The second day started better than the first.
Which is to say, I didn't nearly pass out while buttoning my uniform.
Progress.
My body still ached, my cracked core still flickered like a dying lantern, and the stairs still hated me, but I was vertical. Breathing. Dressed.
And I hadn't spontaneously combusted yet.
So, yeah. Victory.
First class: Tactics & Battlefield Ethics.
Held in a room designed like a war council chamber — circular, domed ceiling, glowing map table in the center, and way too many stern portraits of long-dead generals judging me from the walls.
Our instructor was Master Halwin.
"No theatrics. No honor speeches," he growled. "This isn't about glory. It's about survival. I don't care how pretty your magic is. If your team dies because you froze up, you lose. If you survive but leave your allies behind, you lose. If you die like an idiot… you lose, and I get to mock your ghost. Understood?"
The class nodded.
I nodded slower. Because honestly? Fair.
We reviewed famous battles from the Grand War, the ones that made nobles into legends and commoners into ash. Most students discussed formation types and mana-imbued strategies.
Me?
I spent most of the class pretending I wasn't constantly replaying the phrase "die like an idiot."
Second class: Spell Mathematics & Sigilic Logic.
Also known as: Please kill me before the formulas do.
Let me tell you something about sigils.
They're not cute glowing runes that float around your fingers like in stories. They're complex sequences of mathematical intent. Like equations with attitude. One missed curve or mispronounced syllable, and your fireball turns into a backwards wind burst that sets your eyebrows on fire.
Ask the kid two rows ahead of me. Poor guy looked like he'd been attacked by a very aggressive candle.
The professor — a woman named Elira Thorne — wore a blindfold embroidered with constellations. She never raised her voice, never repeated herself, and somehow still made you feel like she could see your soul squirming.
She walked past me once and paused.
"Drakopoulos," she said.
My spine turned to dust. "Yes, Professor?"
"Your flow alignment is inverted."
"…It is?"
"Correct it. Or your next casting might bend space. And your spine."
She moved on without waiting for a reply.
Okay.
Cool.
Terrifying magical math nun just casually told me I was about to fold myself into a pretzel. Normal day.
Lunch.
I debated skipping it.
Then my stomach screamed mutiny and dragged me to the dining hall like a traitor.
The food at Cyran Academy was suspiciously good. Probably because nobles didn't tolerate mediocrity when it came to roast duck, spiced potatoes, or chocolate-stuffed bread.
I picked something light, sat alone (again), and tried to blend into the background.
Didn't work.
"He lives," a familiar voice said.
I looked up.
Liora.
She dropped her tray across from me and tossed me an apple like we were already teammates in a survival game.
"You didn't explode," she said. "Congrats."
"I came close. Spell Math is just algebra with malice."
She smirked and bit into her bread. "Elira only warns people she thinks are worth correcting."
"…So I should be flattered?"
"She didn't warn the boy with half a face. So. Yes."
Fair point.
"Your ring helped, by the way," I said, fiddling with it under the table. "Feels like I'm… less about to die."
She nodded. "That's the idea. Small boosts matter."
I took a bite of potato and tried not to seem pathetically grateful.
"Thanks."
She glanced around the dining hall. "You should watch your back more, you know."
I blinked. "What?"
"Word's spreading. That you're back. That you're different."
"Let me guess. 'Noah Drakopoulos got possessed by a demon and now he's pretending to be edgy instead of just pathetic.'"
"More like: 'What's that snake from House Drakopoulos planning?'"
I frowned. "Snake?"
She pointed toward the house banners strung above the hall — each noble house had a sigil.
Our was a chained black serpent.
"People forget," she said, "that serpents bite hardest when they look weak."
She stood up and walked off before I could ask what the hell that meant.
Afternoon class: Focused Combat Movement.
Despite the name, it was less "combat" and more "don't fall on your face while dodging magical death."
Held in one of the outdoor sparring courts, this was the class where nobles showed off — twirling weapons that hummed with kinetic enchantments, activating body-boosting spells mid-flip, sending sparks across the air with a flick of the wrist.
I stayed near the edge.
Out of the way.
Invisible.
At least, I tried to.
Until someone called my name.
"Drakopoulos."
A shadow fell over me.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Smirking.
Silas Dregan.
Lightning noble. Sword specialist. Certified golden boy of House Dregan.
"You're not gonna just sit on the sidelines again, are you?" he said, casually tossing a practice blade between his hands. "It's been what — two months in bed? Thought you might want to stretch your legs."
A few other students chuckled nearby. I could feel eyes watching. Waiting.
I forced a smile. "I'm good. Doctor's orders."
He grinned. "Scared your old self might come out to play?"
You mean the timid, anxious wreck Noah used to be?
No thanks.
I stood, meeting his gaze — not defiant. Just calm.
"If you want to beat someone up, try someone at your level," I said. "I'm not in the mood to make you look bad."
He blinked.
Then laughed — not mocking, just surprised.
"Not bad," he said. "Let's see how long you keep the teeth."
He walked off, still laughing.
And just like that, the crowd lost interest.
I didn't win any duels that day.
I didn't cast a spell that impressed anyone.
But I also didn't pass out, get humiliated, or combust in front of a crowd.
Again: progress.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
Classes were harder than I thought. Students were stronger. Danger wasn't just in dungeons or history books — it was alive here. In every room. Every glance.
But I had my ring.
I had Liora's unexpected kindness.
And I had something no one else here did:
I know how the story goes—maybe Noah dies early on, but I won't. I'll make it to the end, no matter what. …By the way, what did she mean by 'ours'?