Chapter 4: Academia Upper School ②

The room was bigger than expected.

East Wing, third floor, Room 302. I unlocked it and stepped inside. A single room with the bare minimum: a bed by the window, a desk and chair along the wall, a narrow closet. A modest bookshelf, a small refrigerator. Sparse, but enough.

I opened the window. Spring air drifted in. The courtyard was right below; I could make out part of the training grounds farther back.

“…So this is home.”

I set my bags down and looked around.

Back in Lower School, we’d shared a four-person room. The group shifted a few times, but by the end it had settled—Luna, Nephi, Rize, and me. People would probably be jealous if I mentioned that now. At the time, being the only guy in a room with three girls felt a little awkward.

But we got along. That part was real. We’d stay up past lights-out just talking, and the dorm supervisor would yell at us.

Those days felt far away.

I shook off the nostalgia before it could take hold. No time for that. New life, new start. Unpack first.

I hadn’t brought much, but it was still enough to fill the space a little. Clothes, daily items, study materials—I worked through it steadily, pens into the desk drawer, textbooks lined up on the shelf, toiletries in place. Bit by bit, the room started to look lived in.

I sat on the edge of the bed and took a breath.

The sun was going down. Orange light filtered through the window and spread across the white walls.

Classes start tomorrow. These past three years, I’d pushed myself—finding ways to squeeze every drop out of the 1% of mana I had left. But Academia’s curriculum is built around real combat. The bar was going to be higher.

Could I keep up? The thought slid in before I could stop it.

I’d have to. There was a promise to keep.

I reached for my bag to keep unpacking—and felt paper.

Three envelopes, buried at the bottom. I’d meant to pack them carefully, but they’d sunk. A little creased, but intact.

I sat back down on the bed and opened the first one.

The handwriting was loose, fast, and full of energy.

“Zero,

How are you? I’ve been mission after mission, barely any time to write—sorry about that.

But I haven’t forgotten that promise, from that day.

I’m looking forward to seeing you at the Upper School. You’d better show up.

…There’s more I want to say, but I can’t get the words out on paper. I’ll say it to your face when I see you.

Wait for me.

Luna”

One corner of the letter was smudged. Tears, maybe. Or it had gotten wet somewhere in the mail.

I opened the second envelope. The handwriting was small, unsteady in places.

“Dear Zero,

I’m finally writing. Sorry it took so long…

Missions have been nonstop, and every day I’m exhausted… but when I think about you, I can keep going somehow.

I’m really looking forward to seeing you again…

I can’t sleep without you there. A body pillow doesn’t even come close… is that weird to say?

…I miss you.

I really miss you.

Nephi”

The shakiness in the letters said everything her words didn’t quite manage.

I opened the third. The handwriting was neat, precise—but if you looked closely, there were places she’d written over, started again.

“Dear Zero,

I hope you’re well. I am fine.

Missions have kept me from writing as often as I’d like. I’m sorry for that.

I look forward to our reunion.

…There is much more I want to say, but I’m not sure how to say it.

Only this: I have not forgotten the promise we made. Not for a single day.

Rize”

Short. But the last line was pressed harder into the page than anything else she’d written.

I set all three down and let out a slow breath.

Being at the same school, we’d run into each other before long. That was inevitable.

And when we did—if they said out loud what they’d written here—that small hope was still sitting somewhere in my chest.

But the cold part of my brain kept talking.

Maybe this was just kindness. Something you write to someone who got hurt and had to step back. Maybe it was pity.

I’d seen them earlier. They were already Upper School aces—names people said with weight. The ground they were standing on was different from mine.

I told myself not to expect too much. Folded the letters carefully back into their envelopes and tucked them into the desk drawer.

Then I reached into the bag to check I hadn’t left anything behind.

Something hard at the very bottom.

I pulled it out: a saber in its scabbard.

I lifted it with both hands. The weight settled in—familiar, solid. Three years of daily practice, and it still felt right.

I drew it. The blade caught the last of the evening light and threw it back.

Nothing special about the material—standard Demonite, the same as any other. But three years of care and use had put an edge on it that the Lower School version of me never could have managed. The hilt had been rewrapped with fresh leather; you could see the ghost of older layers beneath it—proof of how many times I’d worn through them, how many hours I’d put in.

I gripped the handle in my right hand and raised it.

The stance was nothing like what I’d used three years ago.

Back then, everything ran on raw mana. Magiacraft output, pure and overwhelming—that was my style. The sword was just a channel for it.

After losing 99% of my mana, that stopped being an option.

So I learned the sword itself.

How to move without mana behind it. How to chain muscles together, shift weight, and control breathing. How to work around a prosthetic arm. Thousands upon thousands of repetitions, every day, until the motions stopped being something I thought about and just became what my body did.

I also learned to stretch that last 1% as far as it could go. What I used to burn through carelessly, I now measure to the drop. Not overwhelming force against everything—precise force against the one point that mattered. That was the style I’d spent three years building.

I swung.

A clean sound cut through the quiet room.

The arc was tight. Nothing wasted. Calling it muscle memory wasn’t enough for what it was—three years had gone down to the bone.

The follow-through made my left arm creak faintly.

That day, fighting an Angelus-type and putting everything I had into killing it—that was what it cost me. Ninety-nine percent of my Magiatransistors. My left arm. My left eye. My hair went white.

I don’t regret it. If I hadn’t fought, Luna and the others would have died. That was the right call.

I brought the saber up into a center guard and exhaled slowly.

I had done what I could. The blade was as sharp as I could make it. The body was ready. The 1% of mana I had left—I’d pushed my understanding of it as far as it would go.

And still. 1% is 1%.

No amount of technique changes the total mana in this body. One hundredth of what it was. That’s just a fact.

So I didn’t fool myself. I wasn’t strong. I wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.

What I did have was a wider range of ways to fight as a weak person. Compared to three years ago, it is much wider.

That much, at least, was true.

I slid the saber back into its scabbard and propped it against the side of the bed.

It wasn’t going in the closet. Tomorrow, same as every day. Same as the last three years.

Outside, the sun had finished setting. Night was coming in.

Tomorrow, a new life started.

I took a deep breath and dropped back onto the bed.