The midnight sky draped the academy grounds in a silvery hue as Zen quietly woke from his sleep. The dormitory halls were silent, shadows dancing across the walls from the dim moonlight filtering through the windows. With wooden sword in hand, he made his way to the practice hall—the same one he'd visited that first night.
The scent of wood and old dust lingered in the air as Zen began his training. Each swing of the blade was focused, rhythmic. He repeated the same techniques again and again, trying to refine his sword qi. Time slipped by, unnoticed. Soon, the first golden rays of morning pierced through the high windows.
As always, Zen met Lyra outside before class. She skipped over with her usual bright grin, waving at him like always.
"Good morning, sleepy sword boy," she teased, hands behind her back and eyes squinting playfully.
Zen replied with a calm smile, "You seem more energetic today."
"Of course! Sunshine like me doesn't need sleep!" she said proudly, then pouted. "Unlike someone who looks like he stayed up again."
They both laughed and walked to the Nourishment Hall, where Princess Arisella was already waiting. She gracefully approached and, once again, took the seat right beside Zen.
A chorus of angry mutters and jealous glares surrounded their table. Students couldn't believe a mere commoner had both the princess and Lyra around him like close companions.
Lyra's eyes narrowed slightly, and she gave a pointed look toward Arisella.
Arisella smiled innocently. "Oh Lyra, you're not going to let me keep him all to myself, are you?"
Lyra's jaw dropped. "W-What do you mean by keep!? He's not some cake you just get to eat because you called dibs!"
Arisella giggled behind her hand. "Relax. I only meant his attention. Unless... you're jealous?"
Lyra puffed her cheeks, glanced at Zen, then muttered under her breath, "Maybe a little..."
Zen just kept eating silently, hiding his face behind his teacup.
After their breakfast, everyone moved on to their classes. The morning was typical—basic magical theories, energy channels, and mana flow. Zen absorbed what he could, even though none of it truly applied to him.
But on his way to Swordsmanship class, Zen noticed a strange glow from another training ground. He stopped, drawn toward it. Inside, students surrounded glowing orbs, meditating, and attempting to call forth ethereal companions. Spirit Magic class.
Zen entered, curious. The atmosphere shifted immediately.
"Why's he here?" one student scoffed.
"Does he even have magic?"
"Must be lost…" another whispered, laughing.
A poised female professor with silver hair raised her hand. "Silence." She turned toward Zen, eyeing him critically. "This is a Spirit Magic class. Not a place for commoners to fantasize. It is the most difficult art to master."
Zen responded calmly, "I'm in Aetherion Class. I can join any class I wish to attend."
She eyed the badge on his uniform and gave a small nod. "Very well. Do as you please."
Though Zen couldn't cast magic, he sat through the session, listening to the nature of spirit contracts, soul affinity, and the bonding ritual. Something about it intrigued him—the elegance, the depth, the mystery of spirits.
That night, under the full moon, Zen wandered to a secluded grove beyond the academy walls. The place was dense with towering old trees and eerie silence. Students often avoided it, even during the day, but Zen felt drawn to it.
There, he practiced his sword until sweat dripped from his brow. Then he sat beneath a low-hanging willow, picked up a stick, and closed his eyes.
He breathed slowly.
In. Out.
His mind quieted.
He focused on the idea of calling a spirit. There was no mana. No magical pulse. But he imagined it anyway. Imagined a glowing silhouette rising before him. Reaching out. Existing.
Nothing came.
Zen opened his eyes. The grove was still. Silent. Yet, for a moment, he felt... peaceful.
Even though he failed, there was calm in the attempt.
And so, Zen made it his nightly routine. After classes, after training, he returned to that grove. He practiced his sword, then sat under the moon, closing his eyes and imagining a spirit appearing before him. No anger. No desperation. Just quiet hope, and focus.
---
Nightly Rituals: Zen's visits to the secluded grove became his private ritual. He trained with the blade, tested his body's limits, and when he was too tired to stand, he sat beneath the stars, eyes closed, imagining what it felt like to summon a spirit. Though no spirit answered his call, his mind found peace in the silence. A peace he hadn't known since the day he lost his family.
He never told Lyra or anyone about this place. It was his alone. His retreat.
And in that quiet, a bond was slowly being formed—not with a spirit, but with himself.
The spiritless summoner... was becoming something else entirely.