Let's begin by tackling the essential student formalities. My first stop is the bustling registration office, where I secure my student ID—a multifunctional card that serves as my official identification, meal pass, and wallet for, necessarily, campus transactions. Behind the desk, an efficient administrator hands me a crisp list of enrollment materials, her practiced smile welcoming me into the academic pit.
As a wide-eyed freshman joining through the September intake, my arrival coincides seamlessly with the academic calendar's main cohort. This synchronization deliberate, I'll be cast into a predetermined narrative. Well, if nothing changes much. Subtlety is my preference, I intend to maintain a light touch in guiding events, should the trajectory of this main story veer into illogical territory, I'll stand ready to intervene. but if deviations threaten coherence, I won't hesitate to recalibrate the plot. I'll steer it firmly toward its intended, rational arc with whatever measures the situation demands.
With enrollment documents secured, my next destination is the vibrant shopping district northeast of the academy. Armed with my student ID—which grants access to subsidized academic supplies—I set out to procure the necessary materials for my studies. The scholarship, generous as it is, covers only my core curriculum as a mage-in-training, leaving little room for extraneous expenses.
This term, I'll be undertaking 6 subjects under the Wind-Attuned Mages syllabus—a specialized track that, to my surprise, deviates sharply from EAA. Where I expected the arcane theory and elemental manipulation, the syllabus instead immerses students entirely in rigorous foundations of mathematics and the structured logic of science. On the material list, it states:
Textbooks needed:
- First Year Magical Theory: Way of the Wind, Beginner to Adept-Class
- First Year Magical Practical: Application of Magic to combat and further
- First to Third Year Physics
- First to Third Year Biology
- History of the Elenos Kingdom and Mages
- First Year Magical Mathematics
The contrast is staggering; back in EAA, such an omission would have been unthinkable. Yet as I stand, the inclusion of empirical disciplines only underscores the corruption of the main story.
Nevertheless, I head to The Zephyr's Ascent and prepare to cast Wind Walker. I begin sprinting towards the stores. After a few minutes of running, the shopping district hums slowly in my ears.
The cries of merchants and stores roar as I step onto its cobbled streets, the crisp autumn air carrying the mingled scents of parchment, ink, and freshly baked bread from nearby cafés. My student ID rests securely in my pocket—a small but powerful key to the resources I'll need for the coming term.
First, the essentials: uniforms, tailored in the academy's signature hues of silver and deep blue, their fabric enchanted for durability against both wear and stray spells. Next, notebooks—spell-resistant to prevent accidental mishaps during practical lessons. I pick up the textbooks in the meantime. Following this, pens, LOTS of pens, so I won't find myself mid-lecture with a dried-out nib. And, of course, the mundane yet non-negotiable: hygiene products, because even aspiring mages need soap.
I personally won't be in need of MagiTech items yet. In EAA, MagiTech was the seamless marriage of ancient spellcraft and cutting-edge technology—where enchanted circuitry hums alongside mechanical precision, creating tools that defy conventional limitations. Unlike traditional magic, which relies solely on a caster's willpower, or pure technology. The alchemists bridge the gap, inventing new MagiTechs, making the impossible reproducible and scalable.
It's all refreshingly straightforward. No complex decisions, no existential dilemmas—just a simple, methodical preparation for the year ahead. Yet, as I move from shop to shop, I can't shake the quiet amusement at how ordinary this feels. In a world of magic and grand destinies, there's something grounding about going store to store purchasing linen and comparing the grip of different pens.
With my supplies secured and the last of my errands complete, I turn my attention to the final step of this initiation—my dormitory. The academy's housing system is as much a tradition as it is a spectacle: four grand houses, each representing one of the cardinal mages that specialized in those elements, their banners rippling like sigils of ancient pride.
Assignment is simple, yet absolute. A student's first attunement dictates their house, binding them to its legacy regardless of any future elemental mastery they might attain. Even if one were to later command the fury of fire or the depth of water, academy law demands unwavering loyalty to their original house during formal events—a rule as unyielding as the stone foundations of the campus itself. "The first spark defines the flame," Headmaster Orthellius often says.
The name of the Four houses based on the Pinnacle-Class (15-Star) Mages who founded them:
The House of Goran, Earth
The House of Sylvas, Wind
The House of Nereza, Water
The House of Ignis, Fire
For me, that means Sylvas will be my house, the domain of wind-wielders. Its dormitories rise at the southern edge of the grounds, its arched windows catching the sunlight like scattered prisms. I can already hear the distant laughter of upperclassmen echoing through its halls, the sound as light and untamed as the element we serve.
The heavy oak door of The Sylvas Dormitories groans open, revealing a vaulted common room bathed in the golden light of floating orbs—mage-lamps that flicker like captured fireflies, perpetually in the air due to MagiTech Wind Currents that keep them afloat. The air hums with residual energy, carrying the faint scent of ozone and dried lavender from the sachets tucked into the bookshelves.
To the left, a spiral staircase of pale ashwood ascends in a lazy corkscrew, each step engraved with the names of past wind-attuned graduates—a tradition that makes every footfall feel like walking on history.
My assigned room is on the third floor, and as I climb, the murmurs of other students fade into the distant rustle of wind against the building's outer charms. I find myself in front of my room, the place I will stay in until the end of the story… or the end of the world.
The door clicks open under the insertion of my student ID, revealing a space both sparse and strangely alive. The walls are paneled in silver-grained cedar, their surfaces etched with subtle runes to dampen sound or, more likely, to contain accidental gale-force outbursts. A narrow bed is tucked against the far wall, its linens crisp and blue as a midwinter sky, while a desk placed near the window, its surface as smooth as a baby's skin.
But the true spectacle is the window—a tall, arched portal framed by stained glass that fractures the sunlight into prismatic shards across the floor. When I press my palm to the sill, the glass ripples like water, thinning just enough to let in the breeze. Of course, I think. Even in stillness, the room breathes, just like the wind.
Before I let myself collapse onto the bed, I peel off my sweat-dampened clothes—the fabric clinging stubbornly to my skin like a second layer. I open the second door in my dorm, it's the bathroom.
The bathroom is a study in utilitarian efficiency: a porcelain sink flecked with mineral stains from hard water, a toilet with a slightly loose seat, and a showerhead that hisses to life after a firm twist of its tarnished knob. No gold-leafed mirrors, no enchanted steam rooms—just the bare essentials, scrubbed clean by generations of equally exhausted students. I place the hygiene products on the tray and look up into the mirror.
This boy, the boy whose body I took over. It's the first time I'm seeing his face. An approximately 5ft 10' male with wavy, nose-length brown hair. His eyes are a very dark blue, mistaken for black with a scar of a cut under. His nose is just sharp and pointy while his lips are full. He's skinny. That's 100% and the skin on his body is nearly hairless while his skin is rough. Most likely from the vigorous training he has done. In summary, this guy is the definition of slightly above average but not handsome.
There's so much on my mind and I can't put all the pieces together. Nevermind, I'll just shower first. I turn the faucet and the water hits—lukewarm, then blissfully hot. It's enough to make my knees buckle. The tension of the day sluices away, swirling down the drain in grimy rivulets. Just the steady drumbeat of water on tile, the steam fogging up the glass until the world beyond it softens into obscurity.
I linger until my fingers prune. Let the bed wait.