The rain tapered off, like silver threads melting into dusk.
Jasmine’s voice still trembled with tears, yet joy flickered. “Is it really from my father?”
“Of course, miss.” Lance bowed like a butler, hand inviting. “Mr. Layne prepared it with care.”
Jasmine’s smile bloomed like a morning flower.
Then her willow brows knit, a shadow crossing spring water.
“But my birthday isn’t today.”
The air went awkward, like a drumbeat cut short.
But Fulin already had a counter, quiet as rain on bamboo.
“From Mubay City to here is mountains and rivers away,” Lance said, putting on airs. “Please forgive the delay.”
Jasmine, earnest and simple, got tricked in a heartbeat, like a sparrow chasing a red string.
She blushed like peach blossom and thanked him. “Sorry, Lance, I kept blaming you. You brought my father’s blessing. Thank you for all you’ve done.”
Apprentices watched, envy buzzing like bees around honey.
Jasmine’s hands trembled as she took the gift box.
She set it down, lifted the lid like drawing back a veil.
The instant she saw inside—
“Eek!”
Shame spiked to the rafters; she squeaked, grabbed the box, eyes squeezed shut, and smashed it down on Lance’s head.
The cardboard punched through; it ringed his neck like a dog collar.
The magical girl wand popped up, then dropped and stood on his head like a candle on a cake.
What a show— a carnival of chaos, classmates laughing till their sides ached, yet adrift like leaves in a whirl.
Jasmine wanted to vanish.
She dove headfirst into a stack of books like a burrowing rabbit.
The Steam Maiden’s warm scent threaded from the page seams.
Her murmur floated out, wistful as mist. “Stupid dad… don’t you know I’m already fifteen…”
Fifteen— a girl’s spring turning.
Jasmine was no longer that “oops-ouch” magical girl who bonked people.
The awkwardness lingered like damp cloth.
Lance removed the collar and smoothed his clothes, like pressing creases from silk.
He offered the wand, respectful. “Miss, flashy shape aside, this is a Treasure-tier focus.”
Treasure-tier was a term of art: any tool set with three magic stones.
It meant swift, steady casting, like wind through pines.
Stones were dear.
Three stones meant at least twelve gold spellcoins— no less than 840,000.
The apprentices got the picture; envy, jealousy, and spite stirred like storm clouds.
Yet Jasmine was drowning in her own cringe.
Beneath her pure, earnest surface, she longed for the magical girl’s path.
Layne had said, “If you dream it, chase it.”
You could say she enrolled because of that dream.
On day one she introduced herself: “I’m Jasmine, and I’m going to be a magical girl!”
She didn’t truly hate her father.
“Stupid father…” was just her pout, a passing cloud over sun.
Fulin felt stuck, a knot in silk.
In past lives, girls were always hard to coax.
But she couldn’t slight Layne’s kindness.
She decided— the wand must end up in Jasmine’s hands.
Lance ground his teeth and tossed his punk persona aside, to soothe Jasmine’s mood.
He swung that high-embarrassment wand like the Sirius Sword, shouting slogans, playing at knighthood.
“There’s only one reason you fail—”
“Because Grandpa told me—”
“Faith is the real magic!”
“Let magic put an end to your sins!”
The apprentices stared, stunned.
They hadn’t expected it— this rascal could pull off grandeur, moonlight on steel.
Noise tugged at Jasmine.
She lifted her head from the book pile.
Seeing Lance toss his image for her, shame softened into warmth.
Her cheeks reddened like ripe cherries; her eyes shimmered and lingered on him.
Lance stepped up to her.
He dropped to one knee and held out the wand. “Miss, will you accept this blessing?”
Her face wore a blush like rouge.
Head bowed, voice warm. “Thank you…”
The mood turned like a confession scene, sweet-sour as lemon in the air.
The class watched their goddess seem claimed; their hearts drifted and ached.
The teaching mage had arrived long ago.
Out of professional respect, he watched and sipped coffee.
He overdid it by accident— “Burp—”
After a loud burp, he said, “Class, can we start?”
His voice boomed with transmission magic, clear as a bell.
The students snapped from love-sick fog— if romance was gone, at least learning remained.
Jasmine tucked the wand away and apologized.
“I’m sorry. As a discipline officer, I failed the rules…”
“Alright, to class,” the mage said.
Everyone returned to seats and listened in earnest.
The morning held three long periods, each eighty minutes.
The first two were theory.
Battle-Magic Class One was special— each apprentice already had everyday spells matching their mana.
So theory didn’t teach spells, but complex use:
Use Levitation to make someone slip.
Use Lubrication to shake a blade from a hand.
Use Warming to make a poison flower shed pollen.
And so on.
None were attack spells.
But once applied, the effects hit as hard or harder than a strike.
Simply put, Battle Magic theory taught why mages are not to be provoked— because they excel at murder by design.
In real fights, trick-kill is fancy footwork; that’s why it stays theory.
Only by grasping the logic of killing can a mage wield attack spells alive and well.
The bell rang.
The lively mage cut off like clockwork, grabbed his briefcase, and rushed to the next class.
The apprentices were left hungry for more.
In the break they debated spell problems, voices darting like swallows.
Jasmine and Yuna joined in.
Only Lance was out of tune; he kept watching the flower sea, eyes wandering like a kite.
Fulin’s mind drifted too.
Memories whispered: I wanted to be a florist, but became a Spy Mage.
You ask why I love flowers? Because they’re romantic.
I don’t understand beauty in things that can vanish by dawn.
Maple City’s beauty no longer needs maple leaves…
When Fulin returned to herself, the second period had ended.
Lance stretched, lazy as a cat. “Boring. I almost dozed off.”
Yuna’s eyes shone, rare starlight. “Master, I found it truly helpful.”
Lance saw the spark— a longing for the world of knowledge.
He turned away, bored, back to the flower sea. “Is learning joyful?”
“Yes, Master.”
Her gaze brimmed with yearning, a river seeking the sea.
“Mm…”
“Yes, Master…”
Her eyes held a hint of apology, like rain on glass.
“No blame. Being serious is good.”
“Thank you for the praise.”
Yuna happily dipped back into study, like a bird to its nest.
Lance kept watching blossoms.
A timely chill wind sent a petal sailing.
Unable to travel farther, it fell before Lance, a little sad, like a letter that never reaches.
“Yuna, if your family hadn’t fallen—”
“Would you study here?”
The tint on her frameless glasses dimmed, dusk on water.
“No…” She sounded like she was erasing herself.
“Why?” Lance asked.
“Father wouldn’t allow it.”
“Mm…”
“Tuition’s expensive~!”
She smiled after, but it was a sad smile, self-comfort, like the petal on the sill.
Lance caught the petal and watched its slender curve, a soft crescent.
“Yuna, if I funded you here…”
“Would you stay?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to stay by my master.”
“I see…”
Lance kept his gaze on the blooms, quiet as moonlight.
Yuna watched him, still as a pond.
For a heartbeat, she smiled— a small, happy dawn.
Jasmine came over. “Hey— you two—”
“Third period’s practical. Be ready!”
“Mm, I will.”
She turned to leave, then swung back. “Yuna, little sis, can you use spells?”
Yuna disliked the title, but shook her head. “Only household spells.”
“Then you must request to audit later!”
“Why?” Lance asked.
Jasmine pressed her lips, words stopping and starting. “Because the practical teacher for Battle Magic is a Celestial Spirit…”
“He’s strict with us—”
“Anyway, Yuna must audit, no exceptions!”
It sounded tangled, hard to explain in one breath.
Yuna shook her head softly. “I want to stay by my master.”
Lance’s voice hardened, a blade in cloth. “This isn’t time to be willful.”
“Your answer?” he pressed.
Yuna nodded, unwilling. “Understood, my master.”
Experimental Wing, B5.
The place was warped by phantasms born of blight.
It looked like a prairie under sunset, red gold over grass.
Battle-Magic Class One would train here.
Someone waited on the prairie.
“So slow! So slow! To wait for you rookies, I wasted one more minute!”
The instructor was an irritable elf man, dressed as a mid-tier battle mage.
The apprentices lined up neat before him, rows like combed fields.
The tidy ranks eased his scowl a shade.
It didn’t change his plan.
He wanted trouble, thunder behind his eyes.
“One minute! Sixty whole seconds!”
“Sixty seconds! What does it mean? The chant time for a Tier-7 elemental— Flame Gale Blast!”
“Enough for a Dark Spirit mage to turn Maple City’s famed flower sea into ash! It even—”
He didn’t finish— “Achoo!! …sigh.”
The sneeze blew out all his fury; two long strings of snot hung from a face already resigned to life.
Clearly, the man suffered from pollen like a curse.
He used Levitation to lift the snot away, light as thistle-down.
He thought that closed the scene.
But the storm came right back, gusts between words.
“In short— Achoo!”
“This— Achoo!”
“A fatal mistake— Achoo!”
“Achoo! Some…one must… take… it… sigh.”
When the sneezes quit, he looked too weak to stand, reed in the wind.
One Body Brace later, the elf battle mage steadied himself, breath still thin.
He cast Revitalization on himself, life flowing back like warm tea.
Once the sneezing stopped for good, he went on. “Anyway, I’ll pick one to shoulder the fault for all eighty-nine of you!”
The words tightened every spine, like strings on a bow.
They knew the comical elf was actually a master in the Mind Arts.
His teaching was uniquely cruel.
He taught by subjecting you to spells, thorn first, rose later.
The elf glanced past the transfer student, Lance— to Yuna at his right.
Like spotting a new toy, he smirked, fox-cunning.
Seeing that crooked smile, the apprentices thought, Not good.
Yuna sensed it too.
She raised her hand to request auditing, palm pale as paper.
But it was too fast— the instant his first mana ripple went out, the spell was done.
It was a Tier-5 Mind Art, the Puppet Spell.
You can’t resist it by will; it presses down like an iron lid.
If his mana towers over yours, it sticks.
Fulin didn’t know this art, nor the elf’s nasty taste.
He loved to break human bonds with betrayal tricks, knives behind silk.
This time was no exception.
He ordered Yuna, “Go kiss the boy behind you.”
The Puppet Spell took hold; Yuna’s eyes unfocused like glass.
But she didn’t obey— because Silent Withering triggered at the next heartbeat.
Like a candle snuffed, she clutched her chest with both hands and collapsed in pain, a flower felled by frost.
