The classroom is vast.
Too clean. Too perfectly arranged.
Rows of pale stone benches descend in tiers toward a circular platform below. At its center, a simple rune-inscribed circle. No ornament. No decoration.
Everything here is functional.
The walls are smooth, barely touched by time.
This isn't a place for training.
This is where you explain.
I sit beside Brask, halfway up the room.
He glances around uneasily.
"I don't like this place," he mutters.
"Why?"
"Too quiet. Smells like rules you only understand once it's too late."
I don't answer.
A man enters.
Tall. Lean. Dark hair tied back. Hard eyes.
He doesn't smile.
He doesn't introduce himself immediately.
He observes.
Slowly.
Like he's already deciding who deserves to stay.
"Sit properly."
His voice cracks through the room like a whip.
"I am Master Relgor. Elemental Theory. Channeling and Variants. What you learn here will determine whether you become mages…"
He pauses.
"…or corpses."
A faint chill spreads across the room.
"Most of you believe fire appears because you want it to," he continues. "Wrong."
He raises his hand.
A small flame forms above his palm. Stable. Precise. Perfect.
"Fire manifests because you channel mana. Willpower alone is insufficient. Anger is insufficient. Without proper channeling, you lose control. And when you lose control…"
He closes his fist.
The flame vanishes instantly.
Silence.
"Channeling relies on focusing one or more parts of the body," he explains. "The hand is most common. The forearm. The chest. Some channel through their feet. Others through controlled breathing."
He pauses.
"Fire is never mana. It consumes mana. Always."
Brask stiffens beside me.
"A fireball," Relgor continues, "is nothing more than mana gathered and violently expelled. Nothing refined. Nothing intelligent."
A few students nod proudly.
"Shaping, however… is another matter."
I tense.
"Most of you are incapable of it. And that is normal."
His gaze sweeps the room.
It lingers on me — just for a fraction of a second.
"Now. Let us discuss elemental variants."
He snaps his fingers.
Inside a crystal, a deep red flame ignites.
Dense. Heavy.
"Carmine Fire."
A murmur spreads.
"Genetic. Exclusive to certain bloodlines. Rare. Stable. Highly effective."
He slides the flame along his arm. It adheres to his shape without burning him.
"Carmine Fire can be shaped — weapons, complex constructs. Its mana consumption is relatively low…"
He pauses.
"…for those born with it."
His eyes meet mine again.
I remain still.
"These users typically possess an above-average elemental mana reserve. That is not luck. It is hereditary."
Eyes shift toward me. Brask's jaw tightens.
"Next. Celestial Fire."
The flame shifts.
Blue.
Clear.
Almost gentle.
"Rare. Extremely rare. Not tied to any documented lineage. It may appear spontaneously at birth and be inherited."
He brings the flame to his forearm.
His skin regenerates where he deliberately burns himself.
"Celestial Fire can heal. Even severe injuries."
The flame suddenly intensifies.
"But do not mistake it for mercy. Its temperature is extreme. Its stability fragile. And its shaping capacity remains limited."
The blue fire vanishes.
"Other elemental variants follow similar principles."
A spark of lightning flashes within the crystal.
"Lightning — Superbolt. Fast. Precise. Capable of erasing a body…"
The lightning darkens to a deep crimson.
"…or an army."
A faint tremor passes through the room.
"Blood Lightning. It feeds on inflicted pain. The greater the suffering you cause…"
He lets the spark crackle violently.
"…the harder it strikes."
Students swallow.
"Earth variants: Scrap-metal — heavy, slow, lethal. Crystalline — harder than diamond. Capable of reflecting magic."
A translucent shard forms and deflects a spark cleanly.
"Water: Sacred — superior for medical application. Primordial Frost — instantaneous freezing. Capable of freezing mana itself."
Brask shifts beside me.
"Air: Compressed — extreme pressure. Cuts. Crushes. Astral — affects cognition. Breaks concentration."
Everything dissipates.
"We do not yet know the precise origin of these variants," Relgor says. "Anyone claiming certainty is lying."
He steps back.
"Now—"
A laugh cuts through the silence.
"Seriously…"
Oryn.
He stands, contempt curling at his lips.
"Some of us have gifts, Master. Others… should probably learn how to sweep the floors."
A student in the front lowers his head. A commoner. Hands clenched.
"Look at him," Oryn continues. "Channeling a spark probably takes his entire brain."
Muted laughter.
Brask stands abruptly.
"Shut up, Oryn."
Silence.
"Who do you think you are?" Oryn sneers.
"Someone who's tired of hearing you degrade everyone else."
Relgor watches.
Says nothing.
"Sit down, Brask," Oryn orders.
"Go to hell."
A ripple of tension moves through the room.
Relgor smiles.
Cold.
"Interesting."
He steps down from the platform.
"A commoner raising his voice. That is… bold."
He turns toward Brask.
"You truly believe you belong here?"
"Yes."
"On what basis?"
"On my work."
Relgor scoffs softly.
"Work does not replace blood."
My fists tighten.
"Enough," Brask says. "If you have a problem, settle it another way."
Relgor stops.
"Very well."
He raises his hand.
"Official duel. Brask Helor versus Oryn de Braiselune."
A sharp intake of breath passes through the room.
"Tomorrow. Regulated arena. Full arbitration."
Oryn smiles.
"With pleasure."
Brask doesn't look away.
"I accept."
Relgor nods once.
"Let this be a lesson you will all remember."
He turns to the class.
"In this world, theory is meaningless without domination."
His gaze locks onto mine.
"Class dismissed."
The bell rings.
I stand slowly.
Brask is breathing harder than he wants to admit.
"You sure about this?" I murmur.
"No," he answers honestly. "But I'm not staying silent."
I nod.
Tomorrow, this won't be theory anymore.
It'll be an official fight.