The first morning of the new semester was still pitch-dark when a loud *thump-thump-thump* on my door yanked me from a sweet dream. I was curled up in bed, hugging a pillow.

"Mistflower? Are you awake? Can I come in?" Her voice drifted through the door.

Groggy, I rubbed my blurry eyes. The old wall clock I’d brought from home read just before 6:30.

"I’m up," I mumbled, waving a hand toward the door. It swung open automatically. Mistflower stood there, fully dressed in her uniform, her curvy figure accentuated by the fabric. Behind her, dense wings glowed with soft Holy Light, flooding my unlit room with radiance.

Well, sleep was impossible now. I smoothed my messy hair back and straightened the rumpled towel blanket, glaring up at her.

"You’d better have a damn good reason for waking me this early." Honestly, the academy bed was surprisingly comfy, and the magically regulated temperature rivaled home. I’d worried I wouldn’t sleep well at all.

"Sorry! I was too excited to sleep. Today’s our first real class! I woke at five... and only came when I thought you’d be getting ready too." She blushed, fidgeting.

"Fine. Go wait in your room. I’ll change and find you." She quietly shut the door, plunging the room back into dimness. Only then did I crawl out of bed—completely naked.

Ever since I’d grown fond of the feel of wings against my skin—and after my own skin became overly sensitive—I’d started sleeping bare. Thank goodness I’d kept the towel blanket on; I’d nearly opened the door like this in my daze.

The room had its own bathroom. I twisted the shower knob, and rain-like water poured over me from the overhead head, instantly clearing my head. A large bathtub sat nearby—I loved soaking in hot water before bed or after workouts—but mornings called for quick showers.

I combed my wet hair while studying my reflection in the mirror. The early embarrassment over this body had faded; now I could admire it with detached appreciation. Still, it was *too* beautiful. Staring too long sparked dangerous thoughts. Even with its modest curves, this divine craftsmanship was flawless—another minute and I’d risk getting aroused.

I pulled on the shirt, wrapped the short skirt around my waist, then tugged on the black sweater. The uniform’s backless design meant every button fastened behind me—a hassle that took ages. Earlier, I’d noticed Mistflower wearing over-the-knee black stockings, leaving that tempting thigh gap. I preferred ankle socks. Besides, I didn’t have her killer legs.

Her door wasn’t locked. I pushed it open. Her room looked untouched since move-in day—just basic furniture. Mine already overflowed with personal items and decorations from home.

"Ready to go?" Our "classroom" was more like a grand hall: tiered seats encircled a central podium, fitting hundreds. Though class started in half an hour, many students as eager as Mistflower had arrived early, chatting in clusters. Too bad their excitement would fizzle once lessons began.

First period? Boring religious history. Taught by a rigid old man, no less. Not everyone found it dull—most Divine Arts students had memorized scriptures and deity quotes since childhood. Rehashing it held zero appeal.

Except for Mistflower beside me. She scribbled notes furiously, utterly absorbed. Bored, I peeked at her textbook. She’d underlined nearly every line, crammed margins with annotations. But complex theological terms flew over her head. The deity’s cryptic quotes, ambiguous commentaries, and faction disputes—all transliterated from regional dialects—left her frantically scribbling nonsense.

"Stop. You’ll never learn like this." I couldn’t watch anymore.

"Don’t distract me! I can’t hear properly!" Rarely flustered, she snapped—clearly serious about this.

"Memorizing what you don’t understand is useless. Put the pen down. Listen. I’ll take notes *and* explain later." She hesitated, then obeyed.

I sacrificed precious break time giving her a two-hour crash course. She knew nothing. I started from absolute basics.

Next up: Practical Divine Arts. My hopes weren’t high—her learning pace that day had been glacial.

Predictably, after the teacher’s lecture on fundamentals, her eyes spun in circles. Thank goodness practice followed. We paired up.

"First—where’s your scepter? It channels Divine Arts. Higher-grade ones simplify casting, boost success rates, amplify power. Like a mage’s staff. Bishop Corlmo gave you one, right? Show it." I slammed my own scepter down dramatically. Mine was a premium model from home: all-white metal, taller than me, capped with a rare crystal orb. Eastern monks could wield it as a staff. Mistflower produced a similar one.

"Tilt the scepter slightly forward. Good. Other hand outstretched—focus on the dummy ahead. Now chant the incantation. Stop! Wrong words. Watch me."

I tilted my scepter, extended my palm, and murmured. Light gathered in my hand. A Holy Light Bullet shot out, slamming into the dummy’s chest. It toppled over, chest scorched black.

This basic Holy Light Bullet—perfect for beginners—packed far more punch than the one I’d used chasing Young Master Luo, thanks to the scepter’s boost.

Mistflower struggled. Wrong chants. Awkward stances. When she finally cast it, the Holy Light Bullet either veered off-target or fizzled mid-air. I corrected her posture repeatedly, hands brushing her delicate frame. Exhausting. She only hit the dummy minutes before class ended.

Shockingly, many classmates hadn’t landed a single shot. The teacher praised anyone who’d hit the target on their first try. *Guess I’m a good teacher. From now on, call me Teacher Lefur.*

By day’s end, Mistflower hung on my every word.