Returning to the Academy as second years was supposed to be a glorious event.

  You know, grand parade, banners unfurling, teachers begging for autographs—maybe even a dramatic slow cp as we walked in through the main gates.

  What we actually got?

  A sleepy clerk handing us a new schedule, a half-eaten muffin on her desk, and a note at the bottom that said:

  “Squad 7. Congratutions on surviving. Don’t do it again.”

  I’m not sure if that was encouragement or a death threat.

  Back to Books, Bdes, and Beast-TrainingThe Academy hadn’t changed. Same smell of old scrolls and enchanted dust. Same long halls that looked more like a cathedral than a school. And the same soul-crushing schedule pinned on our dorm room door the moment we returned.

  But we had changed.

  And that was the problem.

  Because now, we weren’t just students. We were the students.

  The ones who “accidentally” cleared the 10th floor of a death dungeon.

  The ones who went toe-to-toe with student council members and lived to mock them.

  The ones under surveilnce by a Princess with a crown agenda and far too much free time.

  So while the others were probably easing back into magical theory and potion csses, we had Cassandra Vaelwyn stationed outside our dorm like a librarian with a dagger.

  “You are students now,” she said the morning after our return. “Behave accordingly.”

  And then she just… sat in the hallway. Reading. Watching. Breathing ominously.

  No pressure.

  Lucien’s Brain vs. Pokémon MechanicsAnyway, between dodging Cassandra’s judgmental stares and surviving advanced spell theory, I had one important goal:

  Figure out what the hell Ember had become.

  She wasn’t just a summon anymore.

  She was… evolving. Literally. I mean, she sprouted wings. Her fme output increased. She’d started to form basic tactics in combat without me barking commands. And when I’d offhandedly shouted “Fmethrower!” in the st fight—she did it.

  Like, an actual torrent of fire.

  It hit me st night, while Ember curled up on my bed, her coils lightly smoldering the sheets:

  She’s reacting to my thoughts.

  Not commands. Visualizations.

  If I think “use Fire Spin” and imagine the anime-style spiral of fme—I swear she reads it. Like telepathic battle charades.

  So I tested it.

  Day one back, I skipped lunch, dragged Ember to the rear courtyard training zone, and stood in the middle like a deranged magician yelling anime attacks at the sky.

  “Ember! Use Fire Bst!”

  She tilted her head.

  I focused. Closed my eyes. Imagined the five-pronged fme sigil, just like I’d seen in that one show back home.

  She hissed.

  And then boom—she roared, wings fring wide, and a massive star-shaped inferno exploded forward, smming into the dummy target with enough force to unch it into the training shed.

  Somewhere, a bell rang. Or maybe that was my ears.

  “…Okay,” I muttered, grinning. “We’re doing this.”

  Combo Moves and Fme ChoreographyI spent the next three days building combos. Not because I needed them. But because they looked cool.

  “Bzing Spiral Strike” – Ember would coil midair while unching continuous fme shots, creating a vortex of fme that disoriented enemies.

  “Inferno Lance” – She’d compress her fme into a concentrated spear and ram it at target velocity.

  “Dragon Rain” – She flew overhead, unching multiple small fireballs in an arc. Useless against strong foes. Very fshy. 10/10 style points.

  Each move wasn’t magic—it was coordination. Visualization. Ember adapting her fire to my thoughts.

  We weren’t mage and summon anymore.

  We were partners.

  Or at least, I hoped we were. I tried asking her once.

  “Are we partners?”

  She blinked once. Then flicked her tail against my face.

  So... emotionally reserved dragon-snake. Got it.

  Meanwhile, in Swords and SanityRielle and Eli, however, were going through a full mental reset.

  After being humbled by the student council, they realized “wild swinging” and “I go hard” weren’t exactly considered advanced sword techniques.

  So they’d found a new instructor—Instructor Fennil, a retired Rank 2 swordmaster who taught with the loving compassion of a brick wall.

  “Your stance is trash,” he told Rielle on day one.

  “Thanks,” she said, grinning.

  “And your footwork is suicidal,” he added to Eli.

  “I know,” she said proudly.

  He sighed like a man about to lose years off his life. “We’re going to start with how to stand.”

  They trained every day. Footwork. Timing. Grip. Bance. Even things like breathing and pressure management.

  At night, I’d find them lying on the floor, moaning in pain.

  “Lucien…” Eli groaned. “If I die, give my sword to someone hotter.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Rielle, you good?”

  She was doing pushups in the dark.

  “…I’m gonna gut Endor.”

  Good talk.

  Gram’s Ongoing Mad ScienceGram, meanwhile, was still high on potion fumes.

  His room looked like a crime scene crossed with an alchemist rave. Vials everywhere. Some glowing. Some bubbling. Some quietly whispering to themselves. (Still not sure if that’s magical or mental breakdown.)

  “I’ve developed five new potions!” he announced at breakfast, smming a tray down.

  “Oh no,” I said.

  “One for stamina. One for reflexes. One that makes you temporarily bilingual in dragonic runes.”

  “What?”

  “Also this one turns your sweat fmmable. Not sure why yet.”

  We test them. Usually. Carefully. Sometimes not.

  I still have the burn scars from Potion #12: “Gram’s Spicy Energy Shot.”

  “Side effects?” I’d asked.

  “Intense arousal and fire breath.”

  “Both?”

  “Yes.”

  Pass.

  The Watchful EyeAll the while, Cassandra watched.

  She’d show up at training, writing in that notebook of hers.

  Lucien: “Recklessly experimenting with summon.”

  Rielle: “Trained with sword until she bled.”

  Eli: “Might be enjoying pain too much.”

  Gram: “Still not dead. Unfortunate.”

  She didn’t speak often, but when she did, it was like an execution bell.

  “Lucien. Princess wants to know how far Ember can evolve.”

  “No idea. Ask Nintendo.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  Sometimes, Sylvaria herself showed up. Not to interfere. Just to watch. From a balcony. With wine.

  Because nothing says royalty like spying on your glorified students like you're running a fantasy reality show.

  Almost Normal... AlmostDespite it all—the chaos, the trauma, the potions—we found a rhythm again.

  Mornings were for training.

  Afternoons for csses.

  Evenings for potion burns, summon strategy, and compining about sword drills.

  We were trying. Honestly. To just be students.

  But we weren’t.

  Not anymore.

  We were Squad 7.

  Cursed, chaotic, accidentally elite.

  And as Cassandra reminded me one evening, just before she disappeared into the dark again:

  “You’ve come far. But do not forget—this is only the beginning.”

  I looked down at Ember, who’d curled up on my desk like a cat made of va.

  “I know,” I muttered. “And that’s what worries me.”