Magic School Loop

Life 1: Day 2

Day 2 Schedule:

Morning – Join a school club

Afternoon – Introduce yourself to instructors

Evening - Attend First-Year Welcoming Party

-

Joshua awoke to the familiar, rhythmic hum of the train-dormitory as it glided effortlessly through layers of folded space. Sunlight filtered in through the crimson-paneled windows, casting a warm amber glow across the compartment walls. Somewhere in the distance, the trolley bell chimed.

He rolled out of bed, still feeling refreshed despite the long stay in the Grand Library, and made his way to the mess car where breakfast was already underway. The air smelled of strong coffee, fried eggs, and buttered pancakes. Around the long, brass-inlaid table sat the Redhook Linehouse crew—his dormmates—some bleary-eyed, some already laughing over inside jokes he hadn't caught up on yet.

Ume, leaning half-asleep against the wall with a spoon hovering halfway to her mouth. Catalina was sipping from a steaming porcelain cup, legs crossed on the bench like royalty. Neal sat hunched over a bowl of oats, while scribbling diagrams into a notebook with his other hand.

"Morning," Joshua muttered, grabbing a seat.

"Barely," Marrow grinned, handing him a steaming mug. "Got plans for today? Last free day before classes kick your teeth in."

Joshua shrugged. "Thought I'd swing by and introduce myself to my instructors."

"Teacher's Pet," Flickwick called out with a cackle from atop one of the tables.

"Don't mind her," Ume said, eyes still half-lidded. "That's actually not a bad idea. Some instructors offer bonus training or tutelage during office hours—if they like you."

"Well, I brought it up because this came for you." Marrow passed him an opened envelope with no shame.

Joshua squinted. "Let me guess—you read it already?"

"Of course. I go through everyone's mail," Marrow replied matter-of-factly.

"What, you rat," Virelle squawked once she heard him. "You better not be touching my letters."

Joshua skimmed the page. "Seems I'm invited to a party?"

"Ahh, the first year get-together," Hella sighed in remembrance. "I remember mine, shot a creep in the kneecap. For some reason I was never invited to another party."

"This one's official," Virelle dained to clarify for him. "Thrown by the Academy itself. Make a good impression and you might get invited to other parties, faculty events, student salons, private duels."

Seeing the apathetic look on his face, she explained further, "It's how you network, which helps you build connections which can in turn get you access to scholarships, grants, training, top-tier facilities, mentorship, magical gear, restricted spells, and so much more."

"Is that what you people do there?" Flickwick asked, wide-eyed. "I thought you just stabbed each other in the back and slept around."

"Why you little imp!"

"I'd go if I were you," Ume said, voice soft but serious. "It's a good place to size up the competition."

"What competition?" he asked, innocently.

"Your yearmates, of course," Marrow answered with a wide grin. "The academy only promotes a certain number of students to advance to the next year. So it isn't surprising that people would sabotage, try to flunk, maliciously curse, injure, interfere with experiments, or even go as far as to killing others."

"Why wasn't I told about this?" he asked, stunned.

"Well now you know," the shapeshifter answered with a shrug.

"Great," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Not only do I have to survive this inane school, and my coursework, but also watch out for my classmates."

"And the magical creatures here," Neal stated.

"Don't forget this dorm," Velka added.

"What about the professors," even Erin joined in. And from there more and more people added dangers to look out for.

With a weary sigh, he could only get back to his breakfast.

-

As breakfast wound down and plates were scraped clean, Brandon leaned over from across the table, and asked him. "Hey, Joshua—today's the last day to sign up for a school club. You thought about joining one yet?"

Joshua paused mid-sip of his coffee, lowering the mug. "What's that?"

"By the stars, he's as fresh as they come," Flickwick cackled, nearly spilling her juice.

Ume leaned over, resting her cheek on her palm. "School Clubs are extracurricular student groups formed around shared hobbies or interests. They are officially sanctioned by the academy, open to most students, and with some faculty oversight."

"Some are casual like reading circles, gardening, different sports, maths or chemistry. Others are more demanding like debate, music, chess."

"Interesting," Joshua intoned. "Are you guys part of any clubs?"

"Of course," Brandon answered with a grin. "I'm part of the Cooking Club."

"Blacksmithing, obviously," Velka said.

"Poetry," Catalina answered.

"Theater," Virelle stated.

"Gardening," Erin murmured shyly.

"Dueling," Hella said. "Join up—we'd make a hell of a team."

And the others also shared theirs, rattling them off one by one.

"Wow, so everyone is basically part of one?" he asked.

"That should tell you how important they are," Ume stated. "There's upper classmen who offer advice and some protection. In some clubs, they even share spells or offer tutoring."

"They're one of the best ways to get ahead here," Marrow said. "Better training, better gear, better chances of surviving the year. Some even have access to private facilities—workshops, labs, sparring arenas, summoning circles—things you won't get in regular classes."

Hella leaned in, her eyes gleaming. "Let's not forget, that is where the real deals are made. Connections, mentorships, sponsorships. Some clubs are backed by professors or major patrons. They watch who joins and rises to the top fast at the school."

"Not to mention," added Neal, "some clubs participate in interscholastic tournaments. Win one of those, and you earn prestige, funding, and sometimes even magical contracts."

Ashford nodded. "Joining the right club can open doors that talent alone won't."

"You get access to better information too," Catalina said. "Rumors, hidden missions, forbidden knowledge... if it floats around the Academy, odds are one of the big clubs has their hands on it first."

Joshua leaned back, eyebrows raised. "So it's... part social circle, part magical guild, part career move?"

"Now you're catching on," Marrow said with a grin. "Join the right club, and it could change your whole arc at this school."

"And today's your last shot to get in before they seal rosters for the school year," Brandon added.

Joshua took a long sip of his drink, thinking. "Alright. Sounds like I better pick something before it's too late."

"Just don't join Philosophy club,'" Flickwick whispered like it was a secret. "Those guys suck!"

-

The great arcane gears of the Redhook Linehouse hissed and groaned as the train-dormitory eased into one of the academy's many sky-platforms. The world outside shimmered with fractured color and floating walkways, as if the laws of space had been rewritten in calligraphy. A melodic chime echoed overhead—signaling the start of a new school day.

Joshua stepped off the train with his coat slung over one shoulder, boots thudding onto the crystal-inlaid causeway. The scent of morning dew mixed with a faint trace of ozone—residual magic thick in the air. Above him, the academy's spires cut through drifting clouds like the bones of some sleeping giant.

Students streamed across the bridgeways, laughter and chatter blending with the ambient hum of enchantments and summoned familiars. Bright banners waved over the central pavilion, each one representing a different club. The main stadium had transformed into a vibrant festival square, with dozens of booths, tents, and floating signs drawing in prospective recruits like moths to mana.

A hovering banner read: "Club Fair"

Rows of tents stretched ahead, each boasting their club's emblem—some simple like quills and swords, others elaborate, like sigils that blinked with sentient light. Some booths were loud and lively, demonstrating spell-sparring or potion tricks; others were quiet sanctuaries shaded by illusionary gardens or blanketed in calming spells.

"Alright," he murmured to himself, tightening the strap on his satchel. "Let's see what this place has to offer." As he moved into the crowd, he took in the sights.

Musical notes sparkled from a bandstand where the Music club cast enchanted melodies into the breeze, each song subtly tugging listeners toward their booth. Nearby, the Dueling Club had erected a dueling ring made of hardened light, where upper-year students clashed in friendly—but very real—magical combat. The scent of ozone and scorched cloak-fiber lingered in the air.

A quiet garden-space shimmered with mist where the Potion Club handed out flowering elixirs that bloomed in your palm. The Writing Club had a spiraling tower of books and quills that wrote by themselves, documenting every visitor's magical signature.

Students bustled from stall to stall, pamphlets and enchanted flyers in hand, many accompanied by small familiars or magically tagged belongings. Animated posters hovered midair, presenting short magical films of past tournaments, concerts, or breakthroughs.

Joshua found himself momentarily overwhelmed—awed not just by the variety, but by the power that hung in the air. There were so many great options to choose from, leaving him wondering what he should join.

Time to Select Your Club!

Options:

News

Survivalist

Dance

Animal Husbandry

History

Astronomy

Language

Religion

Art

Fashion

Write-in

Plan: Disciplinary Club

Moto: "Order. Peace. Compliance. For the Good of the Academy."

Reputation: Feared. Hated. Respected.

Description: These are not your average hall monitors. The Disciplinary Committee is the Academy's student-led enforcement body—judge, jury, and sometimes executioner. Sanctioned directly by one of the Dean's offices, they operate with near-unchecked authority. Their word can overrule prefects. Their presence alone quiets a corridor.

They don't wear uniforms.They wear regalia—polished boots, enchanted sashes, iron badges of rank, pristine uniforms, and masks carved with the expressions of impartial judgment. Where most clubs serve a purpose of self-expression or academic growth, the Disciplinary Committee serves a single function: To maintain control. To enforce the Rules. To punish those who think themselves above either.

They are one of the top-tier clubs. Some whisper they're a shadow faculty in training. There are even rumors that members report directly to mysterious higher authorities—possibly not of this world.

Club Focus:

Surveillance and enforcement of Academy laws and student codes

Handling internal investigations, interrogations, and public censures

Monitoring duels, cheating, sabotage, and unsanctioned spell use

Full authority to detain, strip privileges, or

recommend expulsion

Benefits for Members:

Exclusive access to interrogation spells, anti-magic fields, and forbidden legal bindings

Access to restricted school records and disciplinary archives

Defensive, restraining, and control-oriented spell training

Possible mentorship under Warden Faculty and even Academy Magistrates

Influence over school policies and club disputes

-

Club Selection Scene will go here!

Voting will be open until tomorrow so make your choices. And come up with your own if you wish!

Winning Plan, Library Exploration Club. Reworked

The Librarian Club

Moto: "Knowledge safeguarded for the betterment of all!"

Reputation: Mysterious. Noble. Adventurous.

The Librarians are one of the Academy's oldest and most storied clubs, the Librarians are not mere bookkeepers— officially, they are known as historians, curators, and scholars. Unofficially, they are arcane treasure-hunters, relic wardens, and guardians of forbidden knowledge.

Their headquarters lies beyond the reach of maps - the Grand Library of Magic, a vast sprawling ever-shifting extradimensional sanctuary housing the largest known magical archive in existence, the Librarians dedicate themselves to preserving magical knowledge across the multiverse—not to use it, but to protect others from misuse.

Librarians are known for their wisdom and bravery, often disappearing for semesters at a time on dangerous retrieval missions to lost ruins or crumbling planes to secure items of magical significance—not for power, but to protect magic from abuse. In their downtime, members maintain and curate the Grand Library's collections, debate magical ethics, or train in spell-scribing, artifact appraisal, and runic & linguistic deciphering.

Club Focus:

Recovery and preservation of magical relics, tomes, and artifacts

Exploration of ancient ruins, sealed vaults, and forgotten realms

Research in magical languages, lost schools of magic, and mythic lore

Defense and maintenance of the Grand Library's archives

Ethical stewardship and containment of dangerous magical knowledge

Benefits for Members:

Access to ancient grimoires, extinct spells, sealed archives, and long forgotten schools of magic.

Use of

dimensional waygates

and vault permissions for fieldwork

Guidance from ancient librarians, spectral curators, and bound spirits of knowledge

Training in magical wards, artifact containment, magic item appraisal, spell-scribing

Knowledge, memory, and sealing spells

The mid morning light fractured through stained-glass canopies as the Academy Club Fair sprawled across the floating atrium lawn. Banners flared overhead, enchanted booths pulsed with magic, and students buzzed from tent to tent—duelists demonstrating precision spellwork, dancers leaping across gusts of conjured wind, alchemists offering glowing taste-tests in flasks.

Joshua wandered the chaos, eyes flicking from illusion-sculpting showcases to clubs that looked more like war camps. All of it was impressive. All of it loud. He didn't know what he was looking for—until he heard nothing.

A strange silence pulled his attention to the far edge of the fair, where the crowd thinned and glamour spells dimmed. Nestled beneath a low-arched gate of marble and brass was a small, unadorned booth. No theatrics. No crowds. Just a single long table covered in yellowing parchment and bound tomes that shimmered with protective runes. Behind it stood a single figure—tall, robed, and hooded, a banner above etched with silver letters that shimmered like living ink: THE LIBRARIANS "For Knowledge. For Magic. For the Library."

The air felt... steadier here. As if magic itself was listening. Joshua slowed, drawn in without quite knowing why. The Librarian looked up—not in greeting, but in acknowledgment. "You're curious," the figure said, voice low and clear. "That's a good start."

Joshua eyed the books. The artifact cases behind them. The ancient scroll fragments under crystal wards. This booth looked more like a museum exhibit than a club. "What is this place?"

"Not a place," the Librarian replied. "A purpose. We are the guardians of magical knowledge. We retrieve, restore, and protect that which must not be forgotten... or misused."

Joshua's gaze drifted over the artifacts and tomes behind them—some sealed under stasis fields, others humming softly like they remembered who they once belonged to. This booth felt... older than the others. As though it had always been here, even when the fair wasn't. But what caught his attention most wasn't the relics or the arcane air of mystery—it was the quiet weight of meaning. The Librarians didn't seek power. They sought understanding.

He thought back to his childhood—alone, unanchored, drifting between foster homes and forgotten frontier towns. A wanderer. An orphan. While other kids had parents, teachers, or even dreams handed to them, all he had were worn-out boots, a battered coat, and the cold steel of his gun.

The one thing that he did chase was knowledge, the way others chased coin or comfort. He'd barter chores for tattered manuals missing their spines, listen intently to the drunken ramblings of old miners and snake-oil prophets, memorizing every lie just in case one turned out true. He copied maps he couldn't yet read, hoarded overheard legends like treasures, and taught himself to read under oil lamps with letters carved in dust. Understanding had always been his hunger. Not power. Not revenge. Just truth.

The Librarian gestured to a weathered tome set on a pedestal beside the booth. Its cover was made from stitched vellum older than nations, and its spine was bound with thread that shimmered like captured starlight.

"This is the Library's Registry of Candidacy," the hooded figure said. "You may write your name in it—but know this: you are not joining us. You are presenting yourself to the Grand Library itself. If it deems you worthy, it will call you. If not…"

The unspoken warning lingered. Some truths did not need to be finished aloud. Joshua stepped forward. The book opened on its own, pages turning in silence until they stopped on an empty sheet. As he reached for the hovering quill, a strange pressure bloomed in the air—like the moment before a storm, full of waiting. He signed.

The ink shimmered gold for a heartbeat—then faded into the parchment like it had always been there. The page turned itself, sealing the moment shut.

The Librarian nodded, the gesture both approving and solemn. "Now we wait. If the Library accepts you, you will receive a summons. It may come tonight. Or weeks from now. The Library decides."

Joshua stepped back, feeling oddly lighter—and heavier at the same time. He didn't know what it meant to be a Librarian yet. But deep down, he felt it: this wasn't just a club. It was a calling. "Good luck," the Librarian added. "And remember… some books open you back up."

Then the booth was empty. Or perhaps, it never had anyone behind it at all.

You have Joined the LIBRARIANS!

-

With a few hours to spare before the Redhook Linehouse would return to station, Joshua found himself needing another means of transportation to reach his destinations. That's how he ended up standing beneath a rickety shelter near the edge of a lower concourse, alongside a loose gathering of equally curious or desperate students. The air smelled faintly of ozone, burnt mana, and bitter shrooms which someone was smoking.

Then it came. From the clouds above, a blur of noise and flashing wards dropped toward the campus like a falling star on the verge of unraveling. The vehicle shuddered through the sky at unnatural angles, wobbling with every course correction. Parts of it flapped. Gears jutted out of its side like broken ribs. Spinning runic wheels rotated in ways that defied geometry.

It was in worse shape than the Redhook Linehouse if you could believe it.

The Magic School Bus. If it could be called a bus. The contraption resembled a patchwork monstrosity of brass, wood, dented mana tubing, and glowing spellwork stitched together with spell-tape, bolts, chewing gum, and probably hope. The thing came to a halt midair before lurching toward the platform like it just remembered gravity was optional. It landed with a squeal of ancient brakes and a puff of brownish mist. Joshua blinked as the doors opened with a scream more than a hiss, sideways—vertically.

With no choice, he joined the short queue, this was the Academy's public transportation system, as his dormmates had warned it was free, but magically unstable and wildly unpredictable. Rumor had it the bus was semi-sentient and bored of its job. You were just as likely to get to your destination on time as you were to end up rerouted to a plane of floating sheep or dropped off in the middle of a golem brawling arena.

And you couldn't forget how dangerous it was as you were just as likely to get mugged by a couple goblin hooligans, and get into a duel with a student who said you looked at him funny.

It was a gamble every time. Stepped cautiously aboard, the interior was chaos incarnate: floating benches, walls scrawled with protective charms and crossed-out graffiti wars, a faint haze of magical residue clinging to everything. There was no bus driver he noticed, leading credence to the theory this thing was sentient.

A trio of students argued over seat claims mid-aisle—one waved a wand, the other a frying pan. Nearby, someone in a hooded robe sat polishing a sword suspiciously. One seat appeared unoccupied, until it blinked—revealing a camouflaged mimic disguised as a cushion. It gurgled contentedly, munching on loose pocket change someone had dropped.

A stack of sentient luggage paced back and forth at the back, growling at any student who got too close. One bag belched a puff of dark mist and then promptly zipped itself shut. Overhead, the announcement crystal fizzed and sparked before broadcasting: "Welcome aboard. Seatbelts are illusory and nonfunctional. Please secure your souls. Arrival time is… unknown."

"Oh, gods were have I found myself on," he muttered under his breath, clutching the nearest rail, scanning for any space that didn't look cursed, flammable, or recently regurgitated by the fabric of reality.

Wedged next to a half-asleep dryad scribbling spell notes on living leaves and muttering incantations under her breath. With a groan and a shudder, the bus lifted off—noisy, swerving, and trailing glittering fumes behind it. The windows flickered through at least three landscapes before settling on the right one.

He muttered some more silent pleas to whatever transit gods or insurance spirits were listening as the Magic school bus left the station.

-

"We have arrived at the Transdimensional Bounty Hunter Hub!" the overhead read, and Joshua all too happy to get off as in the back some manic had the emergency door open and was throwing fireballs at transport bubbles below.

Joshua stepped off the bus onto a platform that seemed carved into the spine of a dead god—massive vertebrae stretched beneath his feet, fossilized in arcane alloys and ancient stone. Faint pulses of divine residue shimmered beneath the surface, like the heartbeat of something long buried but not quite dead.

Above him, the sky churned like a rust-colored vortex. Floating anchors, each the size of a cathedral, groaned as they kept the central fortress suspended—an angular monolith of iron, bone, and interdimensional plating. It hung in the sky like a chained leviathan, held aloft by gravitational runes the size of city blocks. Massive engines and warding circles glowed with spectral energy, exhaling smoke that twisted into symbols before vanishing.

All around, dimensional fractures flickered like heat mirages—ghost-images of other realms bleeding briefly into this one: crimson deserts, glass oceans, cities with no sky. The whole zone buzzed with layered mana currents, thick as static, heavy as stone.

The air was dry and bitter, charged with volatile power. It smelled of sulfur, ash, gunmetal, and the kind of sweat only killers earn. Distant sounds echoed through the hub—gunfire, monster howls, and spells.

Ahead, signage flickered erratically, flipping through glyphs, infernal script, and binary until stabilizing into Common: Transdimensional Bounty Hunter Hub – Hazard-Class Zone
Students Are Advised to Follow Beacon Lines and Not Stray

The warning wasn't just formal. Already, Joshua could see shadows moving in the corners of the fractured terrain—things not fully in this dimension, noticing his presence.

Joshua's boots clicked on what looked like calcified marrow as he followed the glowing blue beacon lines etched into the surface. The lines pulsed softly beneath his feet, guiding him through the chaotic frontier where bounty hunters gathered between missions to train, gear up, have some fun, or take on new bounties.

Along the path, he passed weapon forges run by creatures that looked like molten stone wrapped in armor. Shrines, where hunters left offerings—knives, medals, bone dice—to fallen comrades. Message boards scrawled in dozens of tongues, displaying kill orders, missing teammates, and "DO NOT ENGAGE" advisories with shifting threat levels. And the occasional massive trophy rack: skulls, carapaces, and other remains of beings that had once terrorized entire worlds.

Bounty hunters in long coats and plated armor leaned against railings, swapping stories and cigarettes, some glaring at Joshua with a predator's eye, some ignoring him like he wasn't worth the time. He kept walking. The fortress loomed closer.

Entering the fortress, Joshua expected weapons, war rooms, maybe even cages. What he didn't expect was the plush, velvet-padded reception area nestled like an afterthought behind armored walls. At the front desk sat a short, round woman in a floral shawl, her chair creaking gently as she shifted. Large butterfly wings shimmered behind her, softly pulsing with glamoured light.

"Hello, young man," she greeted with a warm, honeyed smile. Her voice carried the calm charm of someone who had seen horrors walk in before breakfast and still remembered everyone's name. "How can I help you?"

Joshua blinked. "Uh—hi. I'm looking for Instructor Cassian Varn's office?"

"Ah, you are one of his new students," she recognized. "I heard that old warhound decided to take up teaching. He will be in the shooting range, of course. Head up the stairs to the third floor and you'll know you're close when the walls start shaking."

"Thank you," Joshua said as headed up the stairs. As he ascended, the sounds of gunfire, sizzling arcana, and guttural roars grew louder. On the third floor, the hallway opened into a vast training chamber built from dimensional alloy plating and bone-tempered glass. Ethereal projections of high-threat bounties flickered across the space—creatures from every known realm, some humanoid, others not, all already neutralized and tagged with blinking kill-stamps.

In the middle of it all stood a giant of a man, casually holstering a barrel-sized pistol that hissed with smoking mana. Cassian Varn looked as if he'd stepped out of a war zone. Nearly eight feet tall, his azure skin shimmered with runic scars and old faded burns. Two thick horns curled back over his silver hair like scimitars, and one of his four arms was entirely mechanical—the forearm built from obsidian gunmetal, with revolver-chamber knuckles still steaming from a recent burst.

He turned with deliberate slowness as Joshua stepped into view, his eyes gleaming like twin slivers of volcanic glass. "Fresh blood," he rumbled, voice like gravel dragged through magma.

Roll for Initial Impression (1d6)

1 - Hostile 2 - Cold 3 - Neutral 4- Partially Interested 5- Quite Impressed 6- Rare Respect

Rolled 3, Unproven Load.

Cassian's View: Waiting to see if you're worth the mana

Neutral Outcome: No penalties or bonuses. Have access to basic assignments

Reward Path: Consistent effort may open bonus content

-

"You lost, boy?" he asked

Joshua straightened his posture. "Joshua Samuelson. I'm in your Class —Guncaster Fundamentals."

The oni's eyes narrowed slightly. Not suspicious, not approving—just weighing. "You've got the look of a backwater spark-thrower. No shine. No stance." His mechanical hand clicked open a revolver, spun the chamber, and clicked it shut without looking. "But you're here. That counts for something."

Joshua said nothing, just nodded once.

"You'll learn by bleeding or by burning. You mess up, I won't save you. I'll just step over your corpse and use you as a cautionary tale."

He tossed a charred student badge to the side. It clattered at Joshua's feet like a threat, leaving him wondering if the man already manslaughter one of his students before class even began.

"But if you keep your eyes open, keep your gun clean, and stop trying to be impressive—you might survive the semester."

The air thrummed with unspoken pressure, like a challenge waiting to be answered. Cassian's voice dropped low. "That will be all for now?"

Joshua held his gaze. "Thank you, sir. I won't disappoint you."

The bounty hunter gave a grunt—half laugh, half dismissive cough. Then turned away. "Class starts tomorrow. Don't be late. I don't do repeat lessons."

Relationship with Cassian Varn: +1(Aware)

Next Rank: 0/3

-

Getting off the godforsaken bus once again, the moment the bus doors hissed closed behind him, Joshua was hit by a wave of furnace heat and ozone.

The sky—if it could be called that—was a haze of smoke, embers, and glowing arcane exhaust. Floating steel platforms hovered over molten lakes. Jagged scaffolding stretched across half-finished towers, suspended by mana cranes the size of whales. The constant clang of hammer on metal and the hum of aether lines pulsed in the air like a heartbeat.

He was at Smeltrune District— one of the Academy's magical industrial sectors.

Everywhere he looked, there were forge-facilities, gearworks, testing fields, combustion labs, rune-shielded warehouses, and spark rail systems shuttling raw materials between floating structures. Mechs the size of carriages stomped along patrol routes, and apprentice smiths in reinforced robes zipped between levels via mag-lifts.

A holographic banner flickered overhead: Smeltrune
Authorized personnel only. Explosions likely. Students must sign liability waivers.

He followed a stream of students, most already wearing workshop gear or dragging crates of rare alloys and unstable reagents behind them. When his turn came at the gate, a hulking troll-like administrator with oil-black skin and a nasal voice squinted down at him from his chair.

"What brings you here?" the troll-like man who was having people sign waivers asked.

"I'm here to see, Instructor Elra Vintock!"

"She will be in Workshop Hall C7," he answered in his nazily voice letting him through.

Coming to the workshop which was carved into a metal mesa that jutted out over a lava vein. Sparks shot into the sky with every forge-pulse, and magical exhaust chimneys belched shimmering vapor into the burning clouds.

The doors to Hall C7 were three inches of reinforced, rune-etched steel. The kind of doors you locked not to keep people out, but to keep what's inside from getting loose.

He knocked once and the doors boomed open.

Heat blasted him in the face as he stepped inside—and into what could only be described as beautiful chaos. The ceiling was an open grid of pipes, spell-conduits, and cranes. Workbenches overflowed with exotic metals, dragonbone casings, and energy cores. Dozens of partially assembled magical guns floated mid-air in suspended tinkering rigs, glowing with containment glyphs. One of them exploded in a flash of purple light, but the safety sigils caught it before shrapnel could fly.

At the center of it was Elra Vintock.

She was short, sturdy, and absolutely commanding. Her forge-coat was scorched, her gloves were plated with mana-reactive steel, and her wild red hair was tied back in braids that sparked with static. A full tool-belt clanked at her waist, and her right eye glowed blue with a monocle-shaped rune lens. She looked up from a glowing schematic etched in mid-air and raised an eyebrow.

"Aye?" she said, voice rough as grit and thick with dwarven bite. "Ye look like trouble. What do ye want?"

Joshua swallowed, his mouth feeling dry from all this humid air. "I'm one of your new students, ma'am."

She snorted, flicked a toggle on her floating schematic, and gave him a once-over.

Roll for Initial Impression (1d6)

1 - Hostile 2 - Cold 3 - Neutral 4- Partially Interested 5- Quite Impressed 6- Rare Respect

Rolled 4, Forgeling

Elra's View: Sees the spark in his eyes.

Okay Outcome: Can borrow basic forge-tools. Unlocked Tier 1 Gun schematics in database.

Bonus Opportunity: Complete a successful project, she may consider you for personalized tutelage.

-

"Good, you've got a pulse, at least. And you didn't flinch at the door popping like a sun core, so that's already better than most of the first-years who walk in pissin' themselves. Hope you've got steady hands and thick skin. I don't coddle, and my projects tend to explode in your face. Come help out," she waved him over.

Joshua barely had time to process her words before a heavy set of enchanted gloves and a protective apron were flung his way. "Gear up," Elra barked. "And if you burn your eyebrows off, that's on you."

He slipped on the reinforced leather apron, which felt like it had its own internal skeleton, and the gloves buzzed faintly with mana insulation as he pulled them on. As soon as he was kitted up, Elra shoved a heavy crate toward him with her boot.

"Take this to Station Six. We're testing a prototype receiver—third iteration of the Split-Core Ignition Array. It likes to melt through plating if you're too slow."

Joshua didn't ask questions—just carried the crate across the chaotic hall, weaving between floating rigs and half-sentient tool arms, all sparking with arcane energy. At Station Six, a magically suspended chassis hovered in midair: a strange hybrid of musket, flintlock, and railgun. Arcane vents hissed steam from glowing seams in its body. Elra joined him, pulling up the schematic in the air with a flick of her fingers.

"This right here's what separates spell-flingers from real innovators," she muttered, pointing at a floating diagram. "Split-Core means two spell matrices running parallel—double the punch, but also double the chance of catastrophic backlash."

She handed him a hammer inscribed with stabilizing glyphs. "You hold. I hammer."

Joshua braced the volatile core in place with trembling hands while she went to work, each strike sparking like a thunderclap. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He felt the pulse of raw magic under his palms, like holding the heartbeat of a dragon.

"Don't move. This thing bites if you shift it wrong."

BANG.

Sparks flew. One of the cores flared too hot and the whole frame trembled. A containment sigil flickered dangerously. Elra swore in Dwarvish. Joshua, thinking fast, slammed his hand down and instinctively pushed his own mana into the structure—not much, just enough to reinforce the wobbling field. The glow stabilized.

Elra paused mid-swing, eyeing the sigils as they locked back into place. She gave a low grunt. "Well, I'll be. You've got some stones on you."

With a final hit, the core sealed into the weapon. Elra stood back, wiping soot from her cheek. "You're still green," she muttered. "But I've seen worse. Much worse."

Then she grinned—an expression like a crack in bedrock. "You stick with it, maybe I'll let you help on something that doesn't try to kill you first."

Doing a couple more tasks for the woman, Joshua was worked like a workhorse, but he felt like he was slowly starting to understand how all this gunmaking worked. Each station was a trial in heat, precision, and problem-solving. One moment he was assembling a recoil dampener for a flame-pistol that spat out sunbursts, and the next, he was grinding dragonbone shavings into powder for alchemical primers.

Elra didn't slow down or explain twice. Instructions were barked over roaring furnaces and the hiss of aether vents. Mistakes were corrected with a shout and a smack of a metal clipboard. "Watch your trigger alignment! That ain't a soup ladle you're makin'!"

But somewhere in the haze of soot and sparks, Joshua found a rhythm. The clicks of glyph circuits slotting into place, the glow of charged copper veins etched into barrels—it was all starting to click. This wasn't like channeling mana through a gun as a spellcaster; this was building the future of it. Every screw and rune could make or break a shot. Every misstep could cost a hand.

And Elra was watching. Not openly—but each time he made a smart choice or adapted without prompting, she gave the faintest nod, or grunted in that not-unimpressed way of hers.

Finally, as a timer rune chimed and the forge cooled to a simmer, she called out. "Alright, enough for today. You didn't die, didn't whine, and didn't drop anything priceless. That's a pass in my book."

Joshua pulled off his gloves, arms sore, fingers tingling from hours of magic-charged labor.

"I'll see you in class!" and added with a smirk, "Not bad for someone who probably didn't know a mana wrench from a potato peeler this morning."

Joshua grinned. Tired, sweaty, and reeking of forge smoke—but proud.

Arcane Gunsmithing - Class Progress 3/100

Relationship with Elra Vintock: +1(Aware)

Next Rank: 2/3

-

His last stop for the day before the party later this evening was Veyltower. Joshua stepped onto a platform that floated in the upper stratosphere, the clouds below glowing violet from the mana storm circulating miles beneath. Before him, rising like a divine needle piercing reality itself, stood the tower named after a great mage, a myriad spire wrapped in luminous orbitals of rune-inscribed crystal. The tower was surrounded by a sphere of anti-chaos wards, visible as shimmering grids that adjusted with every surge of ambient energy.

The wind here carried a clinical chill, tinged with ozone and old lightning. Above him, rings of spinning data—actualized formulas and reactive glyphs—spiraled in constant calculation. The sky wasn't blue here—it was prismatic, refracting ley currents into chromatic rivers of magic.

This was where magic was dissected and weaponized through science. Where raw potential met discipline. Where explosions were controlled to within microns. At the base of the tower, a single archway bore the name in twelve languages:

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Veyltower - Arcane Physics Tower

Joshua crossed the threshold, and instantly, everything became silent—as though sound itself had been tuned out. He could feel the subtle hum of layered wards filtering vibration, heat, mana, and even intention. Checking in at the front, he was told to head to the Department of Magical Ballistics & Dimensional Kinetics to find his instructor.

Inside, students in hazmat suits drifted from lab to lab, carrying capsules of glowing powder, enchanted cartridges, and flame-sealed scrolls. Transparent chambers ran ballistic simulations in real-time: exploding rounds frozen mid-impact, slowed to one-thousandth of a second, rotating to display force vectors and enchantment decomp.

At the far end stood an impact testing amphitheater built like a cathedral of knowledge—glass walls, mana-reactive flooring, and floating workstations. And at the center of it all, standing in front of a targeting rig where plasma rounds were frozen mid-flight, was Liora Fenwick.

Her presence radiated precision. She wore a silver-threaded coat embedded with real-time data glyphs that adjusted to her mana levels. Her monocle flickered with targeting readouts, and her hair was pulled back into a radiant coil of alchemically bleached strands that shimmered faintly with moonlight essence. She didn't turn around as she asked, "Joshua Samuelson."

Roll for Initial Impression (1d6)

1 - Hostile 2 - Cold 3 - Neutral 4- Partially Interested 5- Quite Impressed 6- Rare Respect

Rolled 5, Calibrated Prospect

Fenwick's View: You show rare discipline. Alchemy respects order. Physics demands it.

Good Outcome: Access to Codex of the Catalyst and experimental ammo lines & mayhem gunpowder. Plus magic item, True Aim Talisman (-1 to enemy dodges).

Bonus Opportunity: Potential paid research assistant role (weekly stipend & laboratory access)

Joshua wondered how she already knew his name, and she seemed to sense or read his thought as she replied. "I know every one of my students. You are seventeen seconds late either you took your time to get here or took a wrong turn. Both are faults."

Joshua opened his mouth to apologize. "Don't bother. Punctuality is the first equation in a deadly formula. Sloppy timing leads to corpses. If you're aiming to survive this class, you will not be late again."

Then she looked up. Her eyes were pale gold, but not warm—just intensely aware, like the sun seen through a microscope. She waved a hand, and a crystal tray floated forward. On it sat five identical cartridges—except they weren't. Their glyphs were unstable. The energy inside them was volatile.

"Pick one. Load it. Fire at the test wall. You have five seconds to determine its spell type and elemental destabilization rate. If you pick wrong, it may rupture."

Joshua tensed—but did as told. He focused. Breathed. Choose the fourth. It felt… off. He adjusted his grip, accounted for a delayed burn. He aimed and fired.

BANG

The wall glowed, runes pulsed, and the round detonated cleanly in a burst of shaped fire and frost. Silence followed. Liora tapped her notes. "Fire primary, frost secondary. Unstable weave but predictable trigger curve. You compensated. Acceptable."

She turned fully now, arms crossed. "You're not hopeless. You might even be competent. Which means you'll be held to a higher standard than the rest. I don't reward mediocrity, and I don't tolerate mistakes."

Then, with a flick of her fingers, she tossed him an ornate sheet. "This will help with your aim in the future. If you want better rewards, prove your brain works faster than your reflexes. Dismissed."

Joshua blinked—but she was already facing the simulations again, calling up footage of his firing stance, measuring down to the wrist angle. She hadn't smiled. But she hadn't shut him out, either. He guessed he could call that victory.

"Anyways since you came all the way here, I might as well impart some lessons upon you," she said, getting back to her task. Listening attentively as she spoke in clean, clipped cadence:

"Magic ballistics is in the margins of physics and intent. Every projectile, every spell round fired, obeys a trajectory—not just through space and time, but through influence."

A glyph bloomed mid-air: an intricate diagram of a bullet's flight path, overlayed with ripples of energy. "In a mundane world, velocity and mass determine motion. Here, we account for additional variables: mana vector, enchantment decay, emotional resonance, and ambient ley current."

Joshua squinted at the orbit lines. "You're saying the bullet's mood affects its aim?"

Liora gave him a look that was dangerously close to amused. "Not mood. Intent resonance. A projectile remembers the will of its caster after ignition. Your intent cane be the difference between a dead-center shot… or a backlash."

She motioned to a bullet caught mid-explosion in a time-slowed chamber: its tip had curved backward, folding inside itself. "That student lacked conviction. The spell interpreted the hesitation as a reversal vector."

Joshua swallowed hard, listening closely as she continued, now pacing slowly around the place as she imparted more wisdom to him.

Skill Gained: Arcane Physics(Ballistics) 1 - Bonus to launching, flight behavior and impact of projectiles

Magical Ballistics - Class Progress 5/100

Relationship with Liora Fenwick: +2(Acquainted)

Next Rank: 0/5

-

As the sun dipped below the dimensional horizon outside, Joshua was back on the Redhook Linehouse as it rumbled steadily along its tracks. Tonight was the First-Year Welcoming Party—and appearances mattered.

Joshua stood in his cabin, arms crossed, staring at the sorry excuse for a wardrobe that had cobbled itself together in the corner. Most of it wasn't his. In fact, almost nothing on this train was. He only came onboard with what he had on his back. His dormmates had explained that the Linehouse occasionally coughed up the belongings of previous residents—some long dead, others long graduated, or made it out. The result? A closet of chaos as the train decided to randomly dump whatever it wanted in his room. Robes three sizes too big, stitched capes in questionable color palettes, boots with more buckles than sense.

Looking through his options, they all didn't look great, the previous occupants really didn't have any taste or style. Almost giving up, Joshua heard a sharp knock on the door, grabbing it. He came face to face with the resident Dragonlady or as her race was called Dragonborn.

"Did you get dressed yet," she asked in her usual commanding and snobbish tone. "I hope it's not that tragic excuse of a shirt you wore this morning."

Looking at him and seeing that was exactly what he was wearing, before he could protest, she burst in, dramatic as ever, hands on her hips. "You're not walking into the academy's gala looking like a train station orphan. You're representing Redhook now."

"Hey, not everyone has so many options," he answered heatedly.

Snorting in disgust, she beckoned with a lacquered clawed finger. "Come."

Joshua followed her down the corridor until they reached what he had assumed was just another storage car—until she unlocked it with a flick of her wrist and a whispered spell.

The doors slid open to reveal a personal train car transformed into a lavish mobile wardrobe. Gilded racks stretched wall-to-wall, hung with clothing from countless worlds—elven ceremonial robes, infernal-tailored suits, metallic-plated gowns, woven star-silk coats. Shoes arranged themselves by movement style. Floating mirrors adjusted their frames with the observer's posture. Fabric folded itself. Gloves hissed as they auto-fitted to floating mannequin hands.

"Welcome to my changing room," she said, striking a pose. "Pick a look, darling. You've got five minutes before I dress you myself."

He blinked. "You… own all this?"

"I curate," she said, brushing a shimmering coat of grass-fur. "Fashion is just weaponized identity, and tonight, you need a damn good one."

He hesitated, not sure if he needed something to the tee. "Why would I even need all this for?"

"For them to remember you," she said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "The first-year party is where the pecking order starts forming. Reputation, alliances, visibility. Look like you belong—or better—look like you don't, but no one dares say otherwise."

Joshua scanned the rows of outfits—some too regal, some too strange—but one caught his eye: a dark longcoat with silver filigree that pulsed faintly with arcane thread, fitted gloves, and a high-collared shirt with reinforced weave. Practical. Sharp. Powerful.

"Perfect," Virelle nodded as he slipped it on. "Now you will make an impression. Now put this one on as well," she said, giving him even more clothing and other fineries to put on.

Entering the lounge car, Joshua found it alive with motion and conversation. His dormmates were scattered across the velvet seats and polished brass railings, many of them dressed in impressive eveningwear—not just him.

"You guys heading out too?" he asked, adjusting the cuffs on his new coat.

"Of course," Marrow replied with a smirk. "Some of us less trigger-happy types get invited to politer society."

"Hey!" Hella yelled from the corner, halfway through a card game with Flickwick. "Some of us prefer rowdy."

Brandon glanced up from adjusting his collar. "Would you look at you. Dressed to impress the ladies tonight?"

Joshua chuckled. The outfit was a bit much. He looked more like a noble from Europa. "How exactly do we get to these things anyway? The train's done for the day."

"Pull out your invite," Ume said, gracefully walking in with a deep blue evening gown that shimmered like midnight fog. "Rip it in half. First half sends you to the destination. Second half brings you back."

"Seriously?" he asked, already fishing the crisp parchment from his pocket.

"Magical teleportation," Ashford chimed in, buttoning a high-collared coat with silver piping. "It should be one of your top priorities to learn. Saves hours of walking."

"I'll put it on the list," Joshua muttered. He gave them a short wave. "See you all later," as he tore the invitation in half.

"Don't stay out too late, young Joshua!" Neal called from behind a large book, clearly not attending anything remotely decadent. "Classes start tomorrow!"

The air shimmered around him. Gravity twisted—and then, with a silent tug behind the ribs, he vanished.

-

Let's vote for the plan for this evening's party!

We will go with the Top 3!

Options:

Mingle & Chat with Other First-Years - Get to know your peers—future allies or rivals.

Participate in a Magic Duel Demonstration - Show your strength, gain rep

Get Dragged into a Dance Circle - You might find a worthy partner for the night.

Get Pulled Into a Magical Game of Wits - Is your mind sharp enough to beat all others

Attempt the Enchanted Buffet Challenge - Do you have the stomach to try some sentient, cursed, or... very weird food.

Join a Game of Luck & Chance - Real stuff are on the line from money, blood, knowledge, and even magic

-

By the time the twin moons crested over the shifting skies of the Academy, Joshua appeared with a shimmer of displaced air, teleporting just outside a gate that hadn't been there a moment before. The First-Year Welcoming Party awaited—and it was anything but ordinary.

Above him, the sky shimmered like a living aurora, curtains of color rippling in slow, celestial waves. Stars winked into and out of existence, drifting across constellations that rearranged themselves mid-gaze. The very fabric of the heavens seemed to hum in anticipation.

Ahead floated the Gilded Arcanum Ballroom—a palace of glass, stone, and magic suspended in the sky like a crown jewel. It hovered effortlessly, tethered to the earth by four glowing chains of light and ancient will, each link inscribed with runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. From its underside, a staircase unfurled in real time, each step blooming like a lotus of crystal and obsidian beneath the feet of those deemed worthy.

Students began arriving in bursts of magic all around him—some flickering into existence with the precision of teleportation sigils, others riding enchanted carpets, floating palanquins, even beasts of starlight. Each new arrival was its own spectacle: a girl surrounded by a ring of living water, a cloaked figure emerging from a mirror with frost on their boots, a trio of twins who walked out of the same dimensional slit with synchronized grace.

The staircase itself was alive, shifting subtly to meet each arrival, reshaping based on their gait or origin. Lanterns bobbed overhead—small constellations of glowing fauna from distant realms, drifting like slow-moving jellyfish through the night air, casting shadows like dream-fragments across the cobbled approach.

Joshua stepped forward, feeling the mana-charged wind tug at his coat. Every step carried him closer to a place suspended between reality and prestige. Around him, students laughed, whispered, or walked in purposeful silence. Some held hands. Others exchanged wary glances. A few eyed the hall like conquerors. And all the while, above it all, the Arcanum Ballroom glowed—waiting to welcome the bold, the brilliant, and the utterly doomed.

Inside, it was not a ballroom. It was a convergence of realities masquerading as one. The floor beneath Joshua's boots changed with each step—gleaming elven crystal that caught starlight like water, shifting seamlessly to baroque arches of draconic gold, then to the stark, rune-scorched basalt of dwarven style. No single architectural style held dominion here. The hall was a patchwork of culture, era, and realm, fused by magic and anchored by prestige.

Gravity misbehaved freely—spiraling up in one corner, drifting sideways in another. A group of students floated across a tilted platform, sipping from levitating goblets, their laughter tumbling like music. Lanterns—bioluminescent and jellyfish-like—bobbed through the air, pulsing in time with an ambient melody that was part wind-chime, part thunder, part whispered celestial hymn.

At the heart of the hall, a phoenix-shaped fountain erupted with shimmering punch that sparkled like crushed stars and shifted flavor with every sip—berry one moment, fire-cider the next, honey and thunder after that.

Thousands of first-years were already gathered. Some wore robes sewn from constellations, others were clad in enchanted armor, or traditional garments of their homeworlds, and varying cloaks stitched from vines or sea shells. The crowd pulsed with potential—raw, hungry, unrefined. You could feel it crackling in the air, as if magic itself were watching to see who might rise… and who would burn out.

Floating staircases spiraled through open voids, leading to tiered lounges and private alcoves. Along the walls, velvet-draped booths beckoned, each one themed after a school of magic—an Illusionist's cove where shadows whispered secrets, an Alchemy booth with changing aromas and self-mixing drinks, a Blood Magic enclave lit only by red eerie lamps.

Candlelight hovered without flame. Goblets refilled themselves with effervescent, color-shifting drinks that reacted to mood and intent. Tables overflowed with enchanted culinary marvels, a feast drawn from across time, planes, and imagination. Platters hovered inches off the surface, rotating slowly to show off their arcane delicacies. Some foods melted in reverse, or phased in and out of existence, while others glowed with soft moonlight, or whispered riddles when bitten, and sang songs as they went down.

Languages overlapped like layered enchantments. Hundreds of tongues were spoken at once—none misunderstood thanks in part to the academy which he found out translated every language spoken. Somewhere, music filtered through the air, though no one could point to a single source. It was omnipresent, drifting through the ballroom like a living spirit—shifting in tempo and texture as it passed, as if responding to the emotions in the room.

Everywhere he looked there was elegance, there was danger, and there were predators behind polished smiles. Joshua stood just inside the threshold, taking it all in. It wasn't just a party. It was a proving ground wrapped in silk and gold.

Taking a drink from one of the floating trays—a crystalline flute filled with a shifting liquid that tasted like smoke and citrus—Joshua lingered at the edge of the crowd, eyes quietly sweeping across the room. The party was dazzling, but beneath the glamour, he could feel the game already in motion. He wasn't just at a celebration. He was on a battlefield filled with social, magical, and political intrigue, and every first-year present was a potential rival, ally, or future threat. Scanning faces, noting who was holding court and who kept to the shadows, he took it all in.

The first he noticed was a tall, silver-haired boy standing near the center dais, surrounded by admirers and orbiting sycophants. He had a golden badge with his robes bearing the sigil of the College of Chronomancy, stitched in gold thread that moved backward across the fabric, rewinding in loops. Even his smile felt rehearsed, like he'd delivered it yesterday. Some sort of Time magic user, clearly—and already lording over the rest.

Along a staircase made of light, a sun magic user in phoenix-feather trim casually floated above the crowd, using bursts of heat to keep others literally beneath her. A loud laugh, a dazzling spark, and an aura of reckless charisma—a dangerous showman, clearly one who reveled in spectacle and challenge. To the left, a group of students in sleek, uniform attire shared hushed words and sharp glances. At the center was a woman in a raven feathered gown who they all seemed to be worshipping.

In a quiet alcove bathed in moonlight, Joshua spotted students not mingling—but watching. One scribbled notes with a pen that floated of its own accord. The other appeared to be blind, but their eyes pulsed with divination glyphs. Observers. Analysts. Information brokers in the making.

Joshua sipped his drink again. He was studying. Weighing. Choosing. Who mattered? Who didn't? Who would become dangerous? And maybe most importantly— where would he stand, when the lines between them all were drawn? From his observations he noticed everyone more or less split into 3 overall camps. There were many different groups, cliques, and so forth, but when it came down to it really the badges were the overall arbiter.

There were the low rank students made up of iron and copper, their clothing was simple, sometimes outdated or scavenged, though a few had flair. Many stood in clusters, trying not to stand out. Some looked nervous, others defiant. Joshua recognized their energy—scrappy, overlooked, but hungry. A wiry girl with cracked glasses adjusted the valves on her wrist-bracer while speaking excitedly to a conjurer with mismatched boots. Near them, two Iron badges practiced hand-signs in a forgotten spell language, glancing up every time someone of higher rank passed by. One student in Copper, a heavyset boy with earth-toned robes and a boulder shaped familiar, looked like he belonged in a mine, not a ballroom—but he stood tall and proud. Joshua made note of them, they were his flock.

Then there were those in the middle of the pack, made up of bronze and silver, stronger magic, more stable auras, more polished presentations. They weren't royalty, but they carried aspiration like perfume. A Bronze-tier battlemage with fire-threaded dreadlocks spun a coin of flame between his fingers while chatting up a Silver-tier enchantress with twin floating grimoires orbiting her like moons. A trio of Silver-tier necromancers in fox trimmed fur, each with a ghostly animal perched on their shoulder, held a quiet court of admirers near a waterfall of smoke pouring sideways across a false window. These were the strivers. The climbers. The aspirates that wished for a brighter future.

Near the floating dais of the head staff, lounging beneath floating sigils of honor and ancestral prestige, were the Golds and Platinums—students so powerful, the room subtly reacted to them. Joshua could feel the change in the air when he looked toward them. Their clothes shimmered with impossible weaves—textiles that only grew on dream-creatures or were spun by spelllooms. Their magical signatures were like suns: not just bright, but heavy. Real. Some carried blades that pulsed with bound spirits. Others had familiars composed of pure light or living geometry.

A Platinum-tier girl stood alone, arms folded, eyes glowing. Even the air near her bent strangely, like reality disliked being so close. Another Gold-tier student sat cross-legged in midair, reading a book that turned its own pages and sipped from a cup that poured itself. They weren't just confident. They were dangerous. These were the children of magic, most of them likely offspring of legendary mages, guildmasters, dimension lords, faction heads.

Who would you like to Mingle with?

Lower Ranked Iron and Copper Students(+1 to Roll)

Middle Ranked Bronze and Silver Students(-1 to Roll)

High Ranked Gold and Platinum Students(-3 to Roll)

-

Rolled 6+1 = 7, Folk-Hero of the Downtrodden

View: You are a legend in the making to be admired and look up for hope & comfort

Amazing Outcome: +1 social rolls with Iron/Copper students. Unlock Loyal Followers(Minions). Invite to a Secret Society: Union of the Oppressed. Plus magic item, Bottomless Pouch(extra storage space).

Bonus Opportunity: New Quest #2 - Save/Lead the Downtrodden

Joshua stepped off the starlight spiral staircase into the great mirrored hall, drink in hand, his coat gleaming faintly with threads of warded silver. At first glance, the First-Year Welcoming Party felt like a storm of noble bloodlines and spellforged legacies—but he knew better than to get lost chasing stars.

Instead, he drifted deliberately toward the edges of the celebration. Toward the shadows beneath the grand platforms. Toward the students whose robes didn't glimmer, whose badges read Copper and Iron, whose presence drew few glances but who watched everything.

They stood in small clusters—nervous, half-smiling, unsure whether they truly belonged. They talked quietly, guardedly. Some wore stitched-up uniforms, others enchanted hand-me-downs, their magical threads faded but patched with care. One student's wand was clearly homemade; another gripped a spellbook bound in recycled parchment.

Joshua didn't approach with pomp. He leaned casually beside them at the drink sphere, nodded once, and cracked a simple grin. "Nice party, huh?"

There was a pause. Then someone—a wiry girl with a soot-smudged jacket and a copper badge hanging loose from her collar—shrugged and motioned him in. "Sure, but don't expect caviar. All we got is stew that sometimes sneezes at you."

They laughed, and he laughed with them. And that's all it took. He started swapping stories—growing up rough, scrounging old textbooks, hearing tales from street magicians who charged more than they taught. His honesty hit home. It didn't matter that he was D-Tier. He felt like one of them. He was one of them. More joined. Then more. Before long, he was surrounded. People asked where he was from. What kind of magic he had. What dorm he was in. He made them laugh. He made them feel seen.

He got them to tell their stories too—cheering them on, downplaying his own abilities. When a nervous Iron-tier boy with shaky hands admitted he didn't think he'd last the week, Joshua clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You will," he said. "We all will. We just need to stick together."

For the first time, Joshua truly saw the worry behind their eyes, all of them. To get dragged to this strange place to be consigned to the lowest bin, it could be too much. What he had was his upbringing, which was a blessing you could say, letting him overcome his misery.

So he did what he did best, he stepped up. "We may each be just twigs," he said, raising his voice slightly, "but a bundle of sticks is unbreakable. Together, no one can push us around. Those upper ranked are more likely to stab each other in the back and fight amongst themselves. We must do better. No! We will do better, because we have no choice. It's survival, and we will survive together through this cruel academy!"

Seeing vigorous nods all around and beaming smiles as a light was lit in each eye, Joshua could see they were in agreement, and more than that he felt as if he had them all in the palm of his hand. Not letting that thought get to his head, he dismissed it.

Then someone muttered bitterly about how the Gold kids were already forming little cults of personality, Joshua raised his drink and toasted: "To the ones they overlook. They'll remember us one day."

The crowd cheered at that.

That's when the sneer came from the shadows above, slithering into their warmth like cold steel. "Do you hear what these trash are saying," a voice intruded upon them, laced with venom.

Heads turned and eyes narrowed as a group walked up to them. They were mid ranked students, at their head a Silver badged naga man.

He stopped before them, arms crossed, tongue flicking the air. "What's this? A pep rally for the academy's bottom feeders?"

Joshua didn't flinch. He turned with calm precision, met the sneer with an unimpressed stare, and crossed his arms. "You lost—or just slumming for attention?"

The crowd stilled.

The Naga grinned, all fangs. "Your voices bothered me, I came here to tell you to shut up and know your place, but I heard the most interesting thing from you, little mouse."

"Well, thanks for slithering down here just to eavesdrop," Joshua said, his voice dry. "We're honored by your royal hissiness." That drew a few laughs—tense, sharp, and awkward.

Not liking his tone one bit, the Naga's grin vanished, his eyes narrowing further into slits. "You want to act like you matter? Then step into the Mid Tier Bracket for the Magic Duels, tonight. Let's see how long the hero act lasts when it's fists and fire instead of pretty words."

Seeing the desperate looks in his fellow low ranked classmates, who wanted someone to stand up for them. He let his heart do the thinking for him and replied cooly. "Sure, see you there, snakeyboy."

The Naga turned with a hiss. "Hope you like watching your mascot bleed. I'll enjoy putting you in your place."

Joshua took a slow sip of his drink. "Hope you like losing to trash."

The Silver-tier students turned and stalked off, cloaks billowing like stormclouds. The Iron and Copper crowd exploded around Joshua—cheers, chants, claps on the back. On the outside he just kept sipping his drink, while in the inside he wondered what he got himself in.

-

With Great Power, Comes Great Responsibility!

You are locked-in for the Mid-Tier Magic Duel Bracket!

⚔️ Combat System: Every combat turn is a battle of choices, dice rolls, and magical strategy.

Combat is broken into 3: Attack(Rock), Dodge(Scissor), Defense(Paper)!

🔥Attack(Rock): You unleash your magical offense—whether directly or indirectly.

Roll 1dSpirit + [Spell/Magic Gear/damage modifiers] + 1d4/4

Successful hit, causes damage or magical effect

🌪️Dodge(Scissor): You attempt to evade or exploit a vulnerable in an opponent's move.

Roll 1dMind + [spells/speed buffs] + 1d4/4

Successful evasion, avoids or counter damage/effect

🛡️Defense(Paper): When you choose to take a hit head-on or counter, rely on your shields, enchantments, or resilience.

Roll 1dBody + [Summon/defense modifiers/Magic resistance] + 1d4/4

Successful block, reduces incoming damage or nullifies status effects

ADDITIONAL MECHANICS

Initiative Roll: Determines who goes first each round

Momentum Points: Build up with high rolls; spend to combo spells

Clash Events: When both rolls are equal, initiate a Clash (opposed rolls; highest wins)

Environmental Interactions: Use terrain, architecture, phenomenon, or summoned material

Signature Move: Once per duel, use a powerful, personalized finisher (with risk!)

-

It's Time to D-D-D DUEL!

Mid Bracket Magic Duel Demonstration

Fight 1 - Demo

Wage: Gusto Gloves | True Aim Talisman

Opponent Info: Bronze(1d8) | Tremor Magic

Stats

Body: 6 | Health: 13/13

Mind: 4 | Stress: 9/9

Spirit: 5 | Mana: 9/9

Round 1

Initiative: (You)1d4=4>(Enemy)1d8=3

(You)Attack 1d4=4<(Enemy)Defense 1d8=5+2[Earthen Barrier, -1 Mana]

Environment Change

Round 2

(You)Dodge 1d4=3+5>(Enemy)Attack 1d8=6

+1 Momentum

Round 3

(You)Dodge 1d4=4+5>(Enemy)Attack 1d8=6+2[Earthen Spike, -1 Mana]

+1 Momentum(2 Total)

Round 4

(You)Dodge 1d4=4+5>(Enemy)Attack 1d8=5+3[Bull Rage, Racial Trait]

+1 Momentum(3 Total)

Round 5

(You)Attack 1d6=3+4[Raw Reinforced Bullet]<(Enemy)Attack 1d8=5

-7 Damage Enemy. Enemy Wounded(Hit ⅓ Mark). Endurance Check 1d8=5≤6 Body. Fail!

Forfeit!

We have a Winner(You)!

-

A sharp chime rang out through the air—clear, magically amplified, and impossible to ignore. Heads turned toward the balcony where a tall student stood, clad in a tailored coat of shifting colors, a crystalline wand raised like a baton. His voice boomed through the ballroom, equal parts flair and command. "Ladies, gentlemen, and arcane entities undefined—the Midnight Magic Duels are about to begin!"

The ballroom rippled with energy. Floating sigils ignited along the ceiling, drawing glowing rings in the air that would serve as the combat platforms. "First-years and bold hearts, now is your time to rise! Enter the ring, place your wager, and prove your mettle. Silver or iron, talent or tenacity—if you want to be remembered, step forward!"

All around the hall, murmurs rose. Some scoffed. Others reached for their gear. The crowd around the Iron and Copper students grew quiet, all eyes falling on one figure. Joshua. He handed his empty drink to a floating tray and stepped forward, silver-threaded coat gleaming under the spelllight. His boots echoed across the marbled floor. "I'll enter," he said. "Put me in the mid-tier bracket!"

A hush followed—brief, but sharp. Then voices broke out in startled whispers. "Did he say mid-tier?"

"He's Copper. Look at his badge—he's not supposed to—"

"He can't be serious…"

But the announcer grinned, delighted. "A challenger from the lower ranks! A Copper badge in the Mid Bracket? We love an underdog! What will your wager be?"

Reaching into his coat, he pulled out the trinket his ballistic teacher gave him. Not sure if his magic candy had any worth. "This," he said. "A talisman of True Aim."

"Wonderful, and who shall you face?" he asked theatrically, before glancing to a sigil glowing on the side wall. A name floated into view. "Asterion of Clan Hornfell—Bronze-tier, Tremor Magic!"

The crowd gasped. From the far side of the hall, heavy footsteps approached. A massive form stepped through the crowd—Asterion, the minotaur, a walking wall of muscle and fury. Bronze badge gleaming, eyes narrowed beneath a war-torn brow, his hooves cracked the floating platform as he stepped onto it. "I will wager these gloves of gusto!"

Then he looked down upon Joshua, and simply stated. "You are not a worthy foe, little human."

Joshua smirked. "Let's see about that big guy."

Floating glyphs began to rotate as the platform lifted into the air. Above them, the announcer's voice rang out once more: "Let the Magical Duel Demonstrations... BEGIN!"

The crowd thundered with anticipation as the marble dueling platform lifted into the air, glowing runes circling its edge like orbiting stars. Cheers and whispers rippled through the air as the two figures took their places—Joshua Samuelson, Copper badge and revolver at his side, and Asterion Hornfell, Bronze-ranked minotaur with tremor magic and a battle axe the size of a small table.

A magical barrier shimmered to life around the floating arena, muting external sound but amplifying what happened within.

The crowd leaned in as the two duelists stepped into the shifting ring—a marble disc floating high above the ballroom floor. The air cracked with tension. Across from Joshua, the bronze-tier minotaur slammed a hoof into the ground, stone fracturing beneath him.

Joshua took the initiative. He raised his revolver without hesitation in a practiced motion and fired the opening shot—a sharp crack of steel and gunfire ringing out like a thunderclap. But the Minotaur's massive hand slammed into the ground. "Earthen Barrier!" he roared. Jagged stone walls surged upward, intercepting the bullet with a shattering crack. Dust burst into the air. The crowd gasped. The round ended without a scratch. A shield met a bullet. But the tone was set.

With a rumbling growl, the Minotaur charged, axe in hand, the platform tilting dangerously under his thundering weight. Stone cracked and splintered under each step.

Joshua didn't wait. He ran each motion flowed like water. Harmonic Motion, still resonating faintly from his time aboard the Redhook Linehouse, synchronized his reflexes with the subtle sway of the arena. Using the rhythmic sway of Harmonic Motion, his boots synchronized with the train echo he remembered, ducking, rolling, and vaulting through barriers. Each dodge was a near miss—one swing of the axe shattered a barrier behind him. The Minotaur grunted. "Stop running, runt!"

Joshua smirked. "Why should I? Catch me if you can."

Realizing brute force wouldn't corner his opponent, the Minotaur skidded to a halt and planted both hands on the ground. "Tremor Spike!"

With a violent shudder, earthen spikes erupted beneath Joshua. But the rhythm was still with him. Almost like he could see the path ahead of time, Joshua flipped sideways, barely clearing the rising stone teeth. A shard grazed his sleeve—but that was all. The crowd murmured. Momentum was building. And Joshua hadn't fired another shot since round one, saving it until he had his chance.

The Minotaur's fury peaked. His eyes pulsed violently. His snort echoed like a war drum. "Enough games!" His muscles swelled, cracks formed in his armor, and his aura changed—he activated his racial trait. Bull Rage.

Eyes bloodshot with fury, veins glowing with seething rage, he charged again, this time a living battering ram of madness and rage. Joshua... didn't flinch. He sidestepped with a dancer's grace, barely a blur, the edge of the charge licking his coat as the Minotaur slammed into a barrier, shattering it.

"Why won't you fight!?" the Minotaur bellowed, foam coming from his mouth. The Minotaur's chest rose and fell in ragged, furious breaths. His muscles twitched, cracked with strain. "Enough of your tricks, coward," he spat, stomping forward. "Stand and fall like a real mage."

Joshua didn't reply at first, his mind somewhere else. Finally it clicked, all that stuff he had been reading down in the library came together! His breathing slowed. The crowd faded. The Minotaur's rage blurred into background noise.

A whisper. A resonance from deep within. His will. His magic. They came together all at once.

His revolver shimmered with living light—threads of arcane script crawling along the barrel like veins, burning silver-blue. Time didn't stop, but it stretched, his awareness expanding beyond flesh.

Joshua's finger squeezed the trigger. CRACK— No, not a crack. Not a gunshot. The bullet didn't fire—it launched, screaming through the air as a beam of focused energy, laced with arcane resonance. It was magic, in its purest form, raw and brutal.

It was a beam of light, raw and forced, like a bolt drawn from the heart of a spellstorm. The air cracked. The blast surged. Asterion tried to block with his axe. Too slow.

The beam punched through the air, struck true—and tore through his right shoulder like a meteor, burning straight through his enchanted bracer and muscle. The force lifted the Minotaur off his hooves and spun him halfway around before he crashed down to one knee, smoke curling from the hole seared clean through his upper arm.

The arena went silent. Even the floating lanterns seemed to dim. Asterion stared at his shoulder where a clean hole was smoking from his gunshot. His mouth opened just as his, and no words came. Then, slowly—almost reverently—he reached out and tapped the edge of the arena. Forfeit.

And the silence shattered. The arena exploded in sound—cheers, shouts, chants. The wards around the ring dissolved in a wash of light as Joshua stood there, revolver still warm in his hand, coat flapping in the residual wind of his shot. Somewhere in the crowd, a Copper-tier student screamed his name. And then another. And then many more.

"JOSHUA! JOSHUA! JOSHUA!"

He didn't smile. Not yet. His heart was still thundering. But deep down, something was different now. Something had awakened. His magic had come to life.

As the cheers echoed like rolling thunder across the floating arena, one of the duel attendants—a student dressed in dark formal robes trimmed with illusion-script—stepped onto the platform. Hovering beside them was a velvet-lined display tray, carried by a small levitating golem shaped like a bronze hawk.

"Per academy custom," the announcer intoned, voice magically projected, "the victor claims the wagered relic."

The tray swiveled toward Joshua, revealing a pair of worn but clearly enchanted gloves—fitted leather stitched with ember-red threading, and brass knuckles etched with runic vents. At first glance, they looked like something a street brawler might wear—but anyone who knew magical gear could feel the quiet pulse within them. Like a second heartbeat.

"The Gusto Gloves," the Asterion said, getting up with his hand covering his wounded shoulder "forged in the Elemental Gymnasium of Aer-Van. It invigorates you, making you more healthy and hale."

Joshua blinked as he picked them up. They weren't shiny. They weren't fancy. They were exactly the kind of thing someone like him would wear. Looking up at the man, he nodded his head in appreciation, "thank you!"

"It was battle won and well deserved," the man stated. "And I have learned a valuable lesson today, never underestimate a little human."

Chuckling at that, he looked at the man's shoulder and asked, "You going to be alright?"

"I'll go to the infirmary. I heard a madman runs it, but one of the students can patch me up for some favors."

Stepping off the ring, the two of them parted on good terms as others came forth to fight, showing off their skills and magic.

Reinforcement Magic: 10/?

Reached 1st Threshold: 10

Learned Raw Reinforcement - brute-force power boosts, akin to supercharging muscles. The more mana you put in, the better outcome you get.

Won Gusto Gloves +2 Health

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Would you like to participate in Round 2? More Goodies and powerups are in store!

No, what a coward. Do you not want to die in a blaze of glory!

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Joshua descended the starlit arena steps, the energy of victory still pulsing in his fingertips. The Gusto Gloves flexed comfortably around his knuckles, snug and warm like an earned mantle. He could feel every beat of his heart echo through the enchanted leather. As his boots hit the ballroom floor again, the Copper and Iron students swarmed him like a tide.

"He actually did it!"

"Did you see that shot?!"

"That beam—it was like magic punched through the air!"

They clapped him on the back, jostled him with joy, and for once, none of them looked anxious or out of place. For a few bright moments, they weren't the forgotten. They were the ones with a hero in their midst. Joshua chuckled, shoulders relaxing for the first time all night. "You'd think I cracked the moon."

"To us? You did!" one girl exclaimed, her robe two sizes too big and patched with threadbare sigils. "We've never had someone from the Copper floor stand up like that!"

"Damn right," another student said, raising a conjured cup of fizzy potion punch. "To the Folk-Hero of the Downtrodden!"

Joshua winced playfully. "You people are gonna get me exiled before midterms with titles like that." Laughter followed, easy and unforced.

As the next duel began up on the floating disc—some Silver-tier fire dancer flinging exploding runes at a nimble shadowmancer—Joshua leaned back with the others and watched. He could've stepped up again, maybe drawn more eyes. But he knew better. You don't burn out your legend in one night.

Let the crowd wonder what else he could do. Let his next opponent dread it.

Besides, the real reward was already around him—grateful eyes, respectful nods, and a bond forming from shared grit. Joshua sipped from a floating cup someone passed him, letting the warmth roll over his tongue.

Watching more duels take place, he didn't know when a shadow stepped out from behind a floating velvet curtain. No sound. No footsteps. Just… presence there. A short figure in dark layered robes, half-laced with copper thread and stitched eyes over the hood, stood before him. Their face was obscured—smooth, featureless porcelain beneath a mask etched with the symbol of a broken chain looped around a flame.

"Joshua Samuelson," the figure said quietly, though no mouth moved. Joshua tensed. The crowd behind him still roared with dancing and spellfire, but in this small circle of silence, it all felt miles away. "Your aim was true. Not just the shot—but the stand you took," the figure continued. "The oppressed remember. And so do we."

Joshua's brow furrowed. "We?"

The figure reached into their coat and withdrew a small scroll, bound in wax stamped with the same broken chain. "Should you wish to do more… to help those who aren't just ignored, but hunted, crushed, or used—read this and come to our own decision."

They handed it over and with a whisper of gloved fingers, pressed something else into Joshua's palm: a soft leather pouch marked with faint runes. The pouch rippled slightly, despite being empty. "For what you've already done," the figure said. "A bottomless pouch. It will carry what others cannot."

Joshua looked down at the item in his hands—humble, but warm. Weightless, yet full of meaning. When he glanced up again, the figure was gone. No footsteps. No trail. No arcane afterglow. Just the pouch in his hand, and the quiet pulse of the scroll representing something secret now resting in his pocket. A cry interrupted his thought as from the ring, someone won.

The cheers from the last duel still echoed in the vaulted ballroom when the music changed. A deep thrum pulsed through the air—low, resonant, like the first beat of a ritual drum. The very architecture responded, rippling outward like stone turned to liquid light. The floor—already strange and reality-warped—reconfigured itself. Marble gave way to mirrored panels. Walls of crystalline lattice retracted, chandeliers twisted into starlit spirals, and the ceiling—once domed—peeled back to reveal a sky of swirling constellations, not from this world. Lanterns dimmed, then brightened into soft blues and golds. The great floor split down the center. A hidden dance ring emerged—circular, floating, rimmed in silver flame. Platforms adjusted. Ramps rearranged.

The music changed. From soft strings to something richer, ancient, alive. The tempo picked up. A formal voice echoed from nowhere: "Let the Dance of Many Worlds commence."

And before Joshua could process it, someone grabbed his hand, dragging him into the dancing that began!

Rolled 2+5 = 7, Ballroom Bard

View: You got mad skills, a goat on the dance floor.

Amazing Outcome: +1 dancing rolls. Unlock Romance(Partners). Dance Club wants you badly. Plus magic item, Enchanted Dance Slippers(+1 Movement Rolls).

Bonus Opportunity: Potential Patronage of Noble Magical Family

It started with the Luminous Waltz of the Elari, a tradition of star elves. Dancers spun three feet off the ground, their robes suspended in slow-motion drifts. Each twirl left behind shimmering glyphs in the air, brief constellations that shimmered before fading. Partners didn't just hold hands—they exchanged pulses of aetheric harmony, hearts syncing to the same arcane beat. A girl in silver-threaded robes spun into him, laughing breathlessly, her feet already in motion. The crowd, made up of first-years like him, formed spiraling pairs and began to move. The steps came naturally to him, as if the rhythm was guiding his feet. No thought. Just movement. Grace. Precision. He passed from partner to partner, dance to dance.

Then the tempo shifted—low drums, staccato rhythm. This was The Emberstep of the Forgekin, a dwarven warrior-dance performed during volcanic rituals. Sparks danced underfoot with each stomp, heat blooming harmlessly with every beat. Steps mirrored the forge: hammer-strike, cool, fold. When dancers clashed palms, arcs of harmless lightning passed between them in crackling spirals. Joshua spun with a partner who grinned as smoke rose from her boots—literal trails of fire in her wake.

Suddenly, everything slowed. The Spiral of Tides swept the ballroom. Inspired by seafolk, dancers flowed like waves. Each motion dragged the floor with it—liquid illusion made real. Joshua found himself knee-deep in phantom water, dancing through currents of spectral fish and translucent kelp. Steps traced sigils like tide charts. When hands touched, the water responded—splashes of light trailing in arcs.

Then: chaos. The Gravity Knot formed—a multidimensional street dance born from fractured planar zones. The platform split into layers—each operating on a different gravitational plane. Dancers dropped into midair, spun sideways on walls, or launched upward for aerial freezes. Partners danced while upside-down or mirrored. Joshua cartwheeled through a sideways step, then glided along a wall like it was the floor. No one could tell which way was down—and no one cared.

The music dropped again. A thumping, half-melodic pulse. The Soulflare Cypher, known across low-born magical circles as The Beat of Resistance. This wasn't taught in schools—it was passed through rebellions, carved from suffering and spirit. Movements were raw, fast, sharp—breakdance fused with conjuration. Every twist of the foot left rune sparks. Every pop of the shoulder shimmered with soulstuff. People began cheering not in rhythm, but in reverence.

Throughout it all Joshua was in the deep of it, he had copious amounts of drinks which he had lost count at the dozenth one as it was ever-flowing goblets that refilled with color-shifting elixirs. Not only that, but the thin crystal pieces of glimmering powder the alchemy students passed around like candy, laughing with eyes just a little too dilated. He still felt the rush of winning, the high of being seen and triumph. Of being the hero for the persecuted.

He moved like someone possessed—not by rhythm alone, but by something rawer. Something older. His boots skated across summoned glyphlight; sparks curled in his wake. His coat flared and glinted, snapping like smoke caught in the wind. Every pivot trailed a burst of color—runes, fireflies, fragmented spellwork following his limbs like echoes trying to keep up. He was in the moment, and the moment was bending around him. He didn't notice when others started imitating him, eyes wide with admiration. Then someone shouted his name.

Before he knew it he was the center of attention. A circle formed, swelling outward as more students pushed in, drawn by the gravity of the spectacle. First-years from every corner—copper-badged bookworms, bronze-caped spellweavers, even a few rogue silvers looking impressed in spite of themselves. And suddenly, the crowd was chanting. "Edge-shot! Edge-shot! Edge-shot!"

He didn't disappoint, he made sure to deliver. A spin into a gravity-defying freeze. One palm planted, body coiled like a spring. The mirrored floor beneath him cracked—not from pressure, but resonance. The music matched him beat-for-beat. A final surge of motion, and he launched backward into a landing so clean it could've been choreographed by the stars. The roar that followed wasn't just applause. It was awe.

-

As the thunder of the crowd still echoed in his ears, Joshua stood at the center of the mirrored floor, breathing hard, chest heaving. Sweat glistened at his temples, but his eyes gleamed like polished bullets—fired, spent, and unbroken.

That's when the music shifted. It didn't slow—it deepened. Like velvet stretched across the stars. The glow of the ballroom dimmed, just slightly… just enough.

Then came the shimmer of gold and black silk parting the crowd. She moved like mist and moonlight, parting the dance floor not by force, but by inevitability. She wore a high-slit gown woven from solar-thread and nightlace, somehow catching every glint of stray magic in the room. But it was the mask that caught him—the silver-and-black fox that covered the upper half of her face, finely etched, angular, and cold. She was a predator choosing her target.

Her badge glinted gold, and the crowd hushed in waves as her status became clear. Not just any Gold ranker—a princess, someone who had never mingled with others before. Her family name was whispered among the students and instructors. Old blood. Magic-bound legacy. The kind of lineage where stars were just another thing to inherit. She stopped in front of him. Silent. Measured. Then—without a word—she extended her hand, palm upward, fingers delicate, precise.

Joshua blinked, heartbeat still dancing to the beat he'd just spun. "And you are...?"

She tilted her head, and her voice, when it came, was like dusk brushing against your neck. "You haven't earned it. Maybe if you can prove to me that you deserve it."

A challenge. Joshua always loved a challenge. The ballroom pulsed around them like a living aurora, students shifting as the floor reconfigured again, shaped by mood and magic. The music slowed into something rich, orchestral, echoing with ancient instruments and cosmic harmonics. A formal dance now. Something woven from stardust and ritual.

Grinning at her, he took her gloved fingers in his. He led her back into the center of the floor. And together, they danced. Not awkwardly. Not like strangers fumbling for rhythm. But like two old spells finally being cast. Their movements found each other mid-beat—her grace sharp and predatory, his instinct quick and grounded. The floor beneath them responded with every step, glyphs glowing underfoot, shifting the tempo between classical multiversal waltz and gravity-drifting swing. Their shadows split into three, then five, echoing around them as the music bent time just slightly.

She led the second half of the turn, spinning them into a pulse of violet starlight that shimmered between them. Students moved back to give them space—some whispering, others watching with shock, curiosity, or veiled envy. "Tell me," she murmured, lips near his ear as they turned, "is this you? The real you? Or are you just putting on a show for the scraps?"

Joshua smirked. "I'm always me. It just turns out 'me' dances better than expected."

She chuckled. "We'll see."

Their final spin lifted them slightly off the floor, the magic obeying the momentum of their movement rather than the pull of gravity. As they slowed, descending like a feather from a dream, her hand brushed along the side of his jaw. "You may have earned a little," she whispered.

And just like that—like a story ending mid-sentence—she stepped away. One backward glide. Another. On the third, she vanished into the crowd, as if the spell of the night had finally released her. He stood there, breathless, the world slowly returning.

At his feet, a pair of enchanted dance slippers shimmered into view—woven of midnight silk, threads of silver magic stitched into star-charts and lunar runes. Their heels hovered just slightly off the ground, humming with residual charm. A parting gift. And on the air, like the last lyric of a forgotten lullaby, her name lingered—spoken only to the wind.

"Seraphyne." Daughter of House Virellan. Princess of the Eclipse Court.

A star had danced with a wanderer tonight. And left a piece of herself behind.

Romance with Seraphyne Virellan: +1(Special Acquaintances)

Next Rank: 1/3

END of Day 2!

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Romance Levels

Special Acquaintances

Flirtatious Sparks

Mutual Interest

Very Friendly

Close Companions

Intimate Lovers

Romantic Partners

Deep Bond

HeartSworn

Soulbound

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Week 1 Begins – Schedule Planning

You have 21 ACTIONS per week. Split across three parts of the day.

Days in the Week!

Day 1 Arcanis – The day of structured magic, high spellcraft, and formal study.

Day 2 Draveth – Day of combat training, body building, and elemental refining.

Day 3 Caelith – The day of celestial magic, star gazing, prophecy, and dreaming.

Day 4 Ferradine – Day of magical crafting, runework, golem making, and artificing.

Day 5 Veilmere – Barrier between worlds is thinnest; favored for summoning, spirit magic, and planar study.

Day 6 Zarvian – The beastbound day; magical creatures roam more freely, a great day for exploring or being in the outdoors.

Day 7 Hearthrest – A quiet, soul-healing day for recovery, tea, introspection, and soft magic.

Time Slots for each Day

Morning (6 AM – 12 PM)

Afternoon (12 PM – 6 PM)

Evening (6 PM – 10 PM)

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Locked-In Actions:

Class 1: Guncaster Fundamentals!(3 ACTIONS & 3 STRESS per week)

Class 2:

Arcane Gunsmithing(3 ACTIONS & 3 STRESS per week)

Class 3

: Magical Ballistics(3 ACTIONS & 3 STRESS per week)

Club: The Librarians(2 ACTIONS per week)

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Options: SKIP - You can skip locked-in action but it comes at a cost.

First time, nothing. Second, negative academic roll. Third, lose class progress. Fourth, lose instructor relationship point

EMERGENCY - You can drop an action due to chancing circumstances or change around plan slightly.

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Suggested Actions:

Do Quest(1 or 2)

Join Secret Society(Union of the Oppressed)

Form/Join Student Study Group

Explore the Redhook Linehouse Dormitory(Unlock Train Carts)

Bond with Redhook Linehouse Dormmate(Name)

Romance your partner(Name)

Head to the Grand Library and Research(Subject)

Instructor's Office Hour(Extra Training)

Personal Training(Skill/Spell)

Meditation(Level)

Visit the Bazaar of Realities(Shopping)

Go on Academy Missions(Task)

Go Hunting(Target)

Apply for a Part-Time Job(Money)

Crafting Session(Item)

Attend Student Gathering or Event

Train with a Familiar or Pet

Sneak into Forbidden Areas

Perform a Ritual

Contract with lesser Entity

Attend a Guest Lecture or Visiting Master's Talk

Compete in a Mini-Tournament or Challenge Trial

Explore the Academy Grounds(Random)

Rest & Recover(Pool)

(Write-in)