"Kieran, what are you doing this late?"
He asked, his brows furrowed, as if trying to interrogate the young man in front of him.
"None of your business."
"No, you don't understand. Whatever you're doing right now is my responsibility. All students have to be asleep by ten!"
"Tch, as if that's my problem. Can you stop meddling in my life? Prying into other people's business isn't a good thing for a teacher to do." Kieran rolled his eyes, then glared at his teacher defiantly.
"Your yapping is as loud as a f*cking trash can. No more tolerance. Go back to sleep, NOW." The teacher said, his voice tight with restrained anger, as he gripped Kieran's arm tightly.
"Jeez, alright. Chill. I will go to sleep. Happy?"
"It's not about my satisfaction or what-not. But your own safety, Kieran. Keep that in your mind before breaching any nature of such laws. Do you understand?"
"Meh, what ever helps you to sleep at night, I guess."
Alright, this is getting boring. Let's stop this 'your average teacher-student' scene.
So, who is this Kieran again? Right, Kieran Percival Alaric. What it feels to be a lengthy and seemingly meaningless full-name, doesn't it?
Alright, this is getting boring. Let's stop this 'your average teacher-student' scene.
So, who is this Kieran again? Right, Kieran Percival Alaric.
What it feels to be a lengthy and seemingly meaningless full-name, doesn't it?
He is the 2nd grade student whose name seems to be filled with redundancy.
Honestly, the writer could have done better with this character's full-name. In my point of view, they are just trying to drag this name out of their ass, and add some dramatic effect to it.
I mean, come on, really?
Maybe learn not to interrupt dialogues before attempting to bullshit around.
Shut up, Kieran. I'm done with you. It's over.
I don't care. This is my story. Our relationship has nothing to do with this.
Your story... you said. No? It's the story of four, you and myself included.
Maybe you are the one who should learn on how to be selfless, Kieran.
And that's exactly why I love you. Now, should we tell the reader about—
*Slams him rapidly into the wall*
NEVER SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THAT DISGUSTING THING EVER AGAIN.
Anyway... ehm, this is the story about magic, which tells about these four students in a group, strolling around while finding the meaning of learning about potion, ritual, wands, cards, chess, and... obviously, carnal— I mean, magic spells!
(The scene then changes to Kieran's perspective, instead of his bitchy ex)
Hm... before I begin this story. I have a question for all of you:
What is the true purpose of school, or learning even?
Education has always been the inner mechanism, the motor engine driving society forward. But have you ever stopped to ask—who's behind the wheel?
They say school prepares us for life.
But in a world ruled by magic, power, and politics... what does that even mean?
Welcome to Advanced Magical High School Academy—a name so bloated with self-importance, it practically screams insecurity.
Here, you'll find the brightest young spellcasters, battle strategists, alchemists, and conjurers gathered under one prestigious roof. Or so the brochure says.
In truth? It's less about nurturing talent, and more about categorizing it. About control.
Every test is a filter. Every rule, a leash. Every rank, a reminder.
And every student? A pawn in someone else's game... or a wildcard they haven't figured out how to play yet.
Of course, I'm just a student. Just like the rest of them.
At least, that's what they think.
AMHA boasts the kind of facilities that could bankrupt a minor country—floating libraries filled with grimoires older than nations, elemental training domes with adjustable reality fields, alchemical labs built with philosopher's stone composites.
Even the dormitories resemble noble estates more than student housing.
It's extravagant. Excessive. Impressive, if you care about that sort of thing.
And yet, behind every grand hall and glowing emblem lies the real reason students fight to get in.
A guarantee.
The Academy promises a 0% rejection rate from any recognized wizarding institution worldwide. Graduate from AMHA, and you don't apply for your future—you choose it.
That's the promise.
And obviously, the bait.
But no one ever asks what's on the hook—politics of mind games and manipulation.
(An hour before the school ceremony.)
I walked down the marble corridor, the glowing walls twisting the light unnaturally, casting jagged shadows. The crackle of magic drifted from a nearby elemental dome—fire and water locked in constant chaos.
It all felt hollow, a flashy backdrop for those who needed to be impressed.
Well, for me? Just some kind of unnecessary noise.
"Ah, shit. Here we go again."
Well, nothing.
Just my luck. Ruined in an instant by her presence.
Out of the hundreds of students admitted this year, the first person I run into before the opening ceremony… is her.
The Academy's filled with floating libraries, ten-story dorm towers, and enough spatial distortion fields to bend probability.
And somehow, fate—or God, if that even existed—decided to align us on the same marble corridor, an hour before the headmaster's speech.
Screw you, whoever made this scenario.
This was statistically improbable.
And most importantly, cosmically cruel.
I haven't even received my class schedule for the next semester, yet the universe is already dealing me penalties, as if they dislike me.
She hasn't noticed me yet. Or maybe she has, and is pretending not to.
Either way, sooner or later, she'll have to.
Typical Sylvaine.
I clear my throat—loud enough to be subtle, subtle enough to be petty.
A beat passes.
Without turning, she says,
"You sound like a grandpa about to wheeze through retirement."
Ah. So she did notice me. As sharp as always. That's my ex for you.
"Good morning to you too, Sylvaine," I reply, my expression blank.
"Still charming as ever."
She glances over, those frost-bitten eyes scanning me like I'm some stray the cat dragged in—evaluated and deemed not worth killing.
"If you're already coughing, maybe you should just die already," she says, her tone casual, like she's commenting on the weather.
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just allergic to arrogance."
Her lips twitch. Not quite a smile. But close.
"Just never talk to me again."
"But fate intertwined us here, no? Also, where's that lovey-dovey Sylvaine I used to know?"
"She's fucking dead, buried along with your grandpa's corpse."
"Hey, stop bringing my grandpa into this conversation."
"Okay, okay, I won't. So, what do you want? Why talk to me at all? Ask for anything—but not my body. I'm not here for your entertainment."
"Does the V-card really matter to you? When you're the one handing it out? Geez."
"Anyway... just wondering... do you have any clue about the new students?"