The battlefield was silent but tense, a wasteland of broken metal and scorched earth. Hyperion stood across from Kaiden, whose breath came in sharp bursts, the air around him vibrating with unnatural heat. “He’ll take me seriously, huh?” Hyperion muttered, voice low. “I guess I do want to see what makes him so strong.” Kaiden’s body convulsed as if his bones were boiling beneath his skin. From his mouth, nostrils, and eyes, molten metal began to pour, the sound a grotesque gurgle of magic and matter fusing together. The liquid pooled around his feet before climbing upward, wrapping him in layers of steel that hardened into armor. When the process was complete, Kaiden no longer resembled a man. What stood in his place was a hulking, eleven meter titan of iron, his lower limb with spiked maces where hands should have been. The ground cracked beneath its weight. “You shall pay for mocking those beyond your pitiful scope of power!” the metal giant roared, his voice distorted.

Eight hours into the day, the carriage taking the trio reached the edge of Sapphiri, the famed City of beauty. Its towering walls shimmered under the sunlight, draped with bright blue flowers that climbed the giant walls in a perfect mixture of green and blue like veins of color.“It really lives up to its name, doesn't it?” Mr. Wyatt remarked. Ida groaned beside him. “How did we get ourselves into this again? I have to go to a snooty rich school.”Hyperion’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “This school is supposedly at the forefront of magical research and artificing. The teachers are said to be the best in combat and magical aptitude. It’s going to be fun.”“Pretty sure that’s just the magic nerd in you talking,” she retorted.When they reached the entrance, Mr. Wyatt came to a stop and turned toward them.“Well, lady and gentleman, this is where I leave you. Your entrance into the Zenith Academy has already been arranged. You’ll be enrolling as students indefinitely, until, possibl

After leaving Aurora’s office, Hyperion made his way to the venue of the next lesson. The field stretched wide before him, carpeted in low, neatly trimmed orange grass. Scattered across its expanse stood tall, pole-like platforms of varying heights and widths, each one sleek and black, their arrangement like a forest of metal trees. Around the edges of the field, the borders were marked by artificial grass dyed a deep, obsidian shade. The students gathered at the sidelines, murmuring among themselves, when a tall man in a tracksuit approached from the field. He stood nearly two meters in height, with a sharp buzz cut, a trimmed goatee, and the solid frame of someone who lived and breathed physical training. “Well, students,” he began in a voice that carried across the grounds, “I’m your P.E. teacher, Mr. Victor Moses. In standard fifth-year fashion, you shall be welcomed to physical education class with a round of Decibola Ascensio.” A collective murmur spread through the group —

“Hah,” Gallagher roared. “You really think I’d stoop to holding the hands of green ears, and a woman at that?”“You’re not holding my hand,” Ida replied coolly. “It’s just a friendly spar. No need to be a misogynistic ass about it.”“You bi...”“Language! Both of you,” Mr. Thomeaux barked. “And you, Gallagher, it’s tradition. Anyone who applies has the right to pick who he or she spars against. So pick a weapon and get to the floor.”“See you on the dance floor,” Ida jeered as she walked past him.After a set of routine stretches, the two of them stood face to face. The cold wind brushed against Ida’s skin, carrying with it the briefest moment of quiet. Mr. Thomeaux shattered it.“Basic use of magical augmentation. No use of spells or magic power. Winner is the first person to force surrender or land a clean shot. And, begin!”***Ida had to admit. Gallagher was good with his sword. His opening slash came from above, sharp and forceful. She blocked by wrapping her arms in the chain, t

It was morning at Zenith Academy and it carried a quiet gloom, but with a heavier gloom than usual. Hyperion walked through the corridor with a calm stride, though the events of the previous night still pressed at the back of his mind. The memory-wipe spell around Daigan, the holes riddled in his brain, and the array of possibilities, each detail clung stubbornly, refusing to loosen its grip. He was halfway toward the central assembly hall when someone called out to him. “Mr. Hyperion.” Hyperion turned. It was a stern, stiff-backed woman, with black hair and strands of green and grey in it, wearing a navy green jumpsuit and a cape of waist length. “The principal would like a word,” she said. “Immediately.” Hyperion nodded once, offering no visible reaction, though a faint tremor of expectation rose in him. Being summoned by the principal was rare in the school as he was seldom associated with students directly. The walk to the principal’s office took only a few minutes, as