The gates of Arclight Academy stretched before him like the mouth of a sleeping dragon—tall, ancient, and laced with glyphs that pulsed faintly in the morning sun. Helt Yusuf adjusted the strap of his duffle bag, hands sweaty against the worn fabric.
"So this is it," he muttered to himself.
He wasn't from a famous bloodline. He didn't have a noble crest. He had no impressive feats or legendary weapons passed down through generations. What he did have was a recommendation letter from an obscure village elder with connections to someone who knew someone who used to be part of the academy council.
Helt was, by every definition, a nobody.
But he was here.
The orientation hall was a sea of ambition. Students in crisp uniforms lined the marble floors, some wearing enchanted accessories already pulsing with energy. The banners of the Four Divisions—Mystic Arts, Warrior's Blade, Scholarly Alchemy, and Arcane Theory—draped down from the rafters like divine insignias.
Helt sat somewhere near the back, scribbling half-hearted notes while trying not to gawk too openly.
That failed the moment the first duel began.
A girl from the Blade Division, blonde hair tied back in a sleek braid, stood confidently in the center ring. Her opponent? A hulking second-year who clearly had no intention of going easy.
And yet—five seconds.
That's all it took.
With a flash of steel and one fluid spin, she had his blade knocked into the air and the tip of hers at his throat. The entire hall erupted.
Her name, whispered reverently from the crowd, was Kaela Virein, a sword prodigy from a northern clan. The first of many names Helt would soon learn to remember.
The list grew quickly.
Ren Talveras, the alchemical genius with fire in his veins and the smell of burnt metal always clinging to him.
Myla Serris, who summoned three elemental spirits at once during the practice session—an unheard-of feat even among third-years.
Vynn Caelum, a quiet boy from the Theory Division who bent probability like it was clay.
Helt watched them all with a mix of awe and quiet panic.
"What the hell am I doing here?" he asked himself that night, lying in his new dorm bed, staring at the ceiling. The walls hummed faintly with warding runes—standard for all students. Safe, warm, protective.
But inside his chest, something twisted uncomfortably.
—
The first week passed in a blur.
Classes were intense. Everything from potion-making to combat drills, mana theory to magical ethics. Helt struggled to keep up, often burning the midnight oil just to pass the next day's test.
But it wasn't all bad.
He'd met a few decent people. Arlo, a chubby, wide-eyed enchanter obsessed with breakfast pastries and enchanted sneakers, had become his lunch partner. Then there was Sera, a sword-staff user who could probably break a man's spine and still have time to braid your hair. She didn't say much, but when she did, it was always something worth laughing at.
Still, he knew he was leagues behind.
He wasn't fast. He wasn't strong. His mana pool was average. His alchemy skills? Pathetic. Swordsmanship? Better left unmentioned.
But there was something. Something quiet inside him that refused to give up. A stubborn ember.
And that ember dragged him to the academy's massive, half-forgotten library one foggy evening.
The place was empty.
Of course it was. No sane student went to the library on a Friday evening unless they were desperately trying to avoid social interaction—or the dueling mixer happening in the sparring halls.
Helt stepped inside, inhaling the scent of aged parchment, arcane ink, and magic-drenched silence. The air was cooler here, thicker. The kind of silence that felt almost holy.
He meandered toward the Alchemy section, half-hoping to find a book that could explain why his healing tonic kept turning into mild acid. His fingers trailed along dusty spines until one slipped free into his palm—"Binding Agents of the Elemental Kind".
"Ugh… way too advanced."
"Then don't pick it up."
He froze.
The voice came from the other side of the shelf, calm and cool—but undeniably sharp.
"Excuse me?" Helt blinked, stepping around the bookshelf.
She stood there, holding a stack of books in one arm like it weighed nothing. Her hair was a waterfall of moonlit violet, cascading down the back of a pristine white coat, tailored perfectly to her figure. Her skin glowed faintly in the golden light filtering through the stained-glass windows, and her eyes—icy blue and dagger-like—met his without flinching.
She looked like a character from a storybook. Beautiful. Untouchable.
And, apparently, a complete smartass.
"I said," she repeated slowly, "don't pick up books you're not qualified to read. That one's for third-year Alchemists. You're clearly not."
Helt blinked. "You don't know me."
"I know how you breathe," she replied smoothly. "Too fast. Nervous. New. Not an Alchemist."
He narrowed his eyes. "And you're a clairvoyant, I suppose?"
She smirked, a faint thing, but sharp enough to draw blood. "Just observant."
"Okay, Sherlock," he scoffed. "Didn't realize the library came with its own judgmental librarian."
"I'm not a librarian," she said, voice like silk over steel. "I'm someone who doesn't like amateurs touching restricted material and blowing their faces off."
"Oh, come on," he rolled his eyes. "I wasn't going to cast anything. I was just looking."
"Looking is the first step to trying," she said, stepping past him toward the reading tables. "And trying, in your case, would lead to someone mopping your remains off the floor."
He followed, annoyance mounting. "You always this fun at parties?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she sat at the far end of the table and opened one of her books with clinical precision. The cover glimmered with layered enchantments. A tome worth more than Helt's tuition.
He stared for a second, then cocked his head. "You know, for someone who clearly thinks they're smarter than everyone else, you could at least introduce yourself before acting like Queen of the Damn Library."
She paused.
Then, without looking up, she said flatly: "Liora."
Helt blinked. The name didn't click.
"Right. Well, Liora," he said, putting her name in air quotes, "I'm Helt. And despite your very… warm welcome, I'm not planning to explode tonight. I just wanted to—"
"I don't care."
"What?"
"I don't care what you wanted," she said, flipping a page. "This isn't a social lounge, and I'm not your orientation buddy."
He threw his hands up. "Unbelievable. I've been here a week and already met a pyro who almost burned my eyebrows off, a guy who tried to sell me a cursed lemon, and now you—a magical snowstorm with legs."
That got her.
She didn't look at him, but her lips twitched. Just slightly.
"You're worse than a puppy," she murmured.
"What?"
"Loud. Persistent. Weirdly enthusiastic for someone so underqualified."
Helt plopped down across from her, grinning despite himself. "Well, you're worse than a cat. Cold, judgy, and secretly amused by watching people suffer."
For the first time, she looked up. "You're not afraid of me."
"Should I be?"
Her gaze lingered on him. A pause. Then—
"Most are," she said softly. "But maybe you're just too stupid to realize it."
Helt shrugged. "Probably. But I've been called worse."
They stared at each other for a moment. The quiet between them thickened—but this time, it wasn't hostile.
He reached for another book. A thin one this time—basic mana stabilization.
She didn't stop him.
And somehow, in that strange library silence, a truce was born.
Outside, the moon rose high over Arclight Academy, casting silver shadows across stone walkways and enchanted gardens.
Inside, in the heart of a forgotten library, a boy with nothing and a girl with everything, had found… camaraderie?