Malcolm woke to the unfamiliar sound of a gong resonating through the dormitory halls. For a moment, he stared at the bamboo-beamed ceiling overhead, disoriented. This wasn't his room in Redoak with its familiar creaky floorboards and the scent of his mother's herb garden drifting through the window. The memories crashed back—the ship journey, the foreign shores, the Academy, and the crushing reality that he was alone in a strange land.

  He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His roommate's bed was already empty, perfectly made with hospital corners that put Malcolm's rumpled sheets to shame. He'd barely exchanged ten words with the guy—Tsuji-something—who had regarded Malcolm with a mixture of curiosity and caution before retreating behind a book on flame theory.

  "Great start to making friends," Malcolm muttered to himself, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The dormitory room was sparse but elegant—two narrow beds, two writing desks, and a shared wardrobe. His few possessions lay in his travel pack, which he'd been too exhausted to unpack the previous night.

  The gong sounded again, more insistent this time.

  "Crap! What time is it?" Malcolm fumbled for his father's pocket watch. Five-thirty? Who got up at five-thirty? He threw on his Academy-issued robe, a simple navy garment that fell awkwardly on his frame, too short at the ankles and too wide at the shoulders. Evidently, they didn't get many Redoak physiques at Enshin.

  He stumbled into the hallway to find students moving in orderly lines toward what he assumed was the meditation hall. Mira had explained that dawn meditation was mandatory—something about aligning with natural energy cycles that Malcolm had only half-processed through his jet lag.

  "Sinclair-san!" Mira's voice cut through the quiet murmur of the corridor. She stood ramrod straight in her second-year robes, somehow looking completely put-together despite the ungodly hour. "You are late."

  "Yeah, sorry about that. Where I'm from, the sun has to actually be up before it counts as morning," Malcolm replied, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

  "The academy bell rang fifteen minutes ago," she said, ignoring his attempt at humor. "Dawn meditation begins precisely at five-thirty, regardless of the sun's position."

  "My bad. I'm still adjusting to—"

  "We do not have time for explanations. Follow me."

  Malcolm trailed after her through the winding corridors, past ornate screens and scrolls bearing calligraphy he couldn't read. Students they passed gave him curious looks, a few whispering behind their hands.

  "Is there something on my face?" he asked Mira.

  "They are noting your tardiness and improper dress," she replied without turning.

  Malcolm glanced down at his hastily knotted belt. "What? Is there like an official way to tie a bathrobe now?"

  "It is an academic robe, not a bathrobe," Mira corrected with a hint of offense. "And yes, there is a proper method. Your hair should also be secured back for meditation."

  "No one told me that," Malcolm muttered, trying to smooth his bedhead with his fingers. "Great. Another thing to mess up."

  "After meditation, I will provide proper orientation on academy protocols," Mira continued. "Today is significant. You will undergo formal soul space assessment with Master Seiran before beginning your academic placement."

  The memory of yesterday's revelation about soul spaces sent a jolt of excitement through Malcolm. "So I'll get to learn more about this pocket dimension thing? Like how to actually use it? Can I start putting stuff in there today? Even though mine's small?"

  "Please lower your voice," Mira said, glancing around at the students who had turned to stare. "Soul space cultivation is not a 'pocket dimension thing.' It is the foundational discipline of our alchemical tradition."

  "Sorry, I'm just excited. This is all new to me."

  "Excitement without discipline is merely distraction," she replied, in what sounded like a quoted proverb. Her expression softened almost imperceptibly. "However, your enthusiasm for learning is... not unappreciated."

  They approached a large circular building with a domed roof. Inside, students knelt in concentric circles on round meditation cushions, their eyes closed, their breathing synchronized in a way that seemed almost eerie to Malcolm. The air smelled of sandalwood incense and something else—a subtle energy that made the fine hairs on his arms stand up.

  At the center of the room stood an elderly man in elaborate robes, his eyes closed, a small flame dancing above his outstretched palm. The flame wasn't orange like normal fire, but a deep, vibrant blue that cast otherworldly shadows across the meditation hall.

  "Flamecaller Hirayama leads the first-year meditation," Mira whispered. "You will join the outer circle today as an observer."

  "What's with the blue fire?" Malcolm whispered back.

  "That is a manifestation of his alchemist's flame. The color indicates exceptional purity and control. Now, please remain silent."

  Malcolm followed Mira to the outermost circle, where she indicated he should sit on an empty cushion. He lowered himself awkwardly, trying to mimic the perfect posture of the other students. His knees immediately began to protest.

  For the next hour—the longest hour of Malcolm's life—he struggled to stay still. His legs went numb, his back ached, and his mind raced with a thousand questions about soul spaces and alchemist's flames. How did they work? What was the connection between meditation and those personal pocket dimensions? Could he really store actual physical objects inside himself somehow?

  He kept sneaking glances at the other students, trying to figure out what they were actually doing. They looked so peaceful, so focused, while his own thoughts scattered like leaves in a windstorm. Occasionally, he'd notice a faint glow emanating from some of the students' hands or foreheads—tiny flickers of flame in various colors.

  By the time the session ended with another gong, Malcolm was fidgeting so badly that the student next to him had edged his cushion several inches away.

  "That was... intense," Malcolm said as he struggled to stand on pins-and-needles legs.

  "That was merely a basic cultivation session," Mira replied. "Did you manage to access your flame at all?"

  "My what now? I thought we were just supposed to sit there."

  Mira's expression confirmed yet another failure on his part. "The purpose of dawn meditation is to cultivate and strengthen your alchemist's flame. Did you not notice the other students manifesting theirs?"

  "Those little fire things people had? I thought that was just for the advanced students."

  "Even first-years should be able to manifest a basic flame after consistent practice." She studied him with renewed concern. "This suggests your magical foundation is even less developed than we feared."

  "Look, we don't do this kind of magic in Redoak," Malcolm said defensively. "We're more practical. Herbal remedies, mechanical enchantments, that sort of thing."

  "Understood. This simply means we have more ground to cover before your assessment." Mira gestured toward the dining hall. "You should eat quickly. Master Seiran expects you in one hour."

  The dining hall buzzed with quiet conversation and the delicate clink of wooden utensils against ceramic bowls. Steam rose from serving vessels containing not just the rice porridge Malcolm had spooned up, but also pickled vegetables in vibrant purples and greens, small grilled fish with their skin crisped to perfection, and what looked like rolled omelets cut into precise rectangles.

  Malcolm stared longingly at a student two tables over enjoying what appeared to be some kind of soup. None of it resembled the hearty breakfasts he was used to in Redoak—crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs loaded with cheese, thick slices of toast slathered with butter and berry preserves. Everything here seemed so... measured. So precise. Where were the spices? The salt? Did these people ever indulge in anything with actual flavor?

  "Hey, I'm Malcolm," he said brightly, reaching for a serving of what looked like rice porridge.

  The students exchanged glances. Finally, a slight boy with wire-rimmed glasses spoke up. "You are using the upperclassman serving spoon for first-year porridge."

  "Oh. Sorry about that," Malcolm said, putting down the offending utensil. "Is there, like, a handbook or something for all these rules?"

  "They are not rules, they are traditions," the boy corrected. "I am Jirou Endo, first-year alchemist specialization." He bowed slightly from his seated position.

  "Nice to meet you, Jirou," Malcolm replied, automatically extending his hand before remembering and awkwardly converting the gesture into a small bow.

  "You address me incorrectly," Jirou said, though without apparent malice. "It would be Endo-san to a fellow student."

  "Right, family name first. Sorry, En—"

  "And your porridge is overflowing," another student added.

  Malcolm looked down to see his bowl indeed brimming over. He'd been so focused on the conversation that he'd kept ladling without looking. Several students were now staring at him, their expressions ranging from amusement to horror.

  "Man, I can't catch a break," he muttered, trying to scoop some back.

  "You are the Western scholarship student," said a girl sitting across from him. It wasn't a question. "I am Kazuki Mei. My father serves on the Academy Board of Governors."

  "Cool," Malcolm replied, not sure what else to say to that self-important introduction.

  "It is unprecedented for a student with no formal magical training to be admitted to Enshin," she continued. "Many qualified Kagetsu applicants were denied this year."

  The subtext was clear: You don't belong here.

  "Yeah, well, diplomatic reparations and all that," Malcolm said with forced lightness. "Trust me, I'd rather have my parents back than a spot at your fancy school, but here we are."

  That silenced the table completely. Mei had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.

  "I heard your soul space is damaged," Jirou said after an awkward pause, apparently trying to change the subject.

  "Damaged? No, it's just small. And has some kind of weird pool thing in it," Malcolm replied through a mouthful of porridge, which turned out to be surprisingly good—savory with hints of ginger and scallion. "Master Seiran just did my assessment, and apparently I'm so far behind that I need 'remedial flame cultivation.'" He made air quotes with his fingers.

  "That is... unfortunate," Jirou said carefully.

  "Yeah, and the best part? I've been assigned to 'resource management training,' which is just fancy Kagetsu-speak for garbage duty." Malcolm's voice rose slightly with indignation. "Four hours every afternoon picking up trash. How is that supposed to help me learn alchemy?"

  Several students at nearby tables turned to look, their expressions ranging from shock to disapproval. Mei's eyes widened as she glanced around nervously.

  "Sinclair-san," she hissed, "it is inappropriate to criticize academy assignments in public."

  "Why? It's straight-up unfair," Malcolm continued, too frustrated to filter himself. "If I need so much catch-up work, why waste half my day on garbage detail instead of, I don't know, actually teaching me stuff?"

  Jirou cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Resource management is considered a valuable practical experience. Many significant alchemists began their training with similar assignments."

  "Yeah, I'm sure all the best alchemists spent their first year taking out the trash," Malcolm muttered, stabbing at his porridge. "Where I'm from, if you need to learn something, they actually teach it to you instead of making you do busywork."

  "Where you're from clearly has different educational values," Mei said stiffly. "Perhaps that explains your... current limitations."

  Malcolm opened his mouth for a heated retort, but Jirou intervened.

  "The material understanding gained through resource management can be valuable," he said quickly. "You will become familiar with ingredients in various states, observe reactions between discarded components, and develop material intuition."

  "If you say so," Malcolm sighed, his anger deflating slightly. "I just thought I'd be, you know, mixing potions and learning spells, not collecting garbage."

  "The path to mastery begins with humble steps," said another student Malcolm hadn't met yet. "My father was assigned to three months of ingredient sorting before he was allowed to light his first cultivation fire."

  "That's the thing about Kagetsu," Malcolm said, shaking his head. "Everything seems to take forever. In Redoak, we'd just get on with it, you know?"

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Malcolm bit back a retort about stagnation and innovation. He needed to make allies, not enemies. "I've got a lot to learn," he said instead. "Maybe one of you could show me the ropes sometime? You know, explain all these traditions so I stop embarrassing myself every five minutes."

  The request seemed to catch them off guard. Cultural exchange wasn't apparently a common concept.

  "I suppose that would be... educational," Jirou said after a moment. "A comparative study of Western and Eastern approaches could have academic merit."

  It wasn't exactly friendship, but it was something. Malcolm counted it as his first minor victory.

  An hour later, Malcolm stood in front of Master Seiran's office once more, his stomach knotted with anticipation. Mira had escorted him there before leaving for her own classes, reminding him repeatedly about proper protocol when addressing a master. Bow first, speak only when spoken to, refer to him as "Master Seiran" and never interrupt.

  He knocked softly on the door.

  "Enter," called the now-familiar voice.

  Malcolm stepped inside and bowed, trying to hit the exact angle Mira had demonstrated.

  "Ah, Sinclair-san," Master Seiran said, looking up from a thick tome. "Prompt, at least. That is a starting point."

  "Thank you for seeing me, Master Seiran," Malcolm replied, staying in his bow until the master nodded for him to straighten.

  "I understand your first dawn meditation was... unproductive," the master said, closing his book. "Flamecaller Hirayama reported that you exhibited no flame manifestation whatsoever."

  "I didn't really know what I was supposed to be doing," Malcolm admitted. "Where I'm from, we don't sit around trying to create fire with our minds."

  Master Seiran's eyebrow twitched slightly. "The alchemist's flame is not 'fire created with the mind.' It is the externalization of one's inner spiritual energy, refined through disciplined cultivation."

  "Right, that's what I meant," Malcolm backpedaled.

  "Hmm," the master replied, clearly unconvinced. "Today's assessment will determine your current capabilities and establish a baseline for your development. Given your... unique background, we must adjust our expectations accordingly."

  The way he said "unique" made it sound like "deficient," but Malcolm kept his expression neutral.

  "We will begin with soul space examination," Master Seiran continued, standing and moving to the now-familiar circular design on the floor. "Yesterday's brief assessment suggested significant anomalies that require further investigation."

  Malcolm took his place in the circle, experiencing a flutter of excitement despite his nervousness. He was about to learn more about this incredible soul space thing that had him bouncing off the walls yesterday.

  "Close your eyes and center yourself," Master Seiran instructed. "Visualize your internal space as we did yesterday."

  Malcolm closed his eyes, trying to recapture the mental image from before. This time, it came more easily—the small, confined bubble extending around him, barely a meter in diameter. And at his feet, that strange, obsidian-black pool that had confused Master Seiran.

  "I see it," Malcolm said. "The space and the weird pool thing."

  "Focus on the boundaries of the space," Master Seiran instructed. "Can you sense their composition? Are they solid, permeable, fixed, or flexible?"

  Malcolm concentrated. The boundaries seemed solid, like invisible walls, but when he mentally "pushed" against them, they gave slightly before springing back.

  "They're solid but kind of... elastic?" he attempted to explain. "Like they could expand but are held in their current position."

  "Interesting. That suggests potential for growth, which is promising. Now, examine this 'pool' you described. What are its dimensions? Does it appear to have any function?"

  Malcolm directed his attention to the small depression. In the darkness of his soul space, the pool was even darker, consuming what little ambient light existed there.

  "It's about the size of a large cereal bowl," he described. "Maybe six inches across and three inches deep? It's filled with this black liquid that's so dark it's like it swallows light. I can't tell what it does—it's just sitting there."

  "Attempt to interact with it," Master Seiran directed. "But proceed with caution. Unknown features within one's soul space can be unpredictable."

  Malcolm mentally reached toward the pool. Before his fingers could touch the surface, he felt a strange pulling sensation, as if the pool were exerting its own gravity.

  "Whoa," he said aloud. "It's like it wants to pull things in. Kind of like a... a drain, maybe?"

  "A drain?" Master Seiran sounded troubled. "Remove your attention from it immediately."

  Malcolm withdrew his mental focus from the pool, opening his eyes to find Master Seiran watching him with an intensity that was unnerving.

  "What's wrong? Is that bad?"

  The master stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Not necessarily bad, but highly unusual. In traditional soul space theory, there is no concept of a 'drain' or removal mechanism. Soul spaces are meant for storage and cultivation, not disposal."

  "Could it be because I'm from Redoak? Maybe our soul spaces develop differently?"

  "Unlikely. Soul space mechanics are consistent across all known cultures, though manifestations vary with training. This suggests something unique to your individual spiritual composition." Master Seiran made a note on a scroll. "We will proceed with caution. For now, let us attempt flame assessment."

  He retrieved a small metal dish from his desk and placed it between them on the floor. Inside was what looked like a pile of fine silver dust.

  "This is essence powder, refined from moonflower pollen," he explained. "It responds to even the weakest alchemist's flame. Place your hand above it and attempt to focus your internal energy."

  "How exactly do I do that?" Malcolm asked.

  "Center your awareness in your lower abdomen. Envision a small spark of heat, like an ember. Through your breath, feed that ember until it grows. Direct the resulting energy up through your chest, along your arm, and focus it in your palm."

  It sounded like mystical nonsense to Malcolm, but he dutifully held his hand over the dish and tried to imagine an ember in his gut. Nothing happened.

  "I'm not feeling anything," he admitted after a minute of intense concentration.

  "Adjust your posture. Back straight, shoulders relaxed, elbow slightly bent," Master Seiran instructed.

  Malcolm complied, straining so hard to feel something—anything—that he was developing a headache.

  "This is pointless," he finally said, dropping his hand. "I don't think I have whatever this flame thing is."

  Master Seiran's expression remained impassive. "Everyone possesses the potential for an alchemist's flame. Some simply require more foundational work than others. You cannot build a palace on sand, Sinclair-san."

  "So I'm basically starting from scratch."

  "Indeed. However, your soul space, while unusual, does exist. That confirms your basic magical aptitude." The master returned to his desk and began writing. "I am assigning you to remedial flame cultivation sessions in addition to your regular first-year curriculum. You will also require specialized soul space exploration under supervision, given the anomalous feature you've described."

  Malcolm's heart sank. Remedial sessions sounded like being held back a grade. "Will I still be able to take normal classes with the other first-years?"

  "You will attend theoretical lectures, yes. Practical sessions will be modified until your flame manifests. Otherwise, you would simply be wasting materials."

  "So I'm going to be even more of an outsider than I already am," Malcolm said, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice. "Great."

  Master Seiran looked up, his expression softening slightly. "Consider your position, Sinclair-san. You have been granted an unprecedented opportunity to study at Enshin despite having no formal magical training. Did you expect to begin at the same level as students who have been cultivating their abilities since childhood?"

  "No, I guess not," Malcolm admitted. "It's just... I didn't realize how far behind I'd be."

  "The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step," Master Seiran said. "Your first step is simply earlier on the path than your peers."

  It was clearly meant to be encouraging, but it only highlighted how much ground he had to cover.

  "What about this resource management training you mentioned yesterday?" Malcolm asked. "Will I still be doing that?"

  "Indeed. It will begin this afternoon. Report to Elder Mozu at the western gate after the midday meal. He will introduce you to your duties." Master Seiran handed him a scroll tied with a blue ribbon. "This is your modified schedule. Kazai-san will assist you in navigating between your assigned locations for the first week."

  Malcolm accepted the scroll, resisting the urge to open it immediately. "Thank you, Master Seiran. I'll work hard to catch up."

  "See that you do. Enshin Academy does not lower its standards, even for diplomatic students. You will be evaluated by the same criteria as all first-years at the end of the term."

  "Understood."

  As Malcolm turned to leave, Master Seiran added, "One moment, Sinclair-san. I am curious—what did you expect to study at Enshin?"

  The question caught Malcolm off guard. "Honestly? I thought I'd be learning how to mix potions and stuff. You know, putting ingredients together to make medicines or magical items. The kind of practical alchemy we do back home."

  "Ah," Master Seiran's eyes lit with understanding. "You speak of product alchemy—the mixing of ingredients to create useful items." He made a dismissive gesture. "That is merely the surface of true alchemical practice. At Enshin, we teach the deeper arts—how to extract the very essence of materials, how to transmute their fundamental properties, how to refine their spiritual energy. Your 'potions and stuff,'" he emphasized Malcolm's casual phrasing with the barest hint of disdain, "are merely the most basic applications of these principles."

  "So I'll still learn to make things eventually?"

  "If you develop the necessary foundations, yes. But the path will be longer than you anticipated."

  Malcolm nodded, trying not to show his frustration. "I've got time. Four years, right?"

  "Indeed. Though some students require decades to master the higher disciplines."

  "Decades? But the scholarship is only for four years!"

  "Four years will provide a solid foundation," Master Seiran said. "What you build upon it afterward is your choice. Now, you should proceed to your theoretical lecture. Professor Liko does not tolerate tardiness."

  Malcolm bowed again and left the office, his mind reeling. Decades of study? Rudimentary foundations? This was way more complicated than he'd bargained for. Back in Redoak, alchemy was straightforward—combine the right herbs in the right proportions, add a bit of heat, and you had a potion. No meditation, no internal flames, no mysterious soul spaces.

  But then again, Redoak alchemists couldn't store things in pocket dimensions or create flames with their minds. Maybe there was something to this Eastern approach after all.

  He unrolled the schedule as he walked, trying to decipher the unfamiliar characters. Someone—probably Mira—had helpfully added translations in small, precise handwriting.

  8:00-9:30: Theoretical Foundations of Alchemical Practice (Lecture Hall 3) 10:00-11:30: Remedial Flame Cultivation (Meditation Pavilion 2) 12:00-13:00: Midday Meal 13:30-17:00: Resource Management Training (Western Complex) 18:00-19:30: Supervised Soul Space Exploration (Master Seiran's Office) 20:00: Evening Meal 21:30: Curfew

  Malcolm groaned. The schedule was packed from dawn to dusk, with barely any free time.

  "Resource Management Training" took up his entire afternoon. Garbage duty was going to eat a huge chunk of his day.

  "When am I supposed to sleep?" he muttered, scanning the rigid timetable again. No wonder everyone here looked so serious all the time—they were probably exhausted.

  He navigated the winding corridors of the academy, using the crude map Mira had sketched for him. Enshin was a maze of interconnected buildings, gardens, and courtyards, with little obvious organization to someone unfamiliar with its layout.

  He arrived at Lecture Hall 3 just as the chime sounded, slipping into the back row of the tiered seating. The hall was impressive—high ceilings supported by ornate wooden beams, walls lined with scrolls and diagrams of alchemical processes. Nearly a hundred students sat in perfect rows, their posture identical, texts open on small individual desks.

  At the front, a tall, thin woman in elaborate green robes stood before a large demonstration table. Professor Liko, presumably. Her hair was pulled back so severely that it seemed to be stretching her face, giving her a perpetually surprised expression.

  "Today we begin our exploration of essential theory," she announced without preamble. "The five elements, their correspondences, interactions, and transmutations form the foundation of all alchemical practice. Open your texts to the introduction."

  Malcolm realized with a sinking feeling that he had no text. He glanced at the student next to him—a serious-looking girl with her hair in a tight bun—who was already immersed in a leather-bound volume covered in complex diagrams.

  "Excuse me," he whispered. "Could I maybe share your book? I don't have—"

  "Silence in the hall," Professor Liko snapped without looking up. "Questions and discussions are reserved for designated periods."

  Malcolm froze. Great. Another rule he didn't know.

  "The elemental theory established by Grandmaster Toshiro in the Third Dynasty remains our guiding framework," the professor continued. "Earth, Water, Fire, Air, and Void exist not merely as physical phenomena but as essential principles underlying all material existence."

  Malcolm tried to follow without a text, scribbling notes on a blank scroll he'd been provided. The lecture was fascinating but dense, full of unfamiliar terminology and references to historical figures he'd never heard of. Professor Liko moved at a brisk pace, clearly assuming a base of knowledge Malcolm didn't possess.

  By the end of the session, his head was spinning. There was so much to learn, so many concepts he'd never even considered. In Redoak, they worked with plants based on simple properties—this herb reduces fever, that root eases pain. Here, they analyzed the elemental essence of each ingredient, its spiritual resonances, its place in a complex theoretical framework that seemed almost mathematical in its precision.

  As students filed out for the break before their next session, Malcolm approached the professor's desk.

  "Excuse me, Professor Liko? I'm Malcolm Sinclair, the new student from Redoak. I don't have a textbook yet, and I was wondering—"

  "Ah, yes. The diplomatic admission." She studied him with clinical detachment. "Master Seiran informed me of your... unique situation."

  Why did everyone make "unique" sound like an insult?

  "I was hoping I could get a copy of the text, or maybe borrow one until—"

  "The academy library has reference copies. You may consult them during your free periods." She gathered her materials efficiently. "I suggest you spend considerable time doing so. You have significant gaps to fill if you hope to follow these lectures meaningfully."

  "Right. Thanks." Malcolm tried not to show his frustration. Free periods? What free periods? His schedule was already packed.

  "One recommendation, Sinclair-san," Professor Liko added. "The text 'Elementary Principles for Novice Practitioners' would be more appropriate for your current level. It is designed for children, but it would provide the basic vocabulary you clearly lack."

  With that parting shot, she swept out of the room, leaving Malcolm standing alone at the demonstration table.

  "Children's books. Awesome," he muttered, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

  As he turned to leave, he noticed the serious-looking girl from the adjacent seat lingering nearby, apparently having overheard the exchange.

  "The library reference copies cannot be removed from the premises," she said matter-of-factly. "And they are always in use during free periods."

  "Of course they are," Malcolm sighed. "I don't suppose you've got any suggestions?"

  She hesitated, then reached into her bag and withdrew a slim volume bound in faded blue leather. "This is my copy of 'Elementary Principles.' I used it when I was nine, but I kept it for reference. You may borrow it, provided you return it in the same condition."

  Malcolm stared at her in surprise. "Seriously? That's... really nice of you. Thanks."

  "It is a practical solution. Your ignorance affects the learning environment for others." Despite the harsh words, her tone wasn't unkind. "I am Nomura Harue."

  "Malcolm Sinclair. Nice to meet you, Nomura-san."

  She nodded once, then paused. "The book has margin notes. My observations from when I was younger." Her voice softened slightly. "Some of them might help explain concepts from a beginner's perspective."

  "That's perfect, actually. Even better than a clean copy."

  "You should proceed to your next session. Timeliness is valued at Enshin."

  "Right. Thanks again for the book."

  As she walked away, Malcolm felt a small spark of hope. Maybe he wasn't completely alone in this strange new world after all. Between Jirou's academic interest, Harue's practical assistance, and Mira's grudging guidance, he might just find enough support to navigate this bewildering maze of traditions and expectations.

  And somewhere in this process, he'd figure out what that strange black pool in his soul space was all about. Because despite all the challenges and frustrations, one thing was becoming clear—there was magic here unlike anything he'd known in Redoak. Real, powerful, transformative magic.

  And Malcolm was determined to master it, remedial classes or not.