With a surge of mana, Caled lifted into the sky, the wind rushing past him as he soared above the sprawling landscape. Beneath him, the dense forests gave way to cultivated fields, then to bustling towns connected by shimmering magical conduits. The world had changed in ways that would have been unimaginable a century ago.
When he finally descended upon the capital of Viera, the difference was staggering.
Gone were the cobbled streets and torch-lit alleys of his memory. In their place stood a city of gleaming spires, their surfaces etched with glowing runes that pulsed with arcane energy.
Floating gardens drifted between towers, their vibrant blooms defying gravity. Magical carriages—pulled not by horses, but by constructs of condensed mana—glided soundlessly along wide, polished avenues.
Magic was everywhere.
Shopkeepers used simple levitation spells to arrange their wares. Street vendors conjured small flames to cook food on the spot. Even children played with orbs of harmless light, tossing them back and forth like balls.
Caled landed smoothly in the middle of a crowded plaza. No one so much as glanced his way. A century ago, a man descending from the sky would have drawn gasps, even panic. Now? It was as mundane as walking.
"Times have changed," he murmured to himself.
The war had ended, and with it, Aifi had ushered in a new era. The Magic Association—founded in the aftermath of victory—had revolutionized society.
What was once a rare gift, accessible only to the elite or the extraordinarily talented, had become commonplace. Basic spells were taught in schools. Magical tools were household items.
But true mastery? That was still rare.
The most powerful mages were treasures, nurtured in prestigious academies—institutions so exclusive that only the most gifted could even dream of attending.
And at the heart of it all stood the Magic Association, the towering edifice that governed them.
Caled's gaze lifted to the colossal structure at the city's center. A masterpiece of architecture and enchantment, its walls hummed with layered barriers, its highest peaks lost in the clouds.
This was where Aifi ruled.
Stepping inside the grand hall, he was met with a flurry of activity. Clerks shuffled parchment, scholars debated in hushed tones, and enchanted quills scribbled away on their own.
The air smelled of ink, ozone, and something faintly floral—likely a spell to keep the space fresh.
He approached the nearest clerk, a young woman with her hair pinned back in a no-nonsense bun.
"I'm here to see the Head of the Magic Association," he said. "Tell her Caled has arrived."
The clerk blinked, then quickly scanned a ledger. Her eyes widened slightly.
"Ah! The Head informed us of your coming. Though..." She hesitated, her gaze flickering over him with poorly concealed surprise.
Caled knew what she was seeing. His clothes—worn leather, a weathered tunic, boots that had seen decades of travel—were relics of an older time.
The kind of outfit adventurers wore a hundred years ago. On a man who looked no older than twenty, it was… unusual.
"I… didn't expect you to be so young," she admitted, then flushed, realizing how rude that sounded. "I mean—normally, an Archscholar is appointed in their sixties. At the earliest."
Caled almost smiled. "Appearances can be deceiving."
The clerk cleared her throat, regaining her professionalism. "Right. Well, the Head is expecting you. I'll escort you to her office."
As she led him through the labyrinthine halls, Caled took in the surroundings. Portraits of past Archscholars lined the walls—stern-faced men and women, their features lined with age and wisdom.
Soon, he would join their ranks.
The clerk led Caled through the grand halls of the Magic Association, their footsteps echoing against marble floors engraved with shimmering arcane sigils.
They passed towering bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling, their contents floating slightly as if suspended by invisible hands, and walls adorned with portraits of past Archmages—their eyes seeming to follow Caled as he walked by.
As they ascended the spiraling staircase, the air grew thicker with magic, humming with an energy that prickled against Caled's skin.
The clerk, slightly out of breath from the climb, finally stopped before an ornate door at the very top floor.
She knocked twice—a crisp, practiced sound—before pushing it open and stepping aside with a deep bow.
"The Head is expecting you," she murmured.
Caled stepped inside.
The office was vast, bathed in golden sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the entire capital.
The city sprawled beneath them, a glittering tapestry of magic and civilization.
Aifi stood by the window, her silhouette framed by the light. The thin fabric of her white dress clung slightly to her slender form, the sun rendering it almost translucent for a fleeting moment before she turned, her lips curving into that familiar, teasing smile.
"You arrived faster than I expected," she mused, tilting her head. "Given your stubbornness, I thought I'd have to wait at least another decade."
Caled ignored the jab.
"What's the job?" he asked bluntly.
Aifi chuckled and motioned for him to follow. She led him across the hall to another door—this one unassuming, yet humming with a faint magical seal. With a wave of her hand, the enchantment dissipated, and she pushed it open.
Inside was a massive office, dominated by an expansive wooden desk buried under a mountain of letters, scrolls, and sealed envelopes.
Some were neatly stacked, others haphazardly strewn about, as if someone had rifled through them in frustration.
Caled's eyes flicked over the chaos before landing back on Aifi.
"When do I start teaching?"
Aifi shrugged.
"Oh, the academies don't need a professor to teach them. They have retainer golems for that."
Caled's brow furrowed.
"Then what am I here for?"
With a dramatic flourish, Aifi extended her hand toward the towering pile of papers.
"These," she said, "are requests. From students across every elite magic academy in Acridia. Personal pleas, club petitions, official appeals from student councils—you name it." She grinned. "Your job is to help them."
Caled's expression darkened.
"You tricked me. Again."
He turned to leave, but Aifi darted forward, grabbing his arm with surprising strength.
When he glanced back, she was pulling her most lethal weapon—her puppy-dog face, lips slightly pouted, blue eyes wide and shimmering with exaggerated innocence.
"Just hear me out," she pleaded. "This is for the sake of the students!"
Caled scoffed. "That look stopped working on me a century ago."
Undeterred, Aifi dialed up the charm. Her eyes sparkled, her lashes fluttered, and she even added a tiny, hopeful head tilt for good measure.
Caled stared at her.
Then, with a long, suffering sigh, he relented.
"…Fine. I'll listen."
Aifi's face instantly brightened, the faux-innocence replaced by triumphant glee.
"Excellent!"
Caled already regretted his decision.