I sigh.
Yes, all of it may be true—the prophecies, the hidden potential, the grand destiny waiting like a coiled serpent beneath his skin. But right now?
He's still just Kael Veldt—a soyboy loser with all the commanding presence of a damp napkin.
I watch as he fumbles with his utensils, nearly upending his goblet of water, which, naturally, earns him a chorus of snickers from the Ignis table. His shoulders hunch like he's trying to fold himself into invisibility, and when a servant drops a platter nearby, he startles so hard he elbows the Sylvas student beside him. The resulting glare could melt stone. Yes this bum is in my house. Yes I don't like the attraction he's bringing.
God help us.
It's almost painful to witness. The future Unifier of the Three Kingdoms currently looks like he'd rather be swallowed by the floor. He won't even meet anyone's eyes—let alone rally them to his cause.
But I know how this story ends.
One day, he'll stand tall. One day, that hesitant voice will ring with conviction, and those nervous hands will wield power that shakes continents. One day, the very nobles sneering at him now will kneel without thinking twice.
Today is not that day.
Today, he's just a boy. A boy who—
My head snaps toward the Goran tables—instinct kicks in before logic catches up.
There.
A flicker of something sharp in the dim hall light. A gaze that lingers a second too long, heavy with intent. From the first-years' section, where earth mages sit like boulders at rest. But when I try to pin it down—
Nothing.
Just a sea of turned backs and idle chatter.
Yet my skin prickles. Someone was watching.
Who?
A gong reverberates through the hall.
Conversation dies mid-sentence. Chairs scrape against the marble floors every head turns toward the raised dais at the front of the room.
Headmaster Orthellius steps onto the stage.
He moves like a man who's never hurried in his life, his broad shoulders squared beneath robes of midnight blue embroidered with stitched constellations and elemental sigils that shimmer like battlefield medals. At first glance, you'd mistake him for a retired general, a jawline like a fortification and silver-streaked black hair cropped close to his skull.
His posture is parade-ground perfect, the kind of straight spine that makes chairs obsolete, and his hands—scarred across the knuckles, one finger slightly crooked from an old break—rest with deliberate calm on his staff of living briar. This isn't some frail, twinkling academic from Earth's fairy tales; this is a man who's marched through countless arcane battles and wrung wisdom from it by force.
The air thickens. Even the nobles straighten in their seats.
Then he smiles—a slow, knowing thing—and spreads his arms.
"Welcome, to the first night of the rest of your lives."
A pause, as his steel-gray eyes swept across the hall like a general surveying troops.
"Some of you come bearing names that echo through history. Others carry only your ambition and the clothes on your backs."
His gaze lingered briefly on Kael before continuing.
"Here, those distinctions mean nothing."
The briar staff struck the stage with a crack, vines snaking briefly across the floorboards.
"The weak will be forged in fire. The arrogant will be humbled by the wind. The rigid shall learn to flow like water, and the reckless will find their roots in earth."
He leaned forward, the constellations on his robes pulsing faintly.
"You are not students," the Headmaster's voice cut through the hall like a blade through parchment.
"You are aspiring battlemages, mana swordsmen, and alchemists in a world overflowing with them - yet woefully short of truly exceptional ones."
A beat of silence. The lights of the hall dimmed as if anticipating his next words.
"Before you feast, meet those who will either forge you into something remarkable... or watch you crumble under the weight of your own mediocrity."
With a wave of his briar staff, the shadows behind him parted to reveal the Academy's elite professors:
"Professor Aldrick Voss - Head of Practical Magic, Spirit Taming and infirmary"
He is a mountain of a man with a permanent lightning burn across his left cheek, his very presence made the air taste of ozone. The retired war-mage still wore his military greaves over academic robes. Ironically, the head nurse of the school due to his contract with nature spirits
"Archivist Orlan Dain - Head of Magical Theory and History"
The oldest among them, his "robe" was actually a living tapestry of enchanted parchment that constantly rearranged itself with muttered theorems.
"Magister Silas Ren - Head of Mana Swordsmanship"
The elven blademaster stood with his hands folded behind his back - because letting them rest at his sides had proven too dangerous for nearby objects.
"Doctor Chester Veldrane - Head of Alchemical Studies and Chemistry"
Her protective goggles glowed with residual enchantments, and the dozens of vials clicking at her belt contained things that were definitely, absolutely not allowed in civilized company, but still trusted in her hands
"Professor Tyrus Krane - Head of Mathematical Thaumaturgy"
He wasn't in EAA...
"Professor Ilsa Vexley - Head of Biothaumic Studies"
She wasn't in EAA…
"And finally, Doctor Rennick Solvay - Head of Arcane Physics"
He wasn't in EAA…
Three teachers that were not in the original story. Three extra probabilities…
The Headmaster's smirk returned, sharper this time.
"Study them well. By year's end, you'll either thank them... or curse their names in your nightmares."
He brought his staff down with a thunderous crack.
"Now. Feast. Tomorrow. Orientation at 7:30. To the future scholars of the world"
The headmaster's voice boomed through the grand hall, echoing against vaulted ceilings carved with ancient runes. The chandeliers above flared brighter, casting golden light upon rows of long, oakwood tables brimming with platters of roast meats, fresh breads, jewel-toned fruits, and desserts dusted with sugar.
Everyone raised their cups high, voices mingling in a thunderous chorus:
"To us!"
And the second feast began.