Chapter 4
Vince stared at the letters for a long time, his eyes tracing each curve and stroke like they might change if he just looked hard enough. The script wasn’t English, not even close. There were sharp angles twisted into loops, dots floated above lines, and yet… he could read it. He didn’t understand the language, but somehow the words slid into his mind anyway.
The first time through, he thought he’d misread. The second time, he felt a spark of doubt, like maybe he’d gone crazy. On the third read, he let out a long sigh and leaned back, his head tilting until he was staring at the ceiling.
Bits of gray dust clung to the rough plaster above. A crack spread across one corner, and the cement around it looked ready to crumble. Great. Even the ceiling was falling apart.
He rubbed his face with one hand. If Artur—the man whose body he occupied now—was about to die, then summoning some kind of creature made sense. Desperation had a way of pushing people into dangerous choices. Vince just couldn’t figure out what the summoning was supposed to achieve. A protector? A weapon? A servant? Whatever it was, he had failed in the worst way possible.
But who was Charlice? And who in the world was the Great Zharkhan? Names with no faces, floating in a world Vince didn’t know. He flipped the diary back a few pages, hunting for answers.
Half an hour later, his frown was deep enough to hurt. Most of what he found weren’t notes or records, but poems. Flowery, clumsy lines filled with longing. A woman’s name, again and again: Charlice. They told him enough. Artur had been hopelessly in love. But then another entry claimed she wasn’t with him anymore. Had they broken up? Had something worse happened?
The diary wasn’t giving up its secrets easily.
Still, the more Vince read, the more the world around him took shape. Volkun Academy of Magics—That was the name scribbled at the top of one page. And the empire it belonged to was named Arkane Empire. At least now he knew where he was.
One thought had been creeping in since he woke up here, but now it rooted itself solid: he wasn’t on Earth anymore.
He knew it as soon as he had seen the grimmaw, but it had taken him a while to accept it. And on top of that, the world he was in was magical. The signs were too many to ignore. The monster, Randall’s strange spell, the bitter draught that healed faster than any medicine back home. Even now, his injured arm throbbed less, the ache shrinking to a dull sting.
Moreover, Vince had already seen too much to doubt. He had drifted high above towers and grasslands while flying as a soul, the world spread below him like a painted map. Even before that, he had literally escaped a dragon that munched on souls. If such a creature could exist, then a world of magic wasn’t just possible, it was the only explanation. And somehow, he was sitting in the middle of it.
The thought should have crushed him. Instead, a thrill sparked in his chest. His hands itched as he turned another page. If this really was a magical world, then maybe—just maybe—he could use magic too.
He shut the diary halfway and muttered the word in his head: Status.
The screen slid into view at once. A pale panel bloomed in the air, the letters sharp and clean, floating as if hung on glass no one else could see. Vince flinched back the same way he had last night, his breath catching.
Name: Artur Vale
Age: 19
Soul: Initiate (Level 3)
Aspect: None
Spellcodes: Ether Bolt, Arcane Shell, Glyph Bind
Stats:
Body: 4
Mind: 7
Arcane: 8
It was wrong. Everything about it was wrong. Screens didn’t float. Menus didn’t appear without projectors or wires. This thing ignored every law of physics he knew, and yet here it was.
He swallowed hard. The laws of Earth were behind him now. Whatever rules this place had, they were different, and the status was proof enough. In fact, it reminded him of the RPG games, but he didn't want to make any assumptions yet.
His gaze drifted down the columns until it landed on one word: Spellcodes. His pulse quickened.
Three. The panel claimed he had three spells at his disposal. He had no idea what they did or how to use them. There were no… chants, nothing to incantate, no diagrams, instructions—just names.
He sighed loudly, and looked back at the diary on the desk, skimming a random page, then another.
Nothing but more scraps of Artur’s life. Lines about Charlice. Fragments of longing and despair. Not one hint about spellcasting.
The room around him was bare: a wardrobe, a mirror, a cracked mug, dust that clung to the corners. Maybe something here could help him experiment, but his gut told him it would be a waste of time.
He tapped the diary shut with his thumb, and suddenly a thought came to his mind. “If… this is an academy,” he muttered, “then there has to be a library.”
A library meant history, culture, and—most importantly—magic. If he wanted answers, that was where he’d find them.
Vince stood, brushing the dust from his pants and moved to open the wardrobe. He couldn't go out with holes and blood clinging to his clothes. Fortunately, there were enough clothes hanging out and he simply picked the first one before changing into it and moving towards the door.
As he stepped up, his eyes dropped to the floor. The circle was still there, faint lines burned into the stone. The moment his boot brushed against it, a shiver ran up his leg. His skin prickled. The beast’s presence still clung to it, he could feel it for some reason.
He didn’t dare keep staring. Answers first. Then maybe he could scrub the thing off and never think about it again.
He reached for the knob. His fingers hovered over the metal, but his hand froze halfway. Should I really go out right now?
What if someone who knew him was waiting? Randall had bought his act yesterday, but only just. He couldn’t count on the others going along the same story, especially if he met someone that knew Artur well. On the other hand, staying locked up in this room wouldn’t help him either. He needed information. He needed to move.
If he ran into Randall again, maybe he could keep the mask up and even slip in a few questions. That sounded better than rotting here with a cursed circle humming at his feet.
Yes, that was viable.
With a sharp breath, Vince turned the knob. The door creaked as it opened, spilling a slice of dim corridor light across the floor. He stepped through, then cursed under his breath.
The key—he needed to lock the door.
He ducked back inside, snatched it up from the desk, and shoved it into his pocket. The last thing he needed was someone barging in and finding that on the floor.
This time, he closed the door firmly behind him.
The corridor stretched long and empty. His footsteps echoed softly off stone walls, and he found himself moving.
He had expected voices, footsteps, maybe laughter, but like before—nothing. The place was quiet, too quiet for a dormitory.
A thought nagged at him. Last night, he had screamed for help. He had shouted until his throat burned, but no one had come. Now he saw why. Door after door lined the walls, plain wood with iron hinges, but most had no locks at all. He tried one with the flat of his palm, but it didn’t budge. Stuck. Another door gave a dull rattle, then silence. The whole hallway felt abandoned, as though the students had been swept away.
Vince kept going, tracing the same path as yesterday. His hand slid along the stone banister as he reached the stairs. When he descended, his steps creaked.
He knew this path from last night, and his heart sped up the closer he got to the bottom of the stairs. And then—
He expected anything but a clean area.
The place where the beast had lunged for him, where its claws had torn through him, where his own blood had slicked the floor was gone. The walls were scrubbed spotless, the floor gleaming like nothing had ever happened. Not a single crack, not a single stain.
Vince stopped at the landing, his breath stuck in his chest.
There was no sign of the grimmaw’s corpse. He crouched down, running his fingers across the floor.
Did Randall use cleaning spells?
It had to be magic. A beast that size would’ve weighed hundreds of pounds. Dragging it away without a trace seemed impossible otherwise. If wind could cut through that beast, then a spell that carried a body—or one that washed a hallway spotless—didn’t sound out of place at all.
Vince straightened and kept moving, even though his body shivered at all the chaotic thoughts that clouded his mind. The stairs carried him down to the ground floor, and before long, he found himself outside.
Intuitively, he closed his eyes at the sunlight and felt the fresh air hitting his face. He inhaled deeply to smell grass, stone and… dust.
He opened his eyes.
The courtyard opened wide before him, paved with worn cobblestones. In the center stood the statue of the wizard he had seen as a soul. The figure towered on its pedestal, robes sweeping around his feet, a staff in one hand and an open book in the other. His eyes were carved to look upward, as though reading the sky itself.
Vince stopped, staring. If this was an academy, then the statue had to mean something. Someone important. Another question for the library whenever he ever found it. But there was a problem.
He had no idea where to go. The courtyard spread in every direction, but not a single student wandered nearby. Unlike what he expected, there was no chatter, no footsteps and no people.
Is the place closed? he wondered. Even then, shouldn’t there be at least a few people walking around?
He shook his head. Standing here wasn’t going to solve anything.
Beyond the courtyard, larger buildings rose in the distance. One of them was massive, stretching wide and long, its gray walls forming a square around the land it claimed. High windows caught the light, and a roof of dark slate rose in neat peaks. The place loomed over the smaller halls and buildings around it, a giant among houses.
That had to be it. If there were answers anywhere, they would be inside.
Vince set off along the cobblestone road that cut toward the building. Grass stretched on either side, trimmed but patchy, with colorful flowerbeds that looked like no one had tended them in months. To the left, a row of smaller stone structures sat quiet, their doors shut. To the right, the grounds sloped toward a line of trees, their branches tangled like crooked fingers.
His boots scuffed on the stone. The road stretched long, and with each step, the large building grew larger still, its long wooden doors set like the gates of a fortress.
Halfway there, his ears twitched at a sound. Voices. Faint chatter, carried on the wind. He slowed, then quickened his pace, then broke into a half-run, his chest tight with sudden relief.
The voices grew clearer with each step. And then he saw them.
Groups of people moved in and out through the great doors, the flow constant. Students, maybe. They wore robes—black, blue, brown, green—different cuts and styles, none the same. Some wore belts and sashes, others let their robes hang loose. A few carried books under one arm. Another held a staff that looked taller than himself.
Vince slowed, his half-run becoming a careful walk. The building loomed above, alive with the hum of people. For the first time since waking here, he was seeing so many people.
Around him, the academy grounds stretched wide—stone paths, gardens, more halls in the distance. It looked like a whole campus, sprawling and endless and straight out of a movie. But Vince didn’t linger. Exploration could wait. Answers mattered more.
He slipped through the crowd and into the massive building. The great doors swallowed him into a corridor so wide it felt like a street. Arched ceilings stretched high above, lanterns hanging from iron hooks glowed without flame, and doorways opened into branching passages like a maze. Students in their robes split off in groups, chatting as they went, and the sound echoed through the stone hall.
Any of them might know where the library is, Vince thought, but asking strangers seemed risky. Then his eyes caught on someone different.
A burly man leaned against a far wall, arms crossed, his sharp gaze following the flow of students. Unlike the others, he wore no robes. Instead, polished metal plates wrapped his chest and shoulders, catching the lantern light.
Vince’s eyes brightened. Finally, someone who looks like they know what’s going on.
He walked quickly over. The man’s brow arched as Vince approached, and he blurted his request before nerves could choke him.
“I’m looking for the library. Can you tell me the way?”
The man’s eyes swept over him, heavy and assessing. Then he shook his head. His voice came out stern as if he’d swallowed a big rock, with the tone of someone used to being obeyed.
“Apprentices can’t access the library until they’ve selected their courses and gone through the mandatory curriculum. If you want to get a glimpse of the classes, head right. Keep walking until you reach lecture room 7A. Professor Ilyth Selvara” he paused, giving a group of students a look. “—will be giving an introduction to spellcodes. You should hurry if you want a seat.”
Vince opened his mouth, a question on his lips, but the man suddenly pushed past him. His boots struck the stone hard as he strode toward a group of students fiddling with glowing balls in the air.
“You can’t use spellcodes here!” he barked.
The glow vanished instantly. The students went pale, stammering apologies as the armored man loomed over them. Vince lingered, watching the exchange with interest before he decided to move on.
Turning back to the hall, he glanced down the path the man had pointed out. His pulse picked up. He had no idea how spellcodes worked, but if a professor was about to explain them, then this was his chance.
“Lecture room 7A,” Vince muttered to himself and slipped into the flow of students.
One look at the corridor was enough for him to know that it stretched on and on. The doors lined the walls with brass numbers above them.
Students peeled off in groups, slipping into rooms marked 3B, 5C, 6A… and then his eyes caught on it.
7A.
The door stood half open, a steady stream of students pushing through. Vince followed quickly, ducking inside.
The sight stopped him for a moment. The room looked exactly like a university lecture hall—long rows of wooden benches stacked on a slope, each row a step higher than the one before. A tall blackboard stood at the front, with chalk dust smudged across it. The walls were stone, bare except for narrow windows high near the ceiling.
Half the seats were already taken. Students crowded into groups, talking in hushed tones, their voices bouncing off the stone. Vince made for the back, slipping onto a bench as quietly as he could. Better to watch than to be noticed. And he did not want to answer questions that would be pointed at students in the front.
He waited patiently, looking around at the overly excited students.
One by one, more students filed in. The voices grew louder, overlapping until the room hummed like a beehive. Cloaks rustled, books thudded against desks, and someone laughed too loud only to hush again. Soon every bench was filled, students pressed shoulder to shoulder.
Then—thud.
The door slammed shut on its own.
Vince flinched, his eyes darting toward it. Around the room, others stiffened as well, startled into silence.
Clap!
Vince’s head snapped forward. At the front, where no one had been before, a woman now stood. He could swear the space had been empty when he came in, but there she was, watching them all with beady, large eyes.
She looked older, with streaks of gray in her dark hair tied back in a bun. Lines marked her face in wrinkles. Her robe was plain, dark brown but it was the intensity of her eyes that caught him off guard.
“The room is full,” she said. “And I do not like anyone standing in my class.”
The students went still, as if afraid to even breathe.
“You have all chosen Introduction to spellcodes instead of the other introductory classes,” she went on. “So that is what I will talk about. Nothing else.”
She let the words hang for a heartbeat, her gaze sweeping across every row. Vince felt her eyes brush over him in the back, and his stomach tightened.
“There will only be one introduction,” she said. “Mine. You may call me Professor Ilyth. If, after today, you decide to take my course, then—and only then—will I bother to learn your names.”
Her eyes lingered, testing the room, before she gave a single nod.
“Good. Now. Let us begin. You have all heard the term spellcode before. Even mortals know the word.”
Professor Ilyth folded her arms, her chin raised as if she were speaking down from a higher place.
“The basic definition,” she said, “is that spell codes allow us to manifest spells into reality. But if you think you can just say a word and watch magic appear, you could not be more wrong. That kind of thinking leads to an early grave… or a pyre, if you live in the southern kingdoms.”
A flicker of something like humor touched her lips, but the class stayed silent. Perhaps she was trying to make a joke, but not one student dared to laugh.
She went on, unbothered. “Spellcodes are delicate. They are made of many components, each one necessary. In the end, the purpose is always the same: to deliver an output. An output you designed from the beginning.”
Her eyes swept the front row. “For example, let us take a simple spell: [Levitation].”
She flicked a finger toward a thick book a student held in his lap.
The book shot upward at once, gasps echoing as it floated high above the student’s head. Then it drifted in a slow, smooth circle around the boy, tracing a loop before settling gently back into his arms. The boy held it close, eyes wide.
Professor Ilyth chuckled softly. “Even something like this requires a proper code. First, you must identify the item you are affecting with your mana. Then, estimate its weight. Next, calculate how much mana you must invest to interfere with its gravity. Finally, you must define the manner of levitation itself—straight up, drifting sideways, circling, or otherwise.”
She paced slowly across the front row, her robe brushing against the stone floor.
“Simple, is it not?” Her high-pitched voice questioned. “And yet even this demands many words from the arcane script. A set of words that are not infinite. In fact—” she stopped, her eyes raking the room—“each of you has only a limited amount of script available to you. Unless, of course, you are lucky enough to have proper backing. Which, I suspect, not all of you are.”
A ripple passed through the benches. A few students nodded grimly. Others lowered their eyes, their shoulders curling in as though the professor’s words had weighed them down.
From the back, Vince watched carefully. Every word was like gold. Arcane script… components… outputs.
The professor let the silence settle before she spoke again. “Still. Public knowledge is not useless. On the contrary, it is more than sufficient for apprentices such as yourselves. Now… let me show you something. But only if you promise—each and every one of you—not to try it yourselves.”
The room held its breath.
“All of you promise not to attempt this,” the professor said.
“I won’t,” came the reply from a girl in the front, then dozens of voices spoke at once, filling the hall like a chant.
She gave a single nod and lifted her hands. “Good. Then I will project for you the spell code for [Ether Bolt]. One of the most common offensive spellcodes. Each of you will learn it formally within the next two months.”
As she spoke, glowing words and numbers began to bloom in the air above her. They formed line by line, hanging bright against the stone walls, until they stretched like a floating scroll. The students leaned forward, their eyes wide.
Vince froze. His pulse jumped.
The glowing lines arranged themselves into structure, indents and symbols lining up like steps in a ladder.
Spell Code: [Ether Bolt]
[Spell Start]
Rune(Fire) + Rune(Shape: Bolt) + Rune(Direction: Target)
Intensity = 3
Mana = Base x Intensity
[Invoke: Firebolt]
[Spell End]
Vince’s eyes widened with every line. His heart thudded against his ribs. He… understood this. Maybe not perfectly, but the flow was clear. Acquire a target. Check for enough mana. Calculate position. Build the energy. Form it. Fire it.
It’s… it’s just a program, he thought. A program written in another language.
The professor’s voice dragged him back. “Observe.”
She lifted one finger. At its tip, fire sparked to life, then twisted. It stretched into the shape of a jagged bolt, flame snapping like lightning but burning red and hot. The bolt hissed in the air, leaving trails of heat behind it.
“This,” she said, “is [Ether Bolt]. One of the simplest combat spells. All of you can learn it with practice. The difficulty lies not in writing the code, but in casting it during battle, when your pulse races and your enemies are moving.”
Her words blurred in Vince’s ears, fading into background noise. His eyes stayed glued to the code hanging in the air, his mind racing.
Functions. Inputs. Outputs. It’s programming. Magic here is just… programming?