A bright morning sun peeked through the academy windows, but Zen's expression remained far from sunny.
He sat near the edge of the dormitory fountain, deep in thought, as the numbers in his mind haunted him.
20 Gold Coins.
His monthly academy expense.
It wasn't just a number—it was a wall. A huge, golden wall between him and stability.
Where in the world am I supposed to find that kind of money…? he thought, staring at the rippling water like it held all the answers.
Just then, a familiar voice rang from behind.
"So, brooding over coins now?" Lyra appeared, holding two warm honey breads and casually tossed one toward Zen.
He caught it, surprised. "You read minds now?"
"Nope. I just know you," she said, sitting beside him and nibbling on her bread.
Zen looked away, embarrassed. "I'll figure it out somehow…"
Lyra tilted her head. "I could ask my parents, you know. They'd be willing to help. You're my—"
"No," Zen cut her off, shaking his head firmly. "I'm not relying on your family. I'll find something. Maybe I'll sell my blood. Or soul. Or maybe… clean the toilets at the temple."
Lyra narrowed her eyes. "You'd rather clean poop than accept a little help from me?"
"I won't accept it. Don't worry, I'll find something on my own" Zain said.
Lyra puffed her cheeks and pouted. "You're such a dummy. Always trying to act tough."
As they walked down the cobbled path toward the dining hall, Zen's vision suddenly swirled.
His eyes widened as the familiar sensation returned—a dizzy pulse in his head, and then… the black fog.
It twisted in the corners of his vision like coiling shadows, whispering soundlessly.
"Zen?" Lyra grabbed his arm. "What's wrong?"
He blinked and steadied himself, shaking his head. "Nothing. Just… hungry."
"Liar," she muttered under her breath, but didn't press further.
After breakfast, the two split up for their classes.
In Aetherion Class, Zen noticed a few students whispering again.
"Still here? Thought he'd quit already."
Zen ignored them and sat silently. His patience was growing.
Delan Mirros approached again, his arms folded. "Seven days left, Zen. Don't forget our duel."
Zen just nodded. "Looking forward to it."
Afterward, he completed both Swordsmanship and Spirit Theory classes. They weren't easy, but he held up fine.
That afternoon, with classes done, Zen and Lyra walked together under the golden hue of the setting sun.
"You've got a duel coming up. Should I cheer for you or prepare bandages?" Lyra teased.
"I'd appreciate the cheering. Bandages hurt."
She laughed. "You're impossible."
Later that evening, Zen went to his secret place—the overgrown grove hidden behind the south library wall. A quiet wind brushed against the grass.
He unsheathed his sword but paused. Tonight, he didn't want to train in swordsmanship.
He sat cross-legged.
"Let's try Spirit Summoning," he whispered.
Even though he had no mana core, the act gave him peace.
He placed his palm over the symbol on the ground. Closing his eyes, he focused on the calling technique from class.
But something strange happened.
Again—the black fog.
Unlike before, this time it was clearer. Thick, slow-moving, like shadows gliding through a void.
Zen's breath quickened. He stopped summoning and opened his eyes.
"Why do I keep seeing this?"
He tried again. The fog returned.
He touched his chest.
It wasn't pain. It wasn't pressure.
Just… dark.
And not just during summoning. Every time he closed his eyes—whether to sleep, to train, or even to breathe deeply—it was there.
Swirling.
Watching.
"What are you...?" Zen whispered.
But the night offered no answers.
Only fog.