The Convergent Path (Reincarnation/LitRPG)

Fin woke to the cliffs' pulse, sharper now in the pre-dawn chill. The rhythm of mana, raw, untamed, vibrated beneath Haven's stone foundations like a heartbeat. He lay still for a moment, centering himself.

His roommate's bed stayed empty, satchel neatly packed, cloak folded with military precision, Staff boy gone again as he had been every morning. Fin wondered if he'd ever learn his name, or if they were destined to remain silent silhouettes passing in the night. Three days had passed since Elijah's stern warning about fighting. Haven's rhythm was gradually settling into his bones, like a new song he was learning note by note. Today marked the true beginning, first classes.

He dressed quickly, movements efficient. The Haven tunic felt stiff against his skin, woven from a fabric that seemed to repel dirt. His tantō tapped reassuringly against his thigh with each step. He grabbed his satchel, course scroll tucked neatly inside between his journal and the small bestiary handbook they'd been provided. Bestiary Studies at dawn, Weapons Training mid-morning. The schedule left no room for breakfast, the cafeteria could wait.

The western spire loomed against the lightening sky, mana lamps flickering as students trickled toward classrooms. Some walked in chattering groups, others alone and purposeful. Fin caught snatches of conversation, complaints about early hours, nervous speculation about professors, debates over which skills would be most useful. He kept to himself, observing. Knowledge was survival.

He followed a carved wooden sign marked Bestiary, Room 3, down a corridor thick with earthy scents: moss, damp stone, faint rot, and something sweet yet acrid he couldn't identify. The hallway opened occasionally to small courtyards where strange plants grew, leaves curling toward passing students as if sensing their mana. Fin noted each detail, filing them away systematically.

The heavy oak door creaked open to reveal a chamber that was half laboratory, half overgrown garden. Vines snaked up stone walls, curling around empty cages of various sizes. Jars of glowing substances, some still, others pulsing with inner life, lined shelves interspersed with bones, feathers, and specimens floating in preservation fluid. A massive slate board dominated the front wall, covered in chalk remnants of anatomical diagrams. Twenty-odd students had already sprawled across tiered wooden benches, some still bleary-eyed and yawning, others scribbling notes already as if the class had begun.

Fin scanned the room in one swift glance. Against one wall stood a glass tank containing something that appeared to be moving mud. On another, what looked like a miniature thundercloud raged within a sealed bell jar, tiny lightning strikes illuminating the glass with each crack of energy.

A woman bustled in from a side door, short and round, her graying curls bouncing under a floppy wide-brimmed hat that had clearly seen better days. Her silver instructor's robe sagged with the weight of countless pockets, many bulging with unidentifiable objects. Twigs, feathers, and what appeared to be a squirming beetle poked out from various compartments. She clapped dirt-streaked hands, beaming like she'd just found a rare root beneath the forest floor.

"Good mornin', birdies!" she chirped, her voice warm and lilting with an accent Fin couldn't quite place, something from the eastern provinces, perhaps. "I'm Professor Tilda Marrow, welcome to Bestiary Studies! Oh, you're a fresh lot, look at those bright eyes! We'll fill 'em with wonders, won't we?" She winked conspiratorially, tugging a jar of viscous green slime off a nearby shelf. The substance inside shifted, as if responding to her touch. "Day one's slimes, simple, squishy, spectacular!

Fin slid onto a bench near the back. Tilda reminded him of someone, soft-edged, quirky, like that Earth teacher Taylor had loved so much, Sprout-something. The memory prodded at him, unwelcome. He pushed it aside, focusing instead on reading her mana signature. It hummed gentle and warm around her, Tier Two maybe, possibly specialized in something growth-related. He'd assumed that most instructors would be Tier Three or above, but her enthusiasm was a force unto itself.

Tilda plopped the jar onto a demonstration table with a satisfying thunk, the green slime inside jiggling like dessert. "Slimes," she proclaimed, tapping the glass affectionately, "basic beasts, yes, but vital! Core feeders, mana's their bread, muck's their butter. They're the closest thing we have to pure mana manifestation in creature form that aren't elementals, you see." She twisted open the jar carefully. "Habitats? Damp spots, caves, bogs, under your dorms if you're not careful!" She giggled, producing a thin wooden rod and poking the slime, it quivered, bulged, and then slowly split into two distinct masses. "See that? Eats enough mana, splits. No mating, no fuss, glop and go!"

A boy up front, red hair, freckles scattered across pale skin, raised a hand. "Do they... taste mana types? Can they distinguish between different affinities?"

"Sharp lad!" Tilda beamed, pointing her rod at him approvingly. "Oh, yes, slimes sense affinities better than most detection tools. Fire mana? They glow red, start spitting tiny sparks. Ice? Turn into frosty little blobs, slow right down. Lightning?" Her gaze swept the room, landing briefly on Fin, eyes twinkling as if she sensed something about him. "Zappy little buggers, watch your boots around those! They'll give you a shock that'll curl your toes for a week!"

She scribbled on the slate in looping handwriting, Slime Diets: Mana, Rot, You (if slow), and laughed, loud and free, clearly enjoying the mix of disgust and fascination on her students' faces.

Fin jotted notes in tight, precise script, slimes were fodder creatures, but potentially useful. Scientific Warfare stirred in his mind, could he bait them? Use them as mana detectors? He sketched a quick diagram as Tilda rambled on enthusiastically: "Forest slimes eat moss and leaves, cave slimes gnaw at crystal formations, swamp varieties, oh, they'll dissolve a cow in a week if given half a chance! Weak alone, but swarms? Nasty business..."

Her floppy hat flopped back and forth as she mimed a slime engulfing her arm, students snickering at her theatrics. Beneath the performance, though, Fin detected real knowledge, years of field experience shining through her eccentric delivery.

"Now," she continued, extracting a vial of glittering powder from one of her many pockets, "watch this." She sprinkled a pinch over the divided slimes. Both began to bubble, color shifting from green to vibrant purple. "Transformation catalyst, changes their affinity temporarily. Useful if you're hunting specific beasts, some are attracted to certain mana types, repelled by others. Smart hunters carry small slime samples with manipulated affinities."

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The hour passed quickly, Tilda's quirks kept the material engaging, but her facts stuck. Slimes: excellent mana sensors, habitat indicators, potential swarm threats. Fin filed each piece of information away methodically, organizing it into his mental taxonomy of potential tools and threats. His tantō tapped gently against his thigh as he left, a rhythmic reminder of the constant balance he maintained.

Next, Weapons Training.

Haven Academy spread across the cliff's edge like an elaborate stone garden, buildings and courtyards flowing into one another in patterns that seemed random at first glance but revealed deeper purpose as one learned the layout. The training grounds sprawled beyond the north spire, an expansive dirt track ringed an arena of packed earth and sand, weapon racks of blades, staves, and more exotic instruments of combat glinting under the mid-morning sun.

Fin arrived precisely on time, one of thirty students gathered at the edge of the arena. Fewer than he'd expected. Weapons Training should draw fighters from across the Academy, he'd thought, where were the rest? Perhaps split into different sections, or maybe Haven didn't produce as many combat specialists as rumor suggested.

He scanned his fellow students, varying ages, builds, expressions of anticipation or nervousness playing across their faces. Most carried personal weapons: swords of different lengths, daggers, a few staves, one girl with twin hook swords that caught the light in wicked curves. Everyone had come prepared to demonstrate their skills. Fin kept his hand near his tantō, not drawing attention, but ready.

A shadow fell across the group, massive, broad as a barn door blocking the sun. The instructor approached with heavy steps that seemed to make the very ground tremble, or perhaps that was his mana aura preceding him. He loomed over even the tallest students, standing easily seven feet tall, arms thick as Fin's thighs, a greatsword strapped across his back that looked like it could cleave through stone. His silver instructor's robe strained across his shoulders, the fabric reinforced with leather at stress points. Scars crisscrossed his knuckles, telling stories of countless battles.

His mana hit like a wall, deep, steady, reminiscent of bedrock and mountains. Tier Four, same as Donovan's, but with a different quality, less refined, more raw. Fin's gut clenched involuntarily, this man could snap him without blinking.

"Name's Gavric," he rumbled, voice like a landslide of gravel. No titles, no pleasantries. "Drop your weapons, rack 'em properly." He gestured to the organized stands lining the arena's edge. "Then run. Thirty laps, track's edge. Use any skill to boost speed, don't care how you do it, just move. Go!"

Students scrambled, blades clattered onto racks, some placed with reverence, others hastily abandoned. Fin set his tantō down carefully, feeling the pulse of Equilibrium humming through his system. Thirty students wasn't a crowd, he could blend in, stay mid-pack, avoid drawing eyes. No need to flash his edge here, not on the first day. Better to learn the landscape before revealing capabilities.

They hit the track in a loose group, dust kicked up under boots, feet pounding earth in uneven rhythm. Some flared skills early: a boy's legs blurred with wind enhancement, a girl's limbs glowed faint gold with what looked like a strength augmentation. Fin ran steady, letting Convergent Equilibrium settle into his muscles and lungs, making each stride smooth, each breath effortless. He settled deliberately into the middle of the group, pace even, lungs calm.

By lap three, sweat began to bead on foreheads around him. By lap four, breathing grew heavier among those who had started too fast. Fin maintained his position, observing technique, gauging endurance, cataloging which students relied on skills and which on physical conditioning.

Lap five, heavy boots thumped suddenly beside him. Gavric towered, matching stride effortlessly, eyes boring down like twin drills. "You," he growled, voice pitched low enough that only Fin could hear. "This ain't a leisurely stroll through the markets. Run for real, or leave my class."

Something in his tone, knowledge, certainty, told Fin he'd been spotted. Equilibrium steadied his surprise, but the pretense of hiding was done. He met Gavric's gaze briefly, nodded once, and kicked up dust as he accelerated, legs pumping harder now, air biting at his face as he passed student after student.

The pack stretched out along the track, wind-boy began to fade as his mana reserves depleted, gold-girl's enhancement flickered as she struggled to maintain it over distance. Fin's mana stayed coiled inside him, untapped, pure physicality driving him forward. Convergent Equilibrium made this too easy, requiring no active skills to push past the struggling group. He could have taken first place effortlessly, but held back just enough to avoid becoming the center of attention.

Behind him, he heard Gavric bark instructions at struggling students: "Pace yourself, fool!" "Control your breathing!" "Don't waste mana on the first ten laps!" The instructor moved through the pack like a shark, identifying weaknesses, pushing some harder, pulling others back from exhaustion.

The sun climbed higher as they ran, beating down on sweating bodies. Fin settled into the rhythm, watching the academy grounds pass by with each lap.

Thirty laps blurred by, Fin crossed second, chest heaving for appearance's sake, sweat beading along his brow. A girl beat him, short, wiry, with straight black hair streaming behind her like a banner. Annie Shard, he'd heard her called when they'd lined up. Her legs shimmered with a faint blue light, a speed enhancement skill pulsing steadily, Tier One by the look of it, yet it had sustained her through thirty grueling laps without faltering. Fin's brows ticked up slightly, most Tier One skills burned out fast, mana reserves too thin for extended use. Hers hadn't wavered once. He filed her name away mentally: sharp, disciplined, worth watching.

Annie caught his glance, gave him a measuring look in return, quick, assessing, neither friendly nor hostile, then turned back to face Gavric as the instructor planted his feet in the center of the arena.

Gavric clapped once, a sound like thunder, the earth seeming to shake beneath their feet. "Done! Thirty started, twenty-eight finished. Two weak links dropped early, good riddance." His scarred face split into a grin that bared teeth like a predator's. "Now you're tired, perfect. Tired means sloppy. Sloppy gets you dead. Time to see who can maintain form when the body's weak. Time to spar."

Fin straightened, letting Equilibrium cool the strain in his muscles, steadying his breathing without obvious effort. Around him, other students bent double, gasping for air or shook out cramping limbs. Annie stood tall as well, her breathing controlled though her face glistened with sweat. She glanced Fin's way again, quick, assessing, a flicker of recognition, perhaps respect, then turned back toward the weapon racks.

Gavric strode to the center of the arena, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the packed earth. "Grab your weapons," he commanded.

Fin moved toward the weapon racks with the others, his mind already calculating angles, openings, possibilities. His tantō waited, familiar and deadly, but perhaps this was an opportunity to explore other options, to conceal his true specialties a while longer. He reached instead for a standard practice sword, testing its balance.

Sparring would begin soon. The thought stirred something in him, anticipation, not fear. Day one was starting to sound like fun.