The last thing Najin remembered was choking on instant noodles while readind an novel name I Transmigrated as a Prince Extra. It had been a normal evening—messy room, half-written homework.
Then everything went black.
And now… everything was purple?
Najin blinked up at the ceiling of a grand, crumbling hall lit by flickering runes. Gilded banners hung in tatters. Dust motes danced in the air like lazy fireflies. Somewhere far away, thunder cracked.
"Am I dead?" he croaked, voice rough like gravel. Then he saw his hands.
They weren't his.
Longer fingers. Pale skin. A silver ring on his finger with a crest he didn't recognize—a lion, twisted in chains.
"What the…"
Suddenly, memories—not his own—flooded in. A noble family. Power. Scandal. A trial by fire. Screaming. Flames. A name:
Najin Zogrenbell, last son of House Zogrenbel, disgraced nobles of Omrhaden. Accused of consorting with forbidden magic. Burned in public shame.
Or at least, he was supposed to be dead.
Now he—a modern teenage nerd with zero magical skills—was somehow trapped in Najin's body. And everyone in this world wanted him gone, at least he share the same name and apparence as him.
A loud knock shattered the silence.
"Lord Najin," came a sneering voice from beyond the massive door. "The Academy has confirmed your late admission. You are to report immediately. Do try not to humiliate your House further."
Najin groaned. "Great. Just came in this world and I'm already flunking into a fantasy school trop."
He grinned, darkly amused.
"If I'm stuck here, might as well aim high," he muttered. "Let's burn this place from the inside out."
The carriage jolted so hard Najin nearly bit his tongue.
"Can this thing even fly straight?" he grumbled, gripping the cracked wooden seat as the rune-powered contraption spiraled through the clouds. Sparks flickered from one of the glowing runes carved into the side, and the poor magical beast pulling the carriage looked like it wanted to resign.
Najin leaned out the window—and instantly forgot to be scared.
Aetherion.
The floating city shimmered like a dream stitched together by lightning and stars. Towers twisted upward like crystal horns, their tips glowing with suspended aether. Floating platforms buzzed overhead, students and professors gliding on them with cloaks billowing behind. Bridges of light connected vast halls shaped like open spellbooks, while enchanted banners waved in the sky, displaying the words:
Welcome, Novitiates.
Najin blinked. "Okay… that's cool."
And then he remembered.
He wasn't really from here.
Not from the noble House Zogrenbell. Not from this floating magical Hogwarts-on-steroids. Not from Omrhaden at all.
Just a teenage weirdo from Earth who choked on instant noodles while reading a fantasy novel—and woke up in the disgraced body of some dead noble son.
So yeah. Bit of a rough week.
The carriage crash-landed with a sharp thud. Najin stumbled out, brushing soot off his new robes. A group of uniformed students passed by, casting glances his way.
"That's him," one of them whispered, not bothering to hide it. "The Blank from the Zogrenbell."
Najin winced. So the rumor mill was faster than the magic mail system.
Still, he stood tall, fixing his collar. "Alright, Najin 2.0," he muttered to himself, "let's not get murdered before lunch."
The central courtyard buzzed with students. At its heart stood a massive platform with a glowing crystal orb—twice the size of Najin's head, floating and humming like a living thing.
One by one, new students stepped up, placed their hand on the orb, and watched as their Aether Signature glowed to life—tracing lines of light on their arms, sometimes across their faces. Cheers and gasps followed as Affinities were announced.
"Nature!"
"Fire!"
"Metal!"
Then, it was his turn.
Najin approached the orb slowly. The crowd hushed.
He placed his hand on the crystal.
Nothing happened.
The orb stayed dull. No glow. No lines. No voice calling out an Affinity.
A long silence.
Then the murmurs began.
"…Blank?"
"Thought he was dead."
"Guess they really let anyone in these days…"
Najin's smile faltered. He looked down at his hand. Same pale skin. Same silver ring with the crest of the chained lion. Still no light.
A robed professor—tall, angular, with hawk-like eyes—stepped forward, scowling.
"Lord Najin Zogrenbell," he said, voice dry as sand, "by ancient right of noble law, you are permitted entry. Though many would contest your presence, the Institute honors all bloodlines. Even the... scorched ones."
Najin opened his mouth to say something witty.
Nothing came out.
He just nodded and walked off the platform, cheeks burning.
'shouldn't that thing should have glow and give me a cheat skill or a secret ability like in any other novel and webtoon iv'e read' Najin thought as he walk in direction of the dorms he was indicated.
The dorm tower leaned slightly to the left.
That was the first thing Najin noticed when he arrived at the Ash Wing the lowest-ranked dorm at the Aetherion Institute. The second thing he noticed was the smell. A mix of dust, ink, and something that might once have been soup.
Inside, broken staircases spiraled upward, and glowing fungus lit the halls instead of proper lanterns.
"Home sweet home," Najin mumbled.
His room wasn't much better. Two beds. One cracked mirror. A floating bookshelf that coughed dust every few seconds. The window had a perfect view of the academy's waste disposal channel. Lovely.
A figure sat cross-legged on one bed, scribbling glowing symbols into the air with a stick of crystal chalk.
Najin paused. "Uh. Hey?"
The boy looked up. Silver hair. Big eyes. Ink-stained fingers. "Don't touch the bookshelf," he said simply. "It bites."
Najin blinked. "Good to know."
"I'm Sethor. Sound Affinity. You?"
Najin hesitated. "...Blank. For now."
Sethor just nodded and went back to scribbling.
Najin sat on his bed, leaned back—and spotted the mirror.
Cracked down the middle, but his reflection stared back. Same face as before. Or rather, same face after the transmigration.
Najin smirked.
"Blank, huh?" he whispered. "Let's see how long that lasts."
Najin awoke the next morning to the sound of someone screaming in the hallway.
He jolted upright, tangled in unfamiliar blankets, and blinked at the glowing fungus on the ceiling, which had turned an angry shade of red.
Sethor didn't even look up. "Ignore it. Probably someone got bit by the door again."
Najin frowned. "The door?"
"Yeah. Room 7. It has moods."
'Right. Magic school.' He thought to himself
Najin dragged himself up, pulled on his slightly-too-fancy academy robes, and followed the flow of groggy students toward their first class: Aether Control 101.
Aether Control 101
The classroom was a wide, circular chamber with seats rising in tiers around a floating platform. Glimmering glyphs spiraled through the air, drifting between students like lazy butterflies. A few eager types were already channeling aether, practicing flickering sparks in their palms or forming glowing shapes.
Najin, of course, had no idea what he was doing.
He sat next to Sethor—who already had a tuning fork floating over his desk—and tried not to look too lost.
Their instructor arrived in a literal flash of light. A tall woman with bronze skin, burning red eyes, and flowing robes lined with flame. She didn't speak. She simply raised a hand—and the entire platform lit with golden runes.
"Begin," she said. "Focus. Draw aether inward. Shape it. Control it."
Najin blinked. That was it? No diagrams? No tutorial?
He tried to copy the others—closing his eyes, breathing deep, picturing energy like in those meditation apps he never used.
Nothing.
He peeked one eye open. Students were already showing off—one girl made a blooming flower of wind, another boy had summoned a tiny thundercloud. Sethor was humming quietly, glyphs vibrating in rhythm with the sound.
Najin clenched his fists.
Come on. Just a spark. Just one flicker.
Nothing.
Then the teacher appeared in front of him, frowning slightly.
"Blank?" she asked, not unkindly.
Najin nodded, flushing. "As you can see."
She stared a moment longer. "You may observe for today."
As she turned, her sleeve brushed his shoulder.
And that's when it happened.
Time stopped.
Or... slowed.
The air grew thick like syrup. The sparks of light from other students froze midair. Sethor's floating fork stopped vibrating.
The teacher, mid-turn, flickered like a broken projection.
It only lasted a half-second.
Then it snapped back.
The world moved again, unaware anything had changed.
Except—
Najin gasped, clutching his head. His nose dripped blood. His vision blurred.
And across the room, one person noticed.
A girl in the back row. Pale gold eyes. Hair like woven moonlight. She stared at Najin with unnerving intensity, as if she had seen the flicker in time.
Then she smiled.
Whispers and Wagers
By lunch, the news had spread.
"The Blank couldn't even spark a flicker."
"He just sat there like a sack of potatoes."
"Ash Wing really is cursed, huh?"
Najin tried to ignore the whispers as he slumped into the cafeteria—if you could call it that. It looked more like a battleground of enchanted lunch trays and floating ladles, one of which tried to stab him before Sethor yanked it away with a whistle.
"Sit," Sethor said. "Before the food rearranges your bones."
Najin sat.
Just as he took a cautious bite of glowing soup, a shadow fell over the table.
Bronze uniform. Arrogant smirk. A student with red-tipped gloves and spiked hair.
"Zogrenbell," he drawled. "You're in my spot."
Najin raised an eyebrow. "There are no assigned seats."
"There are when I sit down."
Sethor groaned. "Oh no. Vael."
Najin stood slowly. "You want something, sparky?"
Vael's grin widened. "A duel."
The cafeteria hushed.
"You can't challenge a first-year on their first day," someone whispered.
"Yes, I can," Vael replied. "The Blank's a noble. Nobles can be ranked."
Najin blinked. "Wait, ranked? What rank?"
"Dead last," Vael said cheerfully. "So if I win, your rank drops off the board. You get sent to the Scoria Class."
"What's that?"
Sethor answered: "Basically magical janitors."
Najin looked at his bowl, then at Vael. "I haven't even finished my soup."
"Drink fast," Vael said, already summoning a crackling bolt of aether. "Arena's open."