Chapter 6
"But does it matter if the shape is slightly different? I mean, I've heard experimental devices are quite sensitive..."
"You're quite knowledgeable."
The unexpected compliment made the staff member offer an awkward smile.
"The core of this device lies in the purity of the medium. Since it's designed to study how magic transmits through different mediums, slight variations in container shape shouldn't affect results."
"Fascinating. Researchers like you truly are remarkable. Your explanation eases my concerns."
"Still, had that main tank shattered, things would've been dire. That component was specially crafted—irreplaceable through ordinary means."
"Whew..."
The staff member wiped his brow. Even imagining the scenario felt dizzying. The tank catching on the railings during the carriage accident had been nothing short of miraculous.
"By the way, how did you deduce all this? From just a glance?"
Had Ian not mentioned being a new student earlier, one might have mistaken him for a seasoned researcher from Professor Frost's lab.
"Simple. You provided the hint yourself."
"I did?"
"You mentioned this was a crucial device for Professor Frost's work."
"That... counted as a hint?"
Ian nodded.
"More than sufficient. I've studied all of Professor Frost's recent publications. This device clearly aligns with his current research on medium conductivity."
"Incredible! To make such connections!"
Murmurs of admiration rippled through the onlookers. Ian ignored them, his attention locked on realigning a misaligned gear.
"Tools are here!"
"Bring them."
Workers infused magic-reinforced adhesive into cracks, securing fragments with precision. Where nails were needed, Ian specified their placement with surgical exactness. His hands moved with the confidence of someone reassembling his own creation.
Scattered components coalesced into coherence under his direction.
"Replacement vessels arrived!"
"Let me inspect."
Ian sorted through the basket. Two serviceable containers stood among the rejects.
"These will suffice as substitutes. Return the others."
Finally, he mounted the glass vessels onto their wooden frames. The restored device now mirrored its original form near-perfectly. After a final inspection, Ian brushed debris from his hands and stood.
"This should serve temporarily. Inform Professor Frost about the damage honestly. Further adjustments may be needed depending on his experimental parameters."
"Thank you! Ah, forgive my manners—I'm Marleng from Academic Support. How can I... You're Ian of House Oracle?"
Ian suppressed a grimace. Revealing his lineage had been unavoidable—without leveraging his family's reputation, they'd never have permitted a stranger to touch sensitive equipment.
"Repayment isn't necessary. But if you insist, keep today's incident confidential."
"Shouldn't the professor know who assisted?"
"I require no fortuitous favors."
Ian turned on his heel. Marleng stared at his retreating back before bowing deeply, her gratitude etched into the motion.
"'No fortuitous favors'..."
The black-robed observer lingered in shadows, repeating Ian's words like an incantation. His name burned itself into her memory—Ian Oracle, a puzzle demanding solution.
Ian entered the academy's central administrative building. Climbing one flight, he opened the registrar's door.
Perfect timing.
Prospective students filled the room. All eyes snapped to him—some curious, others wary. Their attire varied wildly: swords at hips, staves in hand, or simple tunics marking magical disinterest.
This diversity defined the Royal Academy. Three departments drew aspirants—the Magic College for spellcraft, Martial College for combat arts, and Natural Philosophy College for scholarly pursuits. Ian's choice had been inevitable.
Swordsmanship bored him. Natural Philosophy required dedicating one's lineage to academic pursuits—a path his magic-focused house would never countenance. Yet observers might mistake him for a Natural Philosophy candidate.
Proper mages carried staves, after all.
Though staves amplified magic, they proved useless against Ian's particular affliction—mana coalescence disorder. His bare hands sufficed.
"...?"
A muscular youth with a cudgel-like staff glared from across the room. His spiked hair and combat-trained physique clashed with magical academia's norms.
Do I know him?
The stranger's intense gaze prickled Ian's neck. He averted his eyes as the clerk called, "Next applicant."
Ian approached the bespectacled registrar. Her eyes widened behind round lenses.
"Those spectacles suit you! Scholarly and refined."
"Thank you."
Her approving smile faltered slightly when proximity revealed the aristocratic bone structure his glasses couldn't obscure. Ian maintained polite detachment.
"Name?"
"Ian Oracle."
Her pen froze mid-stroke. She retrieved a dossier thick enough to stun a goblin.
"Head of House Oracle. Nineteen years old. Cutting it close with enrollment?"
"I understood this year was my final eligibility window."
"Correct. We get many weepy petitioners after deadlines. Wise choice."
Her tone implied shared secrets. This was the Royal Academy—every student, noble or common, bent knee to faculty under the Sun King's decrees.
"I'll ask routine questions now. Some may seem intrusive. Answer truthfully."
Her gaze flicked toward armored knights flanking the entrance.
"Proceed."
"First, why seek academy enrollment?"
"Every noble bears three duties: loyalty to crown, reverence for the throne, and stewardship of the people. Having inherited my house and reached majority, I aim to serve the kingdom more actively."
"Commendable. Expected from an Oracle." She leaned forward. "I read your late father's treatise on planar mana theory. Brilliant work."
"Thank you."
The phantom of his father lingered here—in yellowed pages and whispered respect. Pride and loneliness warred briefly in Ian's chest.
The registrar tactfully changed subjects.
"Chosen college?"
"Magic."
"Naturally. Remember specialization occurs in second year. Testing determines eligibility."
"I'm aware."
Testing—the endless gauntlet. Regular mana appraisals ranked students by raw power. For Ian, a minefield.
"Place your hand here. Channel minimal mana."
The crystal glowed faintly under Ian's palm—enough for registration, far below his true capacity.
Specialization... Practical Combat remains ideal for recognition.
The Combat College bred legendary war mages. Only prodigies thrived there.
Ian's theoretical knowledge surpassed most upperclassmen. His mana control didn't.
Without solving my coalescence issue, I'm limited to Theoretical Studies.
Theoretical mages researched magic's foundations—historians rather than practitioners. Mainstream academia dismissed them, yet his parents had cherished their work.
'Theoretical magic is our art's purest form,' Father always said.
For now, Theoretical Studies offered his only path. But the academy housed infinite knowledge. Perhaps here, he'd find solutions—both for his magic and his future.
"One last question—any specialization preferences? For advisor assignment."
"Theoretical Studies."
"Excellent. Professor Frost will supervise your first year. His works influenced your father's research, yes?"
"I've studied them extensively."
Frost—the rising star of theoretical magic. Helping repair his device earlier felt like fate's nudge.
"Congratulations, Lord Oracle. Your dorm is A Wing, Room 307. Orientation begins tonight in the Grand Hall."
She offered an iron key.
"Remember—unauthorized exits incur expulsion. The gates show no mercy."
"Understood."
Ian exited into a buzzing corridor. Curious glances followed him—particularly from female students—but he strode past, seeking his dorm.
The designated building loomed ahead, its gothic arches whispering of ancient secrets.
As Ian reached the entrance, someone blocked his path—the muscular youth from the registrar's office.
Their eyes met.
No words passed.
Ian stepped inside. The stranger followed.
Up three flights. Down the hall. To room 307's door.
Ian turned, patience frayed.
"Do you require something?"
