Aleks POV
The first thing I noticed when I opened my eyes was the sll.
Sothing between sour onions, old leather, and what I could only describe as regret. My head pounded like a war drum in my skull, and I groaned as I sat up. Every bone in my body protested the movent, and a sharp jolt ran down my spine when I tried to stretch.
"Ah. Sleeping Beauty wakes," ca the voice—dry, amused, and unmistakably Varkas.
He sat across from at a battered wooden table, sipping from a chipped mug that may or may not have once contained alcohol. His robes were still torn at the hem, one sleeve missing entirely. A bandage was wrapped haphazardly around his right wrist, though it looked more like a fashion choice than dical necessity. His beard was slightly cleaner than the night before, but only slightly.
"I was hoping you'd stay out long enough for to finish my drink in peace," he muttered, glancing at the cup like it had betrayed him.
"You call that peace?" I croaked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "It slls like sothing died in here."
Varkas raised an eyebrow and took a slow sip. "That's just you, kid."
Charming.
I swung my legs off the thin cot and stared at the dim room around us. It was definitely so kind of basent or back room—probably beneath the tavern. Dust floated lazily in the shafts of light cutting through the crooked window. The walls were stone, the floor wooden, and the air heavy with moisture and old booze.
There were no windows large enough to see outside, but the warm tone of light told it was morning.
"How long was I out?"
"A day," Varkas said simply. "Give or take an hour. You collapsed like a sack of rocks after flaring that Essence bomb."
I frowned. The mory ca back in fragnts. Pain. Light. Power burning in my veins like molten gold. The look on Varkas's face just before I blacked out. It wasn't fear. It was sothing closer to awe—and, disturbingly, worry.
He must've caught my expression, because he leaned back in his chair and said, "You've got too much juice for soone who doesn't know how to use a damn drop of it."
"Thanks?" I muttered.
"Wasn't a complint."
He stood up with a groan and stretched his arms until sothing cracked loudly.
"We've got twenty-eight days until that fancy Academy tournant opens its doors. Twenty-eight days to make you slightly less pathetic."
I blinked. "Less pathetic?"
"You're not gonna be strong in that ti, kid. But maybe we can fake it well enough to keep you alive. And if we're lucky…" He trailed off and gave a long, unreadable look. "Maybe we can break that seal."
My brows furrowed. "Seal?"
Varkas snorted, walking toward the cluttered corner of the room where a lopsided chalkboard stood.
"You really think you just suck at controlling Essence? Nah. I checked you while you were out. There's sothing weird clogging your reservoir. You've only got access to maybe five percent of your total pool—if that."
I sat upright, the soreness in my muscles forgotten.
"Five percent? That's it?"
He nodded, already scribbling sothing on the board with a cracked piece of white chalk.
"It's like trying to drink from a barrel through a straw plugged with wax. You've got more energy in you than most Royal-blooded brats, but it's locked behind… sothing. Trauma maybe. Or worse."
"Worse?"
"Magic," he said flatly. "Old magic. The kind that doesn't leave fingerprints."
He stepped aside and gestured to the diagram he'd drawn—an awkward stick figure with little circles labeled things like Essence pool, muscle threads, and soul spark.
"Now pay attention, because this is the only ti I'm gonna explain this shit with visuals."
I groaned, but nodded. Honestly, I wanted to understand. I needed to.
Varkas tapped the first circle—centered inside the stick figure's chest.
"This is your Essence Core. Every living being's got one. Animals, humans, elves, dwarves, even those creepy mushroom-people in the western swamps. Doesn't matter who or what you are—if you breathe, you've got Essence inside you. It's the energy of life itself. The catch is, everyone's pool is different."
He tapped the next circle labeled capacity.
"So people are born with massive reserves—think royalty, war veterans, Ascended bloodlines. Others get stuck with shallow puddles. But even a small core can grow."
"How?" I asked, already leaning forward.
"Five ways," he said, ticking them off on his fingers. "One—training. Slow as shit, but reliable. Two—Essence Crystals. Dangerous and expensive. Three—contracts with relics or spirits. Not recomnded. Four—exchanging with soone you trust. Rare. Risky. And five…" His eyes darkened slightly. "The fastest and bloodiest—killing Dark creatures."
I swallowed. "They… give you Essence?"
"They bleed it when they die," he said. "Whatever made those things—whatever fuels them—it's twisted, corrupted Essence. But your core doesn't care. You kill them, their power flows into you. If you survive the backlash, it sticks."
I stared at the chalkboard.
It all made terrifying sense.
He pointed next to the arms of the figure, drawing arrows from the core outward.
"Essence can flow in two directions—inward, or outward. Inward Essence strengthens your body. Reflexes. Speed. Pain resistance. You ever heard of a kid lifting a wagon to save his brother?"
I nodded slowly.
"Essence spike. Happens all the ti. Problem is, most people can't control it consciously. That's what we train. Controlled bursts. Battle instinct. Basically turning adrenaline into a weapon."
Then he tapped the outward path, drawing ssy shapes that vaguely resembled blades and fireballs.
"External Essence is what most people think of as magic," Varkas repeated, his voice settling into a rhythm now. He wasn't lecturing like a scholar; it was more like soone explaining how to clean blood off a blade after a fight—casual, experienced, and a little too vivid. "You convert your inner energy into a form—Fire, Water, Stone, Lightning, whatever your affinity leans toward. But everyone, and I an everyone, starts with this."
He slamd the chalk into a large, plain circle labeled Pure Essence.
"It's the base material. Like uncut ore. It's raw, colorless, formless Essence you can use for minor projections, shaping, reinforcing objects, or imbuing weapons. It's also the cheapest to produce. Think of it as the wooden sword of magic—basic, clunky, but useful if you know what you're doing."
I leaned in, my eyes flicking between the ugly stick figure and Varkas's hand.
"Wait—so why don't people just use Pure Essence all the ti if it's so simple?"
"Because most people are stupid," Varkas said bluntly, crossing his arms. "And because the world doesn't reward efficiency—it rewards spectacle. Fireballs look cooler. Lightning gets nobles laid. Hell, I knew a guy who only trained Ice spells so he could impress a rchant's daughter. Lost both hands in a duel. Real tragic."
I wasn't sure whether to laugh or be horrified.
"But the smart ones?" he continued, jabbing the chalk at the board again. "They master Pure Essence before anything else. Learn how it flows, how to shape it. How to stretch it thin without weakening it, how to compress it when they need power. That's what you're going to learn."
I blinked. "Just Pure Essence?"
"For now, yeah," he said. "You're sealed up like a pig in winter mud. We don't have ti to get fancy. Four weeks, rember? So we'll keep your Essence usage cheap."
He tapped the figure's limbs now, drawing thin lines down to the fingers and legs.
"See, every form of External Essence has variations. Even a basic fire spell can be shaped five, ten, twenty different ways depending on what school or system you follow. So mages blast wide; others burn focused. You want a firebolt that costs three units of Essence? Fine. But soone trained in a leaner form might get the sa effect with two. That's where technique cos in."
He gave a crooked grin.
"We're going to make you efficient as hell."
"So there are schools?" I asked. "Systems? Techniques that make spells cost less?"
"Yup," Varkas said. "Old traditions, battle-scarred instructors, secret guild manuals. Every culture, every mage family, every war band has their own way of shaping Essence. So use hand signs. Others chant. So link spells to rhythm or breath. Doesn't matter. It's all about reducing the cost per output. That's what makes a real mage."
He looked at seriously for a mont.
"If you overcast, kid—if you push too much Essence out without enough reserve—you'll collapse. Burn your veins. Crack your core. At worst? The backlash kills you. You'll fry from the inside, screaming blood until your heart explodes."
"…great."
Varkas chuckled. "Welco to magic."
I sat back, trying to process everything. Essence as life-energy. Inward to enhance the body. Outward to create magic. Pure Essence as the fundantal form. And multiple paths, multiple styles, all optimized to reduce cost. But none of it mattered if I couldn't even access my full pool.
"I can't believe I'm only using five percent of my Essence," I muttered, more to myself than him.
"Don't worry," Varkas said, sliding a battered notebook across the table toward . "We're gonna milk every damn drop of that five percent. You'll train harder than you've ever breathed. From now until that tournant."
I hesitated. "Even if I'm sealed... what if I never get the rest back?"
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he uncorked a bottle—water, this ti—and took a long sip. Then he looked dead in the eye, his voice quieter than before.
"Then we make the five percent stronger than anyone else's hundred."
There was a long silence after that.
I looked down at the notebook. Its leather cover was faded, scratched. The pages inside were stained with old ink, so ripped at the corners. But I could tell—it was personal. It was his.
"You sure?" I asked.
"I'm not using it anymore," he said, waving off. "And you need it more than I do. Everything in there helped get into the Academy when I was your age. Back when I was still sothing."
I opened it, flipping through pages filled with rough diagrams, spell notations, Essence drills, even journal entries. The handwriting was jagged but energetic. Driven. Hungry.
A very different man had written this.
I looked back up at Varkas, and sothing in my chest shifted. Just a little.
"Thanks," I said quietly.
He shrugged and stood up, brushing dust from his coat.
"Don't get sappy on , kid. I'm not your dad. I'm not your friend. I'm just the drunk who's gonna make sure you don't die too early."
Then he grinned.
"…and maybe help you look slightly less like a terrified pigeon in front of the Academy examiners."
I couldn't help but laugh.
He turned toward the creaky wooden stairs that led back up to the tavern.
"Now get dressed," he said over his shoulder. "Lesson One starts in fifteen. Outside. Alley drills. You're gonna learn how to breathe like a mage—and run like your ass is on fire."
And just like that, he disappeared upstairs, whistling off-key.
I sat there for a mont, staring at the notebook in my hands.
Twenty-eight days.Five percent power.A sealed reservoir.And a madman with a broken past training with a half-full bottle and a whole lot of curses.
I tightened my grip.
"Let's see what happens."
The mont lingered—quiet, full of sothing I hadn't felt in a long ti. Direction. Maybe even… hope.
Then—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The sudden pounding on the tavern's back door sent both my heart and the notebook flying.
"Varkas!" a muffled voice shouted from the alley. "We know you're in there. Open up. Now."
My eyes shot to the stairs, and within seconds, Varkas stord back down them—expression flat, eyes sharp, movents precise. The old slouch was gone. The drunk was gone. This was soone else.
"Academy scouts," he muttered, more annoyed than afraid.
"How do they know—?"
"They don't," he said. "Not yet."
The banging ca again—louder this ti.
"Varkas of the Reslau Academy! We need to speak to you. It's urgent. About the Holy Essence flare."
I felt cold.
Varkas didn't.
He stepped past , straightened his collar, and rolled his neck with a loud pop.
"Well," he said, his voice dropping into sothing far more dangerous. "Looks like the warm-up's over."
He glanced back at , one eyebrow raised, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.
"Then I guess it's ti to improvise."
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