understanding of 'normal' might be outdated. Last time I seriously tried fitting in with mortals, they were still figuring out fire."
"Just... try," Kael pleaded.
"I'll do my best. Which, given my capabilities, should result in at least mediocre normality."
"I'll take mediocre," Lyris said. "Now, one more thing. That entity in the labyrinth—the starlight cat thing. What was that?"
"A Reality Patch. Someone's attempt to fix fundamental errors in this universe's existence code. It had been dormant for... probably several thousand years? Time is weird when you exist in maintenance subroutines."
"And you just fixed it. Casually."
"It wasn't casual. It was extremely complex and required precise understanding of seventeen-dimensional harmonic resonance. I just made it look casual because I'm very good at pretending things are easier than they are."
"Why?" Mira asked. "Why fix it? You could have left it broken."
I looked at her, surprised by the question. "Because if I hadn't fixed it, in twenty thousand years, this universe would collapse. Everything and everyone in it would cease to exist. All the beautiful, temporary, defiant lives would end not because their time came naturally, but because of a coding error."
"Twenty thousand years is a long time," Brick observed.
"Not really. Not cosmically speaking. And besides—" I smiled, not The Smile, just genuine warmth "—you're my friends. I'd rather your universe continue existing. Call me sentimental."
"You saved all of existence because we're friends?" Lyris said incredulously.
"Yes. Is that strange?"
"That's possibly the most significant act of friendship in history."
"Is it? It seemed like the minimum acceptable friendship behavior. Should I have done more? I can do more if needed."
Kael rubbed his temples. "Please don't do more. My brain can't handle your version of 'more.'"
"Fair enough."
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching other students pass through the garden, unaware that the weird group in the corner had recently prevented universal heat death.
"So," Lyris said eventually, "what's your actual power level? If you had to fight, how strong are you?"
"I don't really fight," I said.
"But if you did?"
"I'd rewrite the concept of 'fighting' so that I'd already won before the fight started. Or I'd edit the opponent's existence so they never wanted to fight in the first place. Or I'd restructure causality so the conditions for fighting never arose. Combat is surprisingly flexible when you're working at the narrative level."
"That's horrifying," Kael said.
"That's efficient," I corrected. "Why punch someone when you can convince reality they were never a threat?"
"Most people don't have that option."
"Most people are missing out."
"That's not—never mind." Kael stood up. "We should get to class. We've already attracted enough attention by scoring perfect marks on the labyrinth trial."
"Oh right, classes!" I jumped up. "What do we have today?"
"Advanced Magical Theory with Instructor Velith," Mira said. "Then Combat Applications with Instructor Thane, and ending with Practical Spellwork in the laboratory sections."
"Sounds educational. I promise to only break reality a little bit."
"Please don't break it at all," Kael said.
"I'll do my best. No promises though. Reality is surprisingly fragile."
Advanced Magical Theory proceeded normally for approximately thirty minutes.
Then Instructor Velith decided to discuss impossible magical phenomena.
"There are certain magical effects," she lectured, her fingers weaving light diagrams, "that are theoretically possible but practically impossible. Reality manipulation, for instance. True reality manipulation—not illusions or temporary alterations, but fundamental restructuring of existence parameters."
I kept my head down, diligently drawing a cat wearing a wizard hat.
"According to all known magical theory, reality manipulation requires power sources that simply don't exist. You would need energy equivalent to a collapsing star, channeled through a consciousness capable of comprehending seventeen-dimensional mathematics, focused through a will strong enough to override existence itself."
The cat in my drawing now held a staff labeled "REALITY STICK."
"In short," Velith continued, "reality manipulation is impossible. Anyone claiming otherwise is either delusional or—"
"What if someone just did it anyway?" I asked.
The classroom fell silent.
Velith turned to face me slowly. "Excuse me?"
"Well, you said it's impossible based on known theory. But what if the theory is incomplete? What if reality manipulation isn't about power or comprehension or will, but about understanding that reality is more of a suggestion than a rule?"
"Reality is not a suggestion, Mr. Aigle."
"Isn't it though? I mean, we all agree that up is up and down is down, so that's where up and down are. But if we all agreed that purple was a direction, wouldn't purple become a direction?"
"That's not how physics works."
"Physics is just applied consensus. Everyone agrees on the rules, so the rules exist. But the rules aren't fundamental—the agreement is fundamental."
Velith stared at me with an expression that suggested she was reconsidering her career choices. Again.
"Mr. Aigle, that is the most aggressively incorrect understanding of magical theory I've encountered in thirty years of teaching."
"Is it incorrect, or is it just uncomfortable?"
"It's incorrect. Reality has objective laws that exist independent of observation or belief."
"Does it? How do you know? Have you ever observed reality without observing it? That's rather paradoxical, don't you think?"
A student in the front row started laughing, then tried to disguise it as a cough.
Velith pinched the bridge of her nose—I was collecting this gesture from every instructor—and said, "Mr. Aigle, reality manipulation is impossible. End of discussion."
"Okay," I said agreeably. "But hypothetically, if someone did manipulate reality, would you even know? Maybe reality gets manipulated all the time and we just don't notice because our memories of the previous reality get updated too."
"That's—" Velith paused. "That's actually a legitimate philosophical position in advanced metaphysical theory. How did you know about that?"
"Lucky guess?"
She studied me suspiciously, then shook her head. "Class dismissed. Read chapters seven through nine for tomorrow. Mr. Aigle, please stay behind."
My team shot me worried looks as they filed out. I gave them a cheerful thumbs up that did not seem to reassure them.
Once the classroom was empty, Velith sat on the edge of her desk and regarded me with calculating eyes.
"You're an unusual student, Mr. Aigle."
"Thank you!"
"That wasn't a compliment."
"Oh. Should I give it back?"
"What I mean is—" She chose her words carefully. "Your entrance exam results were statistically impossible. Your labyrinth performance exceeded all projections. And your theoretical understanding seems to simultaneously demonstrate complete ignorance and profound insight."
"I'm a walking contradiction," I agreed. "It's part of my charm."
"What are you really, Qaftzi'el?"
The question hung in the air between us.
I could lie. Could deflect. Could make a joke that would let us both pretend this conversation hadn't happened.
But Velith was smart. Perceptive. And genuinely curious rather than threatening.
"I'm someone very old trying to understand what it means to be young," I said quietly. "I'm someone who's seen everything trying to see things for the first time. I'm someone pretending to be normal because actual normality seems wonderful and I'd like to experience it."
Velith processed this. "That's not really an answer."
"It's the most honest answer I can give without causing problems."
"Problems for whom?"
"Everyone. Me, you, the Academy, reality in general. Some truths are better left as mysteries."
She studied me for a long moment, then sighed. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But Mr. Aigle—if you're going to attend this Academy, please try to learn at least some conventional magical theory. Your current approach will either revolutionize the field or get you expelled for dangerous incompetence."
"Can it be both?"
"Please don't make it both."
"I'll do my best. Which, as established, should result in mediocre normality."
"I'll take mediocre at this point."
She dismissed me with a wave, and I escaped into the hallway where my team waited.
"What happened?" Kael asked immediately.
"She asked what I was. I gave a vague answer. She accepted it because the alternative was more paperwork than she wanted to deal with."
"That's it?" Lyris said skeptically.
"That's it. Sometimes honesty disguised as mystery is more believable than elaborate lies."
"Your approach to deception is insane," Kael muttered.
"Thank you!"
"Still not a compliment."
We made our way to Combat Applications, which promised to be interesting in new and potentially catastrophic ways.
Instructor Thane stood in the combat arena, arms crossed, scowling at the assembled first-years.
"Today," he announced, "we begin practical combat assessment. You will face opponents scaled to your current skill level. The goal is not victory—it's demonstrating proper technique, tactical thinking, and survival instinct."
He gestured to the arena floor, where magical circles glowed with contained power.
"You will face constructs—magically animated opponents that adapt to your responses. They cannot kill you, but they can hurt you. A lot. Medical staff are standing by."
That seemed ominous.
"We'll begin with individual assessments. Volunteers?"
Nobody volunteered.
Thane's eyes swept the crowd and landed on me. Of course they did.
"Mr. Aigle. You survived the entrance exam through impossible luck and the labyrinth through unexplained circumstances. Let's see how you handle a controlled combat scenario."
I walked to the arena floor, feeling my team's worried gazes on my back.
The magical circle activated, and a construct materialized—a humanoid figure made of solid shadow, armed with a sword that radiated cold.
"Begin," Thane commanded.
The construct attacked immediately, sword whistling toward my head.
I stood perfectly still.
The sword passed through where I was, but I wasn't there anymore—I was three feet to the left, having simply edited my position slightly.
The construct adapted, launching a flurry of strikes.
I avoided each one by not being where the strikes were. Not dodging, exactly—just continuously updating my location to exclude "places where swords currently exist."
"Mr. Aigle," Thane called out, "you're supposed to fight back."
"Am I?" I called back. "You said the goal was survival and proper technique. I'm surviving very well."
"That's not—defend yourself properly!"
The construct intensified its assault, adding magical projectiles to its sword strikes.
I continued my not-quite-dodging, reality-editing approach to combat avoidance.
Then, just to make it interesting, I walked up to the construct and tapped it gently on what might have been its chest.
"Tag," I said. "You're it."
The construct froze, confused by this unexpected input.
Then it exploded into harmless shadows.
The arena fell silent.
"Did he just..." someone whispered.
"He defeated a combat construct by playing tag," another student said.
Thane stared at me with an expression of profound frustration. "That's not how combat works."
"Worked pretty well just now," I pointed out.
"You didn't fight. You didn't use magic. You didn't employ any recognizable combat technique."
"I survived without taking damage and neutralized the threat. Isn't that the definition of successful combat?"
"That's—you—" Thane struggled for words. "How did you even do that? The construct should have adapted to your movement patterns."
"Maybe it did. Maybe I just move in patterns that don't exist yet, so it couldn't predict them."
"That's impossible."
"And yet."
Thane dismissed me with a gesture that suggested he was contemplating early retirement. "Return to the observation area. Someone else volunteer before I have an aneurysm."
I rejoined my team, who stared at me with varying expressions of amusement and exasperation.
"You're doing this on purpose," Kael accused.
"Doing what?"
"Being weird in ways that seem impossible but technically aren't rule-breaking."
"Is that wrong?"
"It's chaotic."
"Chaos is just order we haven't recognized yet," I said sagely.
"Please stop quoting philosophy at me when you've just defeated a combat construct by playing tag."
"Why? The two things are related. Tag is fundamentally about spatial awareness and timing, which are core combat principles."
"That's not—you know what, I give up. Be weird. Break combat theory. I no longer care."
"You definitely care," Lyris said. "You care so much it's painful to watch."
"Shut up, Lyris."
The rest of Combat Applications proceeded more normally, with students demonstrating actual fighting techniques against their constructs. Most performed adequately. Lyris was spectacular, her lightning creating a storm that would have been lethal if the construct hadn't been specifically designed to tank elemental damage.
As we left class, heading toward the laboratory sections for Practical Spellwork, I noticed a figure watching us from across the courtyard.
Archmage Celethine.
Her black eyes met mine, and she smiled.
I smiled back—not The Smile, just acknowledgment.
She held my gaze for a moment, then vanished, leaving only the faintest ripple in space.
"That was ominous," Mira whispered.
"Very," I agreed.
"Should we be worried?" Brick asked.
"Probably. But worrying won't help, so let's focus on immediate concerns. Like Practical Spellwork. I'm excited about Practical Spellwork!"
"You're going to accidentally create something terrible, aren't you?" Kael said.
"I promise to only accidentally create minor terrors. Major terrors are for weekends."
"I hate everything about this conversation."
But he was smiling as he said it.