Mr. Fisher stood at the center of the marble-floored hall, flanked by twin streams of projected light that arched out from behind him like mirrored rivers suspended midair. One pulsed a deep, volatile red—alive with flickers and sparks, like restrained violence waiting to burst. The other glowed a calm, crystalline blue—fluid, asured, and intricate.
"Fighter, or Alchemist."
His voice echoed across the high-ceilinged chamber. Though there was no microphone clipped to his coat, the acoustics carried his words with clarity and resonance. There was gravity in his tone—steady, deliberate—like soone who had made this speech a hundred tis and still found aning in every syllable.
"Two roads. Two legacies," he said, pacing slowly between the streams of light. "One carves through flesh. The other through logic. One is blunt force, the other—precise reaction. Both will kill you if you’re stupid."
A soft chuckle followed the last line. It was a joke. The kind older instructors made to cut tension. But no one laughed. No one even smiled.
The silence lingered, and Mr. Fisher stood in it, unbothered. His smile remained—not forced, not sheepish, just... unchanging. Like a man who knew better than to expect warmth from a room like this.
After a brief pause, he moved on, laying out the rules. Each student could choose their own path—no aptitude tests, no filters. Switches mid-sester were "frowned upon," but technically allowed. Your path would shape the early structure of your training. Your modules. Your ntors. Your partners.
Then, just as smoothly, he excused himself, citing so "administrative syncing delay" before walking off through a narrow side arch. For a brief mont, his silhouette was frad in light. Then it was gone.
Almost instantly, the room stirred to life.
A low hum resonated from every seat, followed by the soft whir of chanisms activating. The ambient lights dimd, and from the tallic consoles embedded into each student’s desk, a translucent blue interface folded out into the air. Like petals opening. Glyphs and text danced across the surfaces—so glowing faintly, others rotating slowly as if caught in an unseen current.
Zephyr leaned forward slightly. His screen reacted at once, shifting into crisp focus. He reached toward it and hesitated. Then he curled his fingers into a fist in front of the projection.
With a satisfying shhhk, the interface compressed into a small tile, hovering just above his palm, tethered to his desk by a faint digital thread. It was clean, responsive, and oddly beautiful.
He dragged the tile sideways toward his phone, nestled in the cradle built into the desk. As it touched the phone’s fra, a mail icon blinked once—synced.
Then, curious, he reversed the action. Swiped it back into the air. It unfurled instantly.
He did it again.
Clench. Drag. Sync.
Swipe. Unfold. Repeat.
A small rhythm ford. Simple. Mindless. Almost therapeutic. His mind drifted in the repetition—no stakes, no pressure. Just motion.
Then he felt it.
A subtle shift in the air. That prickling sensation behind the neck. A stare.
He glanced sideways—and t her eyes.
A girl. Black hair, cut straight at the chin. Crisp uniform. Pale skin. Her brows raised slightly, lips parted just enough to catch him mid-swipe. The expression she wore wasn’t mocking or annoyed—it was... stunned. As if soone had told her the coldest, most untouchable student in class had just giggled at his lunchbox.
She looked at him the way soone might look at a wild animal doing sothing human.
Zephyr blinked. His hand froze midair. An awkward cough escaped before he could stop it—dry, sharp, betraying his fluster. He straightened in his seat and dropped his hands to his lap, as if he’d just been caught doodling during a funeral.
’Damn’.
The girl slowly turned back to her screen, though her lips were twitching, as if suppressing a smile.
Zephyr pretended to dive into the interface with grave seriousness now, scrolling past the welco prompts and calibration settings. But his heart beat a little too fast, and the corners of his lips twitched without permission.
The ambient light shifted again. The system recognized him—na, class code, Aether standing. A nu of choices expanded before him, divided neatly between red and blue.
He selected the Fighter tab first. A video preview hovered to life: a young man demonstrating a basic martial Aether Art. It was what Zephyr expected—stances, explosive force, raw application. Punch, block, throw, release. It had muscle and rhythm, but no mystery.
Then he tapped over to the Alchemist tab, already planning to ignore it.
The voice that greeted him was calm, dry. A lecture. Diagrams appeared: chemical bonds, energy loops, core-to-core transfers. It was all... too close to physics. A subject Zephyr had always loathed.
He was about to swipe away when the speaker’s tone shifted.
"And now," the instructor said, "a basic Hollow Art—fire breath."
The man in the video opened his mouth and expelled a stream of orange fire. A simple effect. Rough, broad.
"Now, the sa Art that I personally modified."
He inhaled deeply, then exhaled. This ti, a wide curtain of fla surged out, segnted midair, then split into a volley of small fireballs. Each spark shot off with explosive timing, tracing arcs that curved before slamming into invisible targets.
Zephyr leaned forward unconsciously.
"Wow," he murmured.
"Cool, right?" the instructor in the video said, practically glowing with pride. "Sa base formula. Just... refined. Personalized."
Zephyr didn’t respond. He was still watching the fireballs dissipate.
For the first ti that morning, the red path didn’t feel like the obvious choice.
"I definitely need to get in this class". He could already envision himself modifying all the hollow Art in his possession.
"I definitely need this class. What are the requirents". Without further ado or thinking he imdiately searched for the class requirents. And he was elected with joy when he found out that the only requirent was good Aether control.
Aether control was tought in ditation class and he could already feel the improvent in his control after that one class.
Apart form that class he only needed to attend another class called weaving.
"Sign up". Zephyr gave the voice command excitent spilling out of his voice as he rested his back.
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