Morning had barely settled in, painting the sky in shades of blue and orange. The sun cast a warm, lazy glow across the academy grounds. Birds chirped with the unearned optimism of early risers, and crickets—apparently unaware their shift had ended—kept up a few half-hearted chirps from the bushes.
A week had passed since the academy began its lectures, and Alaric currently found himself trapped in one of them: Theories of Spells and Their Nature, taught by Professor Linzay Urwyn.
The classroom buzzed with the low murmur of students pretending to care. Most first-years were present, but their attention was clearly somewhere else. Whispered conversations floated through the air, mingling with the occasional shuffle of restless feet.
Meanwhile, professor Urwyn stood at the front. She wore a deep purple dress woven with gold and silver floral patterns, dignified, elegant, and utterly unimpressed with her audience.
"The general essence of all spells lies within the core of one's being," she lectured, voice crisp and cool. "It is where Ether nodes converge, allowing for optimal spell execution. Dispersion of Ether throughout the body is essential, but true mastery lies in channeling that energy toward a singular focus—"
Alaric wasn't listening.
His mind wandered, barely registering Professor Urwyn's words. His thoughts drifted elsewhere, as did most of the other students'. Today was significant for another reason entirely: the spell selection ceremony. The anticipation in the room wasn't about today's lecture. It was about what came afterward, choosing a spell from the academy's vast inventory, marking the moment where they would each begin their true path of specialization.
The moment everyone had been waiting for.
The lecture seemed like background noise as Alaric's thoughts lingered on the choice that lay ahead. Etherist societies divided experts into two broad categories: casters and close combatants.
They were fundamentally close yet infinitely far apart from one another, with both sides having their ups and downs.
Casters followed the more traditional route. They specialized in ranged magic, elemental manipulation, and intricate spell formations. Their training emphasized tapping into their Ether reserves and shaping that energy into offensive, defensive, or supportive spells. Over time, they developed a sharper connection to ambient Ether, refining their control and precision. The real strength of a caster was versatility, being able to adapt to nearly any situation with the right spell. But that came with trade-offs: casting required preparation, focus, and deep knowledge of spell mechanics.
Close combatants, by contrast, favored a more straightforward approach. They combined physical combat with Ether reinforcement, using their bodies as channels to amplify speed, power, and resilience. Their spells were quick and direct bursts of force meant to overwhelm enemies in close quarters. They trained to instinctively blend Ether with movement, reacting in real time rather than calculating from a distance.
If casters treated Ether like a sculptor molding clay, close combatants wielded it like a hammer—fast, forceful, and unforgiving. They were the frontline fighters, capable of enduring chaos up close.
So choosing a spell meant more than preference, it meant choosing a class. Once the body adapted to a certain threshold, changing paths was about as easy as reversing a waterfall.
Alaric weighed the two roads laid before him.
In his last life, he had chosen to be an elemental swordsman. Not because it was what suited him best, but because it was what was available. The system was limited back then, with few resources, and even fewer choices, no room for real innovation.
He knew that path like the back of his hand, every brutal shortcut, every hard-earned inch. It was familiar territory.
But now…
'Shadow Bolt is a caster spell,' he thought, brow furrowing. 'And the Kingsleys are known for their casting traditions. If I stick with close combat, that spell—and any others like it—might become dead weight.'
He hesitated, torn.
Close combat was the devil he knew, pure instinct, raw survival.
But casting... that was an open sky. A playground of principles and patterns, limited only by imagination and control. It was unpredictable, yes. But it also offered something close combat never could: room to create.
'I forged power out of necessity before," he thought. "But what could I become if I had real tools... and time?'
Just then, a voice interrupted his thoughts.
"You're not… nervous about the spell selection, are you?"
Alaric blinked a few times and looked beside him. It was Rowan Clarke, the tired-looking boy who always seemed one question away from giving up.
They'd ended up sitting next to each other more often than not lately. It wasn't deliberate, just the result of them both arriving late or avoiding the more crowded spaces everywhere. Over time, it became something of a pattern. Neither of them spoke much at first, but being the two habitual outcasts meant some kind of camaraderie was inevitable.
Alaric found he didn't mind it.
"Not really," he replied casually. "Are you?"
Rowan gave a small, nervous laugh, brushing a few strands of messy hair from his eyes. "I guess. It's just… well, everyone's talking about it like it's the biggest thing ever. I don't want to mess it up, you know?"
There was less tension in Rowan's voice now. When they'd first sat together, the boy had practically radiated anxiety anytime Alaric even looked in his direction. But that unease had slowly ebbed away over the past few days.
Alaric leaned back in his chair, giving a small shrug. "You're nervous because you think there's a right answer. There isn't."
Rowan glanced at him, puzzled.
Alaric continued, his voice low. "The path you choose today doesn't need to be perfect. It just needs to be yours. And the only real mistake you can make... is choosing something because someone else thinks it's better for you."
He paused, then added, "You want to know the truth? Even the best spells won't save you if your instincts are misaligned. But when you pick something that echoes the way you think—the way you move—everything starts to click. It stops being effort, it becomes natural."
Rowan blinked, like the thought hadn't occurred to him. "So... it's more about me than the spell?"
Alaric gave a half-smile, just barely. "Exactly. Spells are tools. The real weapon is the person using them. Figure out who that person is... and the rest will follow. Better do that quick though, you don't have a lot of time…"
Rowan nodded slowly, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Thanks… I didn't think you'd be so easy to talk to."
Alaric smirked faintly, his eyes drifting back to the front. "People have a lot of wrong ideas about me."
"Yeah… I can see that."
They fell silent again, not uncomfortably, just naturally. Rowan looked down at his desk, lost in thought, and Alaric returned to his own, but this time without the same edge of distraction.
'Then again,' he mused inwardly, a small, private smirk tugging at his lips, 'when you're an expert reincarnated war criminal holding a grudge against the world, anything works if you sell it hard enough.'
He made his decision.
'Caster it was, then.'
Just then, Professor Urwyn began wrapping up her lecture.
"That concludes today's lecture," she said. "Now, on to the matter you've all been waiting for, spell selection. If you'll follow me to the inventory hall."
The room stirred like a hive poked with a stick. Students rose in a disorderly line, buzzing with equal parts excitement and nerves. Some wore confidence like cologne, while others faked indifference with the focus of a theater troupe.
Alaric and Rowan followed at the back, continuing their quiet back-and-forth as the group headed toward the towering structure at the heart of Eldrynn Academy: the Celestial Spire.
The Spire was absurdly tall, a jagged monument of gleaming white stone stretching over three hundred meters into the sky. Sunlight played along its surface, casting it in soft, ethereal hues. Windows pocked the walls like stars in daylight.
Gasps rippled through the group.
"Is that really made of moonstone?" someone whispered.
"Looks like it touches the clouds," another said, craning their neck.
Even Rowan fell quiet, his eyes wide. "It's even bigger than I imagined…"
But it wasn't just the height or beauty that held their attention. A radiant golden halo surrounded the tower, pulsing gently like a heartbeat. It bathed the area in a warm light, subtle but unmistakable, and filled the air with a soft hum, so faint it was almost easy to miss.
Alaric stared up at it, expression unreadable. He said nothing, but a part of him, the part attuned to things beneath the surface, felt a stir in his core.
As they drew closer, the energy in the air began to shift. The excitement just seconds ago began dying down, replaced by hesitant silence. The once-inviting breeze seemed to pause.
Alaric glanced around. The wide, polished stone pavements that surrounded the Spire were empty... too empty. Neatly trimmed bushes and trees dotted the area, but not a single person lingered nearby. For a structure so grand, its surroundings felt abandoned.
A flicker of unease crept up his spine.
Rowan spoke again, softer this time. "Why's no one around?"
Alaric didn't answer. He was focused on the golden light. From a distance, it had seemed divine, ethereal. But now, up close, it pressed against his senses, not with malice, but with the weight of something ancient and immeasurable. It didn't glow; it pulsed. And with each pulse came the faintest whisper of… warning?
He mumbled under his breath, "What's this?"
He wasn't sure if anyone else felt it as strongly as he did, but the sensation was undeniable. The closer they got, the more the air seemed to tighten, as if the tower itself was watching them. It wasn't fear exactly, but a growing discomfort, a warning from deep within.
When they finally stopped before the Spire, the group fell silent, their carefree conversations fading into nothing.
The golden halo, though still soft and beautiful, now felt like a radiant monster staring them down. It was as though the light could reach out and erase them from existence. They stood in awe, but beneath that awe, a primal instinct told them they were in the presence of something far beyond their understanding.
Alaric remained still, eyes fixed on the Spire, the earlier discomfort settling into a quiet sense of dread.