Half a month later, the group arrived at the famed Zelato Harbor. Their ranks had swelled with Bingham, a chatterbox apprentice selected from thousands in previous cities. The boy's incessant prattling had become Grimnir's personal purgatory.

  It began during the Tambrosen trials. When Arovoze declared Bingham's qualification, the lad erupted into hysterical cheers, shattering the solemn atmosphere. Grimnir—standing nearest—yanked him into line. That momentary act of mercy now condemned him to eternal earache.

  "Psst! Snowy's got a birthmark on her left cheek," Bingham stage-whispered. "Saw it when she bathed! You're the twenty-seventh to know—keep it secret!"

  Grimnir massaged his temples. Seven days of this. Seven days of "secrets" involving strangers he'd never meet.

  "Who's Snowy?" he groaned.

  Bingham gawked. "Snowy? Batalla's mistress! Told you yesterday!"

  Grimnir bit back inquiries about Batalla's identity. Better feign understanding than trigger another monologue.

  Zelato Harbor sprawled before them—one of Eastlake Island's. Hundreds of vessels crowded the port, including hundred-meter-long galleons.

  "First time here?" Laffey breathed, stretching her lithe frame toward the sea breeze. The motion accentuated her curves, drawing audible gulps from Wade and Jilom. Even Grimnir's pulse quickened.

  "Laffey! My Aphrodite!" Bingham suddenly bellowed, dropping to one knee. "Let me drown in your—"

  Vines erupted from cobblestones, mummifying the fool in chlorophyll bonds. Gasps rippled through apprentices and dockworkers alike.

  Laffey smirked, adjusting her ear cuff—one of two arcane artifacts gifted by her father. Grimnir recognized the maneuver from Meditative Principles: channeling mana through external conduits.

  "Meditation still eludes you?" she taunted, noting his awe.

  The others stared, equal parts terrified and intrigued. Only Yokliana seemed genuinely alarmed, hands clasped over her mouth. Bingham's muffled pleas faded into portside clamor as Arovoze approached, unimpressed.

  "Enough theatrics. Embarkation begins at dusk."

  The sorcerer's gaze lingered on Laffey's earring before turning seaward. Grimnir followed his sightline to the obsidian-hulled schooner awaiting them—its sails emblazoned with Lilith's sigil.

  The vines dissipated at Laffey's flick. The procession resumed until thirteen knights thundered into view, their leader bowing from horseback. "Archmage Arovoze, Duke Zelato awaits your pleasure."

  The sorcerer nodded curtly, leading his seven apprentices past gawking merchants.

  That evening's banquet surpassed prior feasts. Grimnir now navigated noble etiquette with practiced ease, though the Duke's preferred dish—rare beef slices glistening with blood, paired with caviar and wasabi—churned his stomach.

  "You seem troubled," the Duke remarked to Arovoze, noting his absentminded stirring of mushroom-laced broth.

  "The mainland grows unstable. Disappearances..." The sorcerer trailed off, eyeing chattering apprentices. "How many will survive the century?"

  The Duke laughed, gesturing with his steak knife. "You still chase ascension. I merely enjoy retirement."

  Later, Grimnir was escorted to a seaside manor. Salt-tinged wind whipped through his window overlooking an 80-meter cliff. Shivering, he latched the pane and lit candles.

  "Lilith's Cottage..." he murmured, unrolling Meditative Principles. Seven days remained before their academy-bound galleon departed—seven days to master mana conversion.

  Laffey's warnings of wizardry's cutthroat reality gnawed at him. Yet the diagrams pulsed with promise. By candlelight, Grimnir traced neural pathways, determined to kindle his spark before the voyage.

  The sea roared below, its rhythm syncing with his breathing. Somewhere beyond that horizon, equations awaited solving.

  "Channel mental force to awaken mana?" Grimnir muttered, pacing his seaside chamber. According to Meditative Principles, mana was inert energy awaiting purpose—harmless until shaped by arcane formulae.

  Five days in Zelato Harbor had yielded his first spark of mana. Yet without spellcraft, this achievement felt hollow.

  A fist pounded his door. "Grimnir! You rotting?"

  Bingham's nasal whine preceded his lanky frame. The chatterbox apprentice barged in, eyes alight. "Ever heard of the Gloomwells?"

  Grimnir massaged his temples. "Should I have?"

  "Better virgin ears!" Bingham cackled, dragging him into moonlit streets. "Twenty gold marks buys communion with otherworlders. Guaranteed to change your life!"

  Zelato's night market thrummed with foreign sailors and spice vendors. They wound past taverns reeking of kraken ink ale to a gated estate. Ancient oaks loomed over stone wells dotting the grounds.

  "One peep to Arovoze and we're worm-food," Bingham warned, exchanging coins with a crone missing three teeth. She handed them smooth obsidian pebbles—Gloomstones.

  Seventy-odd wells pockmarked the lawn. Half were occupied by giggling nobles holding stones aloft. Grimnir approached an isolated well, its water mirroring the crescent moon.

  The Gloomstone plinked into darkness. Ripples birthed a blurred silhouette in the depths—an androgynous figure cocking its head.

  "Greetings, seeker." The voice bubbled like tar. "What knowledge would you barter?"

  The figure in the well tilted its horned head, silver-gray spiral glinting. Though humanoid, its gender remained ambiguous—a female creature by Earth standards, but alien logic defied such labels. Its voice bypassed Grimnir's ears, vibrating directly in his skull.

  "Human of the Arcane Realm?"

  Grimnir blinked. "Who are you?"

  The being frowned, water rippling. "Primitive! Interworld communion requires soul resonance. Do your sorcerers not teach initiates basic etheric protocols?"

  Grimnir flushed. Soul manipulation lay far beyond his apprentice-level grasp.

  "Simpler then," the Starspawn relented. "Nod or shake. First: Are you native to the Arcane Realm?"

  He nodded.

  "Second: Are you a ranked sorcerer?"

  A vigorous headshake.

  The celestial sighed. "Wasted coordinates. To think I bartered three lunar cycles for this..." Its image dissolved, leaving Grimnir clutching the well's mossy rim.

  Across the garden, Bingham emerged grinning. "Met a frost nymph! Told her I'm a full Archmage!"

  "She understood you?" Grimnir blurted.

  "Obviously! Wait—yours didn't?" Bingham's smirk faltered.

  Back at the manor, Grimnir replayed the encounter. That momentary connection—however flawed—ignited burning questions. Were the hallucinated horrors during his aptitude test also interdimensional entities? What did this imply about his supposed "talent"?

  The Starspawn's mention of "Arcane Realm conquests" haunted him. If wizards subjugated entire worlds, what hope had a gutter-born apprentice? Yet beneath the dread simmered exhilaration. The well's dark waters had offered more than cheap thrills—they'd cracked open reality's fourth wall.

  Somewhere beyond the harbor's lantern-lit masts, Lilith's galleon awaited. Its holds would carry not just apprentices, but the weight of infinite possibilities—and perils no Gloomstone could reveal.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Zelato docks teemed with cheering crowds. Grimnir leaned over the galleon's rail, waving alongside his six companions. Only Laffey stood apart, her delicate features shadowed by melancholy.

  Duke Zelato, Arovoze, and their replacement chaperon—the one-eyed sorcerer Dila—observed the departure. Dila's weathered face bore no mystical veils, his patched gray robes fluttering as he hovered slightly above the dock, compensating for his diminutive stature.

  "Twenty-three apprentices this year," Dila remarked, accepting Arovoze's arcane salute. "Decent haul."

  The crimson-eyed frog on Arovoze's shoulder croaked. Dila tossed it a glowing stone swallowed mid-air by the amphibian's tongue. "Still peddling these mutated familiars?"

  "Better than your taste in protégés." Arovoze nodded toward the ship. "Two with innate talents this time. Fifteen-plus Mental Force."

  The Duke rotated his ruby signet ring. "Let them bask in glory. Perhaps nostalgia will lure one back as a full sorcerer."

  Dila snorted. "One in ten survives the first decade. These whelps?" His gaze swept the apprentices. "Bait for leviathans."

  Three hourglass turns later, supplies loaded, Dila floated aboard. His voice crackled across the deck: "Lilith's Cottage forbids lethal duels. Violators rot for seven days on the mainmast before shark feedings."

  The threat landed with glacial finality. Grimnir noted twenty-three other apprentices emerging from belowdecks—rivals from distant isles.

  As the galleon unfurled obsidian sails, Zelato's cheers faded. Salt spray stung Grimnir's cheeks. Somewhere beyond the horizon, equations awaited—and predators wearing human skin.

  "Rule two: Don't bother me unless corpses pile up," Dila barked before vanishing into his cabin.

  The legendary knight Balon distributed room tokens with a predator's grin. "Top deck's mine. Break anything valuable, and you'll wish the sharks got you first."

  Laffey scowled at her lower-deck assignment. Grimnir claimed mid-tier quarters without complaint—a marked improvement over his hovel days. The siblings Yorkris and Yokliana lucked into the penthouse suites, their triumph short-lived.

  "Vacate my sister's room!" Yorkris roared on the fifth deck, fists clenched at a hulking intruder.

  The trespasser leered at Yokliana. "Make me, country bumpkin. Or share her—"

  Yorkris' punch ignited a brawl. Grimnir and Bingham intervened as the stranger summoned reinforcements—three bruisers with knuckle-dusters.

  "Three against one?" Yorkris spat blood, circling. "Fair odds."

  Balon materialized like stormclouds. "Mast-bound or walk the plank. Choose."

  The threat dispersed the mob. Yet as Grimnir retreated to his mildew-scented cabin, he noted the true peril: twenty-three apprentices crammed in floating tinderbox, egos primed to combust. Somewhere beyond the porthole, the sea stretched infinite—and infinitely patient.

  A shovel-sized hand clamped Yorkris' shoulder. The boy barely registered the motion before his body slammed into the bulkhead, wood splintering under the impact.

  "Brother!" Yokliana screamed, rushing to the dazed apprentice.

  The assailant loomed two meters tall—a hulking behemoth with a malformed jawline. "Weak," Andre rumbled, flexing fingers thicker than sausages.

  Grimnir's mind reeled. Is this mountain of flesh really an apprentice?

  Bai, the instigator with the blackened eye, smirked. "Teach these bumpkins the rules, Andre!"

  "Rules?" The monolithic figure cracked his knuckles. "Strong eat. Weak kneel."

  A weaselly man named Ratty slithered from the crowd. "Or share the girl—"

  Yorkris lunged, only to be hurled across the corridor by Andre's casual backhand. The impact left him wheezing, blood speckling his lips.

  "Boring," Andre grunted. "No killing. Master's orders."

  Bai advanced on Yokliana. "Then let's—"

  "Stop!" Wade squeaked from the sidelines. "I'll report this to Balon!"

  Bai's fist silenced him. Cheers erupted from voyeuristic onlookers peering through cabin doors.

  Grimnir's group huddled like cornered prey. Andre's shadow swallowed the corridor's lamplight.

  So this is the Arcane Continent's first lesson, Grimnir realized. Might eclipses right. Savagery wears a human face.

  Yokliana's whimpers echoed as Bai reached for her. Yorkris struggled upright, defiance burning through the pain. Somewhere above deck, waves crashed—indifferent to the violence below.

  As despair gripped the group, a delighted voice rang out behind Grimnir.

  "Haha, 'the strong claim territory'? Why didn't anyone tell me this rule sooner? Perfect! Big guy, I'm taking your room. Here's my lower-deck token in exchange."

  A bronze plaque clanged against Andre's bald skull before thudding to the floor. The hulking apprentice and his weaselly accomplice froze in disbelief.

  Is this lunatic suicidal?

  All eyes turned to Laffey.

  Grimnir's group brightened instantly. They'd forgotten her trump card!

  True to expectations, Laffey murmured an incantation and pointed at Andre. Emerald vines erupted from the floorboards, cocooning the giant in chlorophyll bonds. He crashed to the planks, muffled grunts escaping his gagged mouth.

  "Bastard, die!" Yorkris seized the moment, punching Bai's remaining good eye. As the bully staggered, a knee to the gut finished him.

  "Mercy! I was forced!" Ratty squealed, sweat drenching his rodent-like face. The sudden reversal—courtesy of Laffey's apparent spellcasting—left him trembling.

  Grimnir's gutter-bred uppercut dropped the sniveling man. Silence engulfed the corridor.

  The onlookers gaped at Laffey. These backwater initiates, ignorant of arcane artifacts, mistook her ear cuff's power for innate mastery. To them, she'd conjured primal magic through sheer will—a terrifying display of sorcerous might.

  "Finally! A proper cabin without sailor stench." Laffey slammed her new door, leaving the humbled mob to scatter.

  "Finally! A proper cabin without sharing space with sweaty sailors. Thanks for the upgrade, meathead!" Laffey slammed her new door with a victorious thud, leaving the corridor in stunned silence.

  The spectators retreated, hatches clicking shut. Grimnir glanced at the defeated trio sprawled on the floorboards. "Done here," he muttered to Yorkris and Yokliana.

  Yorkris nodded stiffly, shame flushing his neck. His sister dabbed tearful eyes. "Thank you... all of you. Even Wade."

  The battered nobleman limped away, nursing his blackened eye. Bingham's laughter boomed: "We of Tambrosen never abandon comrades! A two-meter brute? Pah! We'd face abyssal demons for—"

  Grimnir strode off.

  "Wait! That punch!" Bingham trailed him, undeterred. "Pure artistry! If Snowy saw it, she'd ditch Batalla in a heartbeat!"

  Grimnir's cabin welcomed him with mildew and moth-eaten bedding. A swaybacked cot, splintered desk, and a half-melted candle completed the Spartan decor.

  Grimnir pushed open his cabin door. A musty odor assaulted him. He waved a hand to disperse the stale air, grateful no squatter had claimed his third-tier berth—though any interloper would’ve faced his street-honed fists.

  The cramped room offered only a sagging cot, splintered desk, and candle stub. Grimnir lit the wick, its flicker illuminating Meditative Principles and Olfactory Grafting.

  Half a month’s study had yielded his first wisp of mana—a feeble 2-3 units by the manual’s scale. Yet Meditative Principles suggested his 12-point Mental Force could theoretically channel 120 mana units.

  "Need a scrying orb," Grimnir muttered. The absence of this basic diagnostic tool frustrated him.

  Olfactory Grafting proved more opaque. Diagrams of nasal reconstruction mingled with molecular charts of 17,852 odors. He memorized scent profiles obsessively—future leverage at Lilith’s Cottage.

  Ten days blurred. The galleon swallowed initiates from scattered isles until hundreds crowded belowdecks. When the cry "Brigands ahoy!" erupted, apprentices stampeded above—not in fear, but thrill.

  Grimnir joined the mob. Three warped caravels closed in, their kraken-sigil sails reeking of corrupted magic.

  Dila materialized on the forecastle. "Observe, whelps. This is why we wield equations, not cutlasses."

  His staff blazed. The sea itself twisted in response.

  The Lilith's Cottage Academy galleon cut through twilight waves. Two hundred initiates crowded the rails, jeering at the approaching pirate vessel three hundred meters astern.

  "Look! Real buccaneers!"

  "Why aren't they attacking? Cowards!"

  The apprentices' mockery echoed across the water. Even the crew remained nonchalant—fifty hardened knights supplemented by Balon, the legendary quartermaster. Against such might, ordinary pirates stood no chance.

  Grimnir squinted at the brigand ship. Seventy meters of barnacled hull swarmed with ragged men—one-armed cutthroats and eyeless archers brandishing grappling hooks. Their exclusion of women stemmed from superstition: females invited sea demons to feast on crews.

  Aboard the pirate caravel, the captain's collapsible telescope trembled in his claw hand. Through the lens swarmed not terrified merchants, but rowdy adolescents. His weathered face drained of color.

  "Hard about! NOW!" he barked, shoving the helmsman aside. The wheel spun under his frantic grip.

  "B-but why—"

  "Move!"

  The caravel veered sharply, bewildered pirates tumbling across decks.

  Meanwhile, a hush fell over the academy galleon. Two adolescents emerged from Dila's sanctum—a boy and girl no older than the initiates. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

  "Since when do sorcerers keep cabin brats?"

  "Look at their robes! Academy sigils!"

  The girl adjusted her silver-threaded cuffs, scanning the gawking mob with detached curiosity. The boy yawned, twirling a lock of hair that shifted colors like oil on water.

  Dila's voice boomed from the crow's nest: "Initiation protocol commences at dawn. Dismissed."

  The hatchlings retreated, leaving unanswered questions churning in their wake.

  "Who are these brats? How dare they skip the mildew cabins and fish stew?"

  "Witch spawn, probably."

  "Quiet! Master Dila himself said they're once-in-a-century talents!"

  The initiates' whispers crescendoed. The newcomers ignored the scrutiny—the girl with golden locks and saccharine smile masking disdain, the boy engrossed in caressing his albino rat.

  "Brother Yunli, the pirates fled! How tedious." The girl's honeyed voice carried across the deck as sea winds tousled her hair.

  The boy didn't glance up. "Told you. No sane brigand raids sorcerers. This stench is unbearable. Let's retreat."

  Their exit sparked outrage.

  "Who do they think they are?"

  "Probably noble brats sucking up to Dila!"

  Grimnir's jaw tightened. Like others, he seethed at their privilege—fresh cabins versus moldy berths, immunity to the rancid stew. Yet none dared confront the sorcerer.

  Three days later, knuckles rapped Grimnir's door. Expecting Bingham's prattle, he instead found Yorkris and Yokliana—the siblings bearing uneasy gratitude and a proposition.

  Grimnir retrieved his hoarded fruit nectar—preserved through aristocratic sealing methods—to serve the siblings. Yorkris' former arrogance had dissolved into somber maturity since the brawl, while Yokliana mustered uncharacteristic resolve.

  "Brother Grimnir," she stammered, cheeks flushing. "We... we brought gifts."

  From her tunic, she produced two thumb-sized stones shimmering with inner luminescence. "Arcane stones. Currency among sorcerers. We... used some over the years. These remain."

  Grimnir's breath hitched. Wade's bribery during the aptitude test suddenly made sense—those "pebbles" had been sorcery coins all along.

  Yorkris lingered at the door. "My past conduct... was regrettable." The admission cost him visible effort before he vanished down the corridor.

  Alone again, Grimnir examined the stones. Their surfaces pulsed faintly, veins of mana threading through quartz matrices. According to Meditative Principles, even a single arcane stone could purchase basic spell components. Two represented staggering wealth for an apprentice.

  He traced the glyph-like fractures. Some resembled Olfactory Grafting's nasal cavity schematics. Was there a connection between sorcerous currency and biothaumaturgical modifications?

  The answer, like the stones' inner glow, danced beyond reach. Grimnir pocketed them, resolve hardening. At Lilith's Cottage, knowledge would be his lever—and these stones, the fulcrum.