The crowd was already gathering when Ethan and his roommates stepped into the plaza.
The central courtyard of the First-Year Division was a structured ring of white stone pathways and tall spires that reached for the sky. Above, mana-lanterns floated lazily in place, glowing faintly under the early morning sun. Students poured in from all directions, chatting in low tones, adjusting their robes, rubbing sleep from their eyes.
Ethan followed Kai and Aiden toward one of the outer arcs, where their group usually stood. He was still tying the last knot on his sash when he finally asked, "So… who exactly gives these announcements every morning?"
Kai didn't bother looking back. "The First-Year Director."
Ethan blinked. "Wait, the Director? Not a staff mage?"
Aiden answered instead, arms folded. "Yeah. Director Silas Vaunt. He handles the announcements himself."
"Every day?"
"Every day," Kai said, grinning. "And it's never boring."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Where is he, then?"
Aiden looked to the sky. "He's not late. He just likes dramatic entrances. Yesterday, he came down riding a platform made of blades. Day before that, he dropped from the sky in a cube of glass. One time it was wind wolves pulling a chariot made of lightning. He changes it up."
Ethan stared. "You're joking."
"Nope," Kai said, smirking. "The man lives for flair."
Ethan fell quiet, his gaze lifting upward.
He remembered writing Silas. Back then, the character had been nothing more than a worldbuilding tool—meant to show students that authority didn't always come from lineage, but from discipline and presence. A high-level flame caster who'd abandoned politics to personally oversee first-years. Precise. Controlled. The kind of man who never raised his voice because he never needed to.
And someone who, according to the lore Ethan made, never cast the same spell the same way twice.
Then—
A roar of pressure rolled across the plaza.
The air above them rippled. Mana bent.
And with no warning, a pillar of flame tore through the sky.
It wasn't red, or orange, or gold—it was rainbow fire, each layer blending into the next, a vertical prism of living light that cracked the sky like divine judgment. Students gasped as it shot downward in perfect silence, landing dead center on the stage platform with zero impact noise, as if the air itself had chosen not to fight it.
Then the flame twisted.
It spiraled once, gathered into a humanoid silhouette—and stepped back into shape, cooling instantly into elegant robes trimmed in black, silver, and a flickering gradient of flame.
Silas Vaunt stood alone, back straight, hands clasped behind him, as though he hadn't just descended from the heavens via an elemental symphony.
Ethan swallowed.
Yup.
Exactly how he wrote him.
Silas scanned the crowd, gaze sharp, face composed. He didn't speak right away. The silence was his introduction, the way a composer lets the audience settle before the first note.
Then he spoke.
"Good morning."
His voice was calm, low, and effortlessly projected—every syllable wrapped in mana and precision.
"You have lasted your first week. Some of you—barely. Others—exceedingly well."
He let that hang in the air.
"This division, as you've been told, is not the true Academy. Not yet. It is a holding ground. A trial. A crucible. Only those who rise through the examination at the end of the month will be granted full admittance into the Arcanum."
A few students tensed.
Ethan could feel it. The reminder that they were still outsiders. Still proving themselves.
Silas began to walk across the stage, slow and measured.
"You have experienced classes. Learned structure. Felt pressure. But you have not yet endured failure. You have not yet earned anything."
Harsh. But true.
Then—he stopped, lifted one hand, and drew a single arc through the air.
From his fingers, a ribbon of rainbow fire erupted—then split into five sparks that raced skyward before spiraling downward toward specific points in the crowd.
Each spark halted above a student's head, exploding into a brief flash of flame that spelled out a name in glowing script.
"Lucien Kael."
"Kai Thorne."
"Aiden Vallis."
"Rem Rylhart."
"Astrid Venla."
The names hovered above each of them in brilliant flame. Heads turned. Whispers broke out across the rows.
Ethan looked at each one.
Lucien, standing tall and composed as ever.
Aiden, unreadable.
Kai, blinking like he hadn't expected it, mouthing "What the hell?" without sound.
These are the ones, Ethan thought.
The ones I wrote to change everything. To challenge the world's limits. They're going to become the legends of their generation.
He watched them walk toward the stage as Silas gestured them forward.
They'll become the strongest. The most recognized. The most feared.
And then—
Silas turned to the crowd again.
"Each of these students," he said, "has demonstrated potential. Not only in ability—but in intent. In the drive to pursue not just magic… but understanding."
His eyes scanned the rest of the courtyard.
"Some of you may surpass them. Some of you will fall behind. But those who reach the highest peaks in our world do not do so by force alone."
His next words were slower. Heavier.
"They do so by becoming Visionaries."
The word echoed.
Not shouted.
Etched into the air itself.
Ethan's heart skipped.
That term.
It wasn't common knowledge in the book. It wasn't public-facing. It was classified lore. Visionaries were not the strongest. They were the ones who broke systems. Who changed the way magic was understood. Whispered about in scrolls and theories. A secret organization made not of heroes—but innovators.
Silas said nothing more about it.
No elaboration. No hint.
He just let the word burn.
Then, with a subtle motion, he dismissed the flame-written names in a quiet gust of wind.
"Those with morning classes," he said, voice clear again, "are now dismissed to their assigned halls. Those without—use your time wisely. Train. Study. Improve. This month is your only chance to step forward."
No flourish. No spell.
He stepped back—and with a flash, the flame that had brought him here curled upward and shot into the sky, dissolving in a crack of heatless light.
Silas Vaunt was gone.
Just like that.
Ethan stood still, heat flickering across his skin—not from fire, but from something deeper.
That word still echoed in his thoughts.
Visionary.
It was impossible.
And yet—
Something inside him whispered:
"Why not you?"