And, of course, the fact that you still hadn’t chosen a club.
It wasn’t as though you hadn’t tried. Nothing had felt quite right, and while the headmage had reassured you he would find a solution, the uncertainty still gnawed at you. Would you be left out? Would you be forced into something you didn’t enjoy?
Before your thoughts could spiral further, a familiar, grumpy voice yanked you back to the present.
“Are you planning to hibernate? Because if so, I’d like to be informed in advance.” Fibble flapped his wings impatiently from his perch. “Some of us have schedules to keep, you know.”
You sighed and dragged yourself out of bed, dressing in the school uniform with practiced ease. A quick glance in the mirror—still you, still here.
Breakfast was another round of pancakes, easy to prepare with the ready-made mix Percival had stocked for you. Fibble, of course, supervised the process with great scrutiny, making pointed comments about your flipping technique while snatching a piece for himself the second they hit the plate.
Just as you finished and gathered your bag, stepping out into the crisp morning air, a voice called out.
“Morning, MC!” Rune stood just a few steps ahead, grinning. His ever-energetic tail swayed behind him, mouth slightly open as if about to greet you too. “Figured I’d walk with you.”
You nodded, adjusting your bag as Fibble huffed, “Oh sure, just invite yourself along, why don’t you?”
Rune, unbothered as always, simply chuckled and fell into step beside you. “Mythic Combat today. First time, right?”
You hummed in agreement, and together, the three of you made your way toward the field.
The Mythic Combat class took place in the field, another part than the one used for PE, surrounded by training dummies, sparring rings, and racks of various practice weapons. Some students were already gathered, chatting amongst themselves, while others stretched in preparation.
At the center of it all stood a man who looked like he had just woken up—Sir Thorne Evenshade. He was tall, draped in purple attire with an air of quiet contemplation, but what stood out most was the sheer exhaustion that clung to him. Despite the undeniable skill visible in the way he carried himself, he yawned more times than seemed reasonable for an instructor about to teach combat.
“Welcome,” Thorne greeted with a slow, almost dreamy tone. “This is Mythic Combat. You may think it’s a useless class.” He gave another yawn before continuing, “Regardless, our focus is not on battle for battle’s sake. This class exists to honor the past—the heroes who stood against monsters, the legends who wielded blades to protect others.”
One student raised a hand. “So, we won’t actually be using this in real life?”
Thorne nodded. “Correct. Consider this a tribute, a skillset that, while not necessary, builds discipline, precision, and respect.” He stretched his arms lazily. “That said, there are rules. Safety first. Always. If you act recklessly, you’re out. If you ignore instructions, you’re out. If you stab me, well—” He shrugged. “We’ll see.”
A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the students.
Thorne clapped his hands, signaling the start of the lesson. “First, swords. You’ll start with wooden replicas before touching real steel.” He gestured to the nearby racks, where rows of training swords awaited. “Grab a partner. You’ll be working in pairs.”
Rune turned to you immediately, grinning. “You and me?”
Fibble clicked his beak. “Oh yes, fantastic idea. Pair the magicless student with the goblin. What could possibly go wrong?”
Choosing to ignore Fibble’s commentary, you nodded, and the two of you retrieved your practice swords.
Thorne demonstrated proper stances, grips, and basic strikes, moving with an unexpected grace that belied his perpetual drowsiness. Despite his sluggish demeanor, he was a sharp instructor, correcting postures with a keen eye and offering practical advice.
The practice session was intense but rewarding. Even Hatterick, who often seemed lost in his own thoughts, managed to grasp the basics. Rune, naturally nimble, picked up movements quickly, though his form needed refinement. Your own progress was steady—perhaps not exceptional, but competent.
Two hours later, the class came to a close. With sore muscles but a sense of accomplishment, you headed back to the locker rooms to change.
Next was Transformation Arts, and the transition from combat to magic was almost jarring. The classroom was cozy yet chaotic, filled with shelves of trinkets and peculiar objects. At the front sat Professor Hans Wilderkin, a slightly disheveled man who alternated between flipping through notes and popping candies from a jar into his mouth.
“Alright, alright, listen up,” Wilderkin said, voice light with amusement. “Transformation is one of the more fickle arts. You’ll be learning how to alter objects, shift appearances, and generally bend reality to your whims.” He grinned. “Within reason, of course.”
The first exercise was simple in theory—turn a quill into a flower. No incantations, no waving of wands. Just focus, channel magic through the Artefact Sigil, and envision the change.
Most students had varying degrees of success. Tsuki completed it effortlessly, mentioning that his father had taught him this before. Rune struggled at first but managed a somewhat misshapen flower after a few attempts. Others produced weeds, dried petals, or, in one case, an entire head of lettuce.
Fibble, naturally, refused to be left out. He narrowed his eyes at his quill, focusing intently. With a small spark of magic, the feather didn’t transform but rather shifted colors, now a striking shade of violet.
“Well,” Fibble mused. “It’s an improvement.”
By the end of the lesson, only two students had failed entirely, yourself included since you don’t even have magic. Wilderkin reassured them with a chuckle, waving off concerns. “First lesson, folks. No one’s expecting miracles yet.”
As class wrapped up, you found yourself with an hour of free time before the last morning class. Rune, Tsuki, and Fibble agreed to sit in the courtyard, using the time to finish assignments. Rune practiced sketching the parts of a sword for Mythic Combat, Tsuki idly transformed fallen leaves into delicate blossoms, and you—well, you tried to do whatever you could, mostly reviewing the theorical part.
Fibble watched with barely concealed amusement as your leaf stubbornly remained a leaf.
“This is going to be a long semester,” he muttered, ruffling his feathers.
You couldn’t help but agree.
Comments (0)
See all