The city of Seraphelle shimmered beneath a cloud-dappled sky, its skyline dominated by the graceful spires of Crescent Academy, the most prestigious magical institute in the kingdom of Elaria. The school itself sat perched atop a hill, surrounded by silver-leafed trees that whispered with magic in the wind. Wards pulsed faintly around the perimeter, like breathing, invisible guardians.
Inside the academy, the main corridor buzzed with life. Students in finely tailored uniforms—blue for Elemental Studies, gold-trimmed for Enchantment, and crimson-lined robes for Combat Magic—gathered in lively clusters. Laughter echoed, spells fizzled in the air as show-offs demonstrated summer break tricks, and enchanted familiars darted through the halls with messages, snacks, or chaos.
The semester had begun just an hour ago. And he was already late.
Far below, in the shadow of the west gate, a lone figure stood at the base of the academy's thousand-step staircase. The wind tugged at his long black coat, dust dancing around his boots. His dark, tousled hair framed sharp, thoughtful eyes the color of a gathering storm. His name was Kaito.
He glanced up at the towering structure before him, then down at the small admission letter in his hand—written in gold ink, sealed with a sigil only the most ancient magic could create.
"Crescent Academy," he murmured. "Still standing… after all this time."
Kaito began to climb.
With each step, memories clawed at him—blades of the past scraping against the walls of his mind. Flames. Screams. The clash of magic on magic. A girl's voice, calling his name from across a battlefield.
He shook his head and pressed forward.
Back in Classroom 3-S, students were growing restless. The teacher, Professor Mizuki, an elegant woman with long white hair bound by a single blue ribbon, tapped her pointer on the board rhythmically. Her ice-blue eyes scanned the room with clinical precision.
"Settle down," she said. "We are to receive a transfer student today."
The class went still.
It was Aiko who spoke first—of course it was. "A transfer student?" she repeated, her melodious voice lined with amusement. "At our academy? Did someone lose a bet with the admissions board?"
The class laughed, albeit nervously.
Aiko was Crescent Academy's crown jewel. Beautiful, brilliant, and always first in her class, she was admired, envied, and feared. Her blonde hair shimmered like sunlight, and her aura radiated the raw intensity of someone born to rule.
Professor Mizuki arched an eyebrow. "He's late, but I assure you, his credentials are… impressive."
That raised eyebrows across the room. Impressive enough to be excused for being late on the first day? Aiko leaned back in her seat, intrigued despite herself.
And then—
The door opened.
It wasn't dramatic. There was no thunder, no swirl of arcane light. Just the faint creak of the wood as Kaito stepped into the room, his expression unreadable.
His presence, however, was immediate.
A strange silence fell over the room—not the silence of boredom, but of uncertainty. As though everyone could feel that something had just shifted.
He stood there for a second too long. Then, calmly, he stepped forward.
"I'm Kaito," he said, his voice level but quiet. "Transfer student. Sorry I'm late."
His tone was so casual, so unbothered, it was almost insulting.
Aiko narrowed her eyes. She was used to boys blushing around her, tripping over their words. But Kaito hadn't even looked at her.
Professor Mizuki gestured to the empty seat in the back—beside Aiko.
Kaito walked past the rows of students, ignoring the whispers, the speculative glances, the spark of magical auras being used to scan him.
He didn't flinch. Didn't react.
He sat down, stared straight ahead.
And for a moment… did nothing.
The first period began. Professor Mizuki launched into a lecture about leyline convergence points and the proper techniques for casting multi-layered enchantments.
Kaito listened. Not with the curiosity of a new student—but with the patience of someone hearing an old song played slightly out of tune.
When the teacher turned her back to write on the board, Aiko leaned over, her voice low.
"Not bad," she said. "You've got the whole mysterious loner thing down. But you're in Crescent Academy now. You don't get by just being moody and handsome."
Kaito turned his head. Their eyes met.
"I'm not here to get by," he said flatly. "I'm here because I have to be."
And then he looked away.
Aiko blinked. No fluster, no attempt to flirt back, no sign that he even registered who she was. She sat upright, a strange feeling stirring in her chest. Not embarrassment.
Interest.
Later that day, in Elemental Application Class, the students gathered in the open-air arena behind the academy. It was here that students were tested on their raw magical ability—measured not in exams, but in performance.
"Time for spell demonstration," bellowed Professor Haruto, a tall, grizzled man whose beard probably had more battle experience than most of the students combined.
One by one, students were called up. They cast basic spells—fireballs, wind currents, frost shields. Aiko conjured a phoenix of flame, earning applause.
Then came the name:
"Kaito."
He stood slowly. Walked to the center of the arena.
The professor raised an eyebrow. "Any element you prefer, boy?"
"Doesn't matter," Kaito replied.
Students laughed under their breath.
He raised his hand.
And the air… shifted.
A sudden hush swept through the field. The clouds parted above. A golden light bloomed around Kaito's fingers—not like a flame, but a sigil, ancient and intricate, glowing with layers upon layers of geometry. A spell circle with no incantation.
The earth trembled. Not violently—but reverently. A wind swept the arena, lifting dust and petals in a slow spiral around him.
Then, just as suddenly, it vanished.
No fire. No explosion.
Just awe.
Professor Haruto's mouth tightened.
"That… was High Magic," he said. "Unstructured. Non-elemental. Forbidden without a license."
Kaito shrugged. "It was just a warm-up."
The class stared.
Aiko stood at the edge, heart pounding for reasons she didn't understand.
Who the hell is he?
That night, alone in his dorm room, Kaito opened the window to gaze at the moonlit sky. In the distance, beyond the school's edge, he could feel it.
The pulse.
Something ancient. Something dark. The faint tremor of a portal, sealed… but weakening.
And beneath the academy—hidden from all eyes—something stirred.
Something only he could sense.
Kaito closed his eyes.
"Ten years," he whispered. "They all think the Holy Mage died in the war and didn't even look around to find even a body left."
His fingers curled into a fist.
"He just needed time to return."