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Chapter 10

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It was the 6th day of the 2nd week of Men-Tenebris.

Professor Wright’s most recent unit had been on dates and times. The netherworld calendar consisted of 13 months, each with 28 days split into four weeks. Men-Tenebris was the twelfth month, followed by Men-Stella. After that was a single day known as the Festival of Light completing the 365-day year.

Understanding this was important. Calling the sixth day of the week Saturday was fine. This translated without issue. However, if Sylvia were instead say ‘it’s early November’ she’d leave her audience confused. Why? Because spirit speech only carried intent. It wasn’t a calculator. It didn’t do math.

Speaking of math. Sylvia started classes on the 1st of Men-Vita, the second month of the year. Which meant she’d been an Academy student for a full ten months. For a thirty-year-old, ten months wasn’t long. But ten months of a new life was enough time to change a lot of things.

For instance, Sylvia was enjoying charm club.

Yes. That wasn’t a mistake. She was enjoying charm club.

“Right! Just like that. Use your ki to keep the essence firm and pound out all ether,” Kyna encouraged, gushing with enthusiasm.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Riley smashed a doughy substance with glee. Puffs of ether escaped every time she struck. A few feet away, Emily giggled at the blonde’s violence.

Of course, Sylvia’s enjoyment had more to do with their current task than a change of attitude. Charm club, as a whole, still sucked balls. Dirty, hairy, disgusting balls.

“You’re shaking the whole room.”

Ingrid huffed in irritation.

The purple haired succubus had a rune stencil in hand. With nimble motions, she drew a sigil in midair. Then, with a swirl of her stencil, she pulled the excess energy out making it shrink to third its size. Finally, Ingrid gently pushed the rune through a magiscope.

With a crackle, the sigil was emblazoned upon a length of metallic, golden tape.

With practiced ease, Ingrid pulled the tape shifting the magiscope one slot to the right.

“Sorry, sorry,” Riley apologized with a loose grin.

The freckled blonde had the presence of mind to ease her ruthless beating.

Further down the table, Sylvia was kneading her own doughy lump of wood essence. First she would press it flat. Then she would chant a simple rune structure three to nine times. It wasn’t a spell. Rather, it was a loose peppering of rune quads and quintets. These runes acted like tiny knives, cutting the nether code that defined the original material.

When her incantations were done, Sylvia rolled the flattened sheet back into a ball, then worked it flat again. The process was a bit like making bread. It was strange to think the pliable, yellow dough Sylvia was pressing had been a lump of wood fifteen minutes ago.

The pink haired faerie floated over to review Sylvia’s performance.

“Excellent, Sylvia!” Kyna cheered happily. “The texture looks right.”

“I was about to move on to transmutation,” Sylvia agreed.

What were they doing?

They were making cloth. Fabric. Textiles. If there was one lesson Sylvia had learned in the last ten months, it was to never assume the netherworld obeyed the laws of the material universe. Converting wood into cloth was alchemy. Very practical alchemy. The Timeless Beryl Wilderness had lots of trees, but no plants suitable for direct textile production.

So it was either ship in the materials from another plane, or transmute wood locally.

And transmutation was cheaper.

“■■, ■■■, ■■”

Sylvia switched her incantation. She was still casting runes, not spells. This time the patterns were selected to bind to the frayed code while adding the nature of fabric. This was transmutation. Directly modifying the nether code of an object. The trickiest part here was minimizing the consumption of mana. The goal was runes, not energy.

Gentle control was the name of the game.

Sylvia found the process relaxing.

“Good job, Emily!” Kyna praised, advancing down the line. “With a bit more practice, you can start with two droms of wood essence.”

“Mmm,” the adorable brunette noised, holding up a square of thick cloth. Emily’s dark green eyes studied the dense fabric. “Do you think we can turn it into a hat? Sylvia loves hats.”

She totally did… not.

Despite not, totally, liking hats, Sylvia peeked in Emily’s direction. Kyna landed on the table, her meter high frame lifted by a pair of pink pumps. The faerie took the material from Emily’s hands, examining it herself.

“Well, the quality is about right,” Kyna said eventually. “Generally speaking, we should age it for a month first. ~Buttt~, making a hat is a fun diversion.”

“Then we should make a newsboy cap!” Emily said excitedly. “A touch of boyishness to play off Sylvia’s femininity. That’ll really bring out her cuteness, don’t you think?”

First, Sylvia had no femininity. Any claim otherwise was a malicious lie. Second, Sylvia was starting to find Emily’s obsession with her looks a little creepy.

…

Ah, who was she kidding? Emily was just too, too cute to be creepy. Also, hats. Hats were the defacto crème de la crème of fashion. They couldn’t be topped. Literally. Their superiority was self-evident by their very nature and could never be refuted. As such, Sylvia had no choice but to begrudgingly accept any hat styled offering.

But only if it looked good on her. She was Baroness Vallenfelt’s apprentice. Standards were a must.

Shoes, on the other hand.

Sylvia’s eyes fell on the monstrosities strapped to her feet. Four centimeters of platform. Eighteen centimeters of heel. The shoes Sylvia wore fit deep within fetish territory. Riley had teasingly called them ‘slutty’. Heather had no humor when she claimed the same.

As for how Sylvia ended up with these absurdities? Charm club, Ingrid, and Esmeralda Vallenfelt.

Riley and Sylvia had, surprisingly, been able to argue their case in front of Ingrid. Alas, the succubus felt the only reason they shouldn’t wear heels in combat was a lack of proper footwork techniques. Kyna had then promptly decided the best solution to that problem was practice. Thus, their month-long theme was extended into three months, Armed Combat excepted.

Which made Emily happy. Mostly because the adorable brunette had, indeed, picked out several cute pairs for Sylvia to wear.

The whole affair would’ve ended there, if Sylvia hadn’t opened her stupid mouth in front of Lady Vallenfelt.

The baroness had far less sympathy than Ingrid. Indeed, Esmeralda saw no reason a lady shouldn’t be properly attired at all times. Especially in combat. As such, Sylvia found herself imposed with a brand-new set of wardrobe restrictions. Ones that would hold until the day she showed ‘appropriate appreciation for her appearance’ – whatever the fuck that meant.

And that mandate made it back to charm club. Thus, Sylvia found herself stuck wearing high heels. ‘High’ by Ingrid’s definition that was.

At least she’d gotten a martial manual from the fallout. The waltz of flowers. A true manifestation level art. Sadly, whatever joy Sylvia had salvaged had been quickly crushed by months of stumbling around like a bimbo in Armed Combat.

“I don’t know, maybe you should try a witch’s hat,” Riley said, interrupting the silver haired girl’s recollection. “Sylvia keeps staring at Professor Fischer’s hat. I think she’s planning to steal it.”

“I am not,” Sylvia asserted. What kind of monster would steal a hat? “But if you do make a witch’s hat it’d have to have a crook. And a wide brim. And just the right amount of floppiness.”

“And there should be an adorable pink ribbon tied around the base,” Emily inserted.

Sylvia gave the brunette a betrayed look. Why did it always have to be cute and girly? This was a witch’s hat. It should be dark, edgy, and mysterious. Bonus points if it doubled as a wizard’s hat.

Emily stuck out her tongue in retort.

Tch. Emily didn’t even deny plotting against her.

Sylvia’s focus returned to the wood essence in hand. Squeezing it flat, she chanted a litany of runes before rolling it up. The physical repetition was exhausting. Because the crust had been stripped, leaving the essence bare, Sylvia was forced to hold the core in place with her ki. This constant cycling wore down her stamina.

At Sylvia’s side, Riley was still pounding her wood essence. Not because she needed to. The ether had long dispersed. Riley, Sylvia knew, hated the alchemical component of the crafting.

Ingrid noticed. “Stop dithering,” she said sharply.

Riley looked sheepish. “Hu-la-fo, hu-la-fo.”

The blonde’s short chant dragged compared to Sylvia’s fast incantations. Sylvia empathized with Riley’s reluctance. Casting hundreds of runes was already a pain when Sylvia threw them out in quartets and triplets. The silver haired witch didn’t envy Riley, who had to cast them one by one.

Thank you blank skill books.

The loss of Sunday reading time had put a dent in Sylvia’s progress, but the creep of her wit and spirit attributes paired with renewed vigor had filled that gap. In the last seven months, Sylvia had scrounged up another four books. The first had been burnt polishing her incantation speed. It didn’t make much of a difference with wind blade, but now she could cast most spells at speed.

After a few minutes of practice, anyway.

The second book was used to learn arithmancy. This didn’t provide Sylvia with any immediate advantage, but it was a necessary expense to build her foundation.

The remaining books Sylvia held in reserve.

There were too many things to learn. Arithmancy could eat another five books, easy. Fast casting deserved at least four. Then there was the Great Codex, with its three-thousands runes. Common magic. Combat magic. Enchantment. Spell theory. Alchemy. The mysteries of nether code. Oh, and multi-elemental magic. The advanced elements. The seventy-two aspects. And a wide swath of advanced spell casting techniques.

And that was just the magical side of things.

Sylvia was ahead of her class by a large margin, but she had too many gaps to compete with the oldest students.

Plop.

A hat draped over Sylvia’s head. The silver haired witch found herself plunged into darkness. She cautiously removed her left hand to adjust the brim. Doughy wood essence wiggled, but Sylvia held it firm with her ki and right arm.

“How is it?” Emily asked.

“A bit big,” Sylvia answered, returning her left hand to her work. She wasn’t skilled enough yet to ignore distractions.

“You did say you wanted it big,” Riley commented.

Sylvia gave the blonde a look. “A big brim,” she explained. “Not a band wide enough to swallow my head.”

“Stop grumbling,” Kyna huffed. “I only had five minutes to shape it.”

Beating her wings, Kyna flew a meter closer. Sylvia felt the brush of the faerie’s physical energy as she expertly tightened the band, so the hat sat neatly on Sylvia’s head.

“Shit,” Riley suddenly cursed.

Sylvia’s eyes shifted. Essence slipped from Riley’s wooden dough. The blonde tried to salvage the damage, using her ki to wrap the essence tight. It didn’t work. Essence continued to melt into ether, pouring through the gaps like smoke from a fried computer.

“~Aahaaa~,” Kyna noised cutely. “It’s spoiled. Too many casts of the Hulafo pattern and not enough Talnami. Nothing you can do. You have to start over from the beginning.”

Riley’s head hung, her bright green eyes unusually dull.

“You can do it,” Emily tried to cheer.

Sylvia took pity on her. “You can have mine. I just finished the transmutation part. All you have to do is spread it thin and let the essence breath ether until a crust is formed.”

The last step, in Sylvia’s opinion, was the worst. Before she could withdraw her ki, the newly formed cloth essence had to stabilize. This took around an hour, if she was lazy. If Sylvia brewed earth and water to form wood, she could cut this time to twelve minutes.

“No. She starts from the beginning,” Ingrid commanded.

“Let them have a little fun, Ingrid,” Kyna returned, hand on her hips.

The red-eyed woman stood, lifting the golden ribbon. Walking across the room, Ingrid sat at a wheel, gently feeding the metal tape into the mouth. The succubus confidently melded her ki into the strip. The wheel spun. With nimble hands, Ingrid stretched the tape into a thin, golden thread.

“A five drom bolt of cloth sells for fifty soli,” Ingrid said, winding the thread around a spindle. “The wood essence to make it costs twenty-five. If you’re skilled, you can sell five hundred bolts a year. Accounting for losses, that’s ten-thousand soli in wages.

“Learn to manufacture clothing or higher grades of cloth and you can double that. Learn to enchant and an income touching one-hundred-thousand isn’t impossible. Charm club isn’t just here to teach you to be charming. The club is here to teach you how to make money.”

Kyna sighed. “Ingrid loves money.”

“She’s just looking out for us,” Emily countered.

Sylvia had to agree with Emily. The faerie’s education was sponsored. She had nothing to worry about. Ingrid, like the rest of them, was learning on debt. Ending up in a brothel wasn’t just a cynical possibility, it was Ingrid’s first life in the netherworld.

Also, anyone who doesn’t love money is sick in the head.

“I know. I know,” Riley groaned, the freckled blonde fished a lump of wood from the crate on the other side of the room and dropped it on the table. “It’s just exhausting.”

“They wouldn’t call it work if it wasn’t,” Sylvia quipped.

The door to the club opened.

Sylvia’s head turned, floppy hat bouncing. At the entryway stood a witch. A senior in navy blue robes and a sapphire dress. The woman had dark red hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“I’m looking for Sylvia Swallows,” she said. With silver eyes, the senior scanned the room.

Sylvia raised a hand. “That would be me.”

Redheaded witch frowned. “You’re a junior.”

“I’m a first year,” Sylvia clarified. “Does it matter?”

The senior gave her a weird look. “I suppose it doesn’t,” the redhead answered with a shrug. “I need you to come with me.”

“Can I have a minute?” Sylvia asked, glancing at her friends.

“Sure.”

The older witch closed the door. Sylvia nodded to Riley.

“Looks like you get to take over after all.”

“It’d be a waste not to,” Ingrid agreed. “But next time, start from the beginning.”

Having received approval, Riley abandoned her lump of wood in favor of Sylvia’s essence. Sylvia’s ki gave way to Riley’s as the blonde claimed control. Hands freed, Sylvia lifted the hat from her head. It still had the grainy yellow color of the wood essence Emily started with.

Emily took the hat with a pout.

“Wheedle one for me while I’m gone,” Sylvia suggested conspiratorially.

“I will,” Emily replied with restored enthusiasm.

“I can hear you,” Kyna groused.

Giving her friends a wave, Sylvia stepped out the door. The senior witch leaned lazily against the wall of the second floor hall. Sylvia felt a stab of envy at the girl’s relaxed demeanor. Charm club’s theme was posture a few months back and Lady Vallenfelt always had a sharp word ready for even the slightest impropriety.

If Sylvia were lax, who knew what atrocity the Academy would inflict? Her shoes were already a source of abominable horror.

“So,” Sylvia began. “What’s this about?”

The redhead straightened up. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Sylvia followed the senior down the stairs and into a room in the west wing.

The room was large and empty. Stone floors with no seats and no desks. Four women milled about, all wearing the same sapphire dress. Sylvia didn’t recognize any of them. First year witches rarely mixed with the senior students. The sole exception was during club hours.

Abigail Wright, however, Sylvia knew. The professor stood to the side of the room. She stepped forward, voice rising as the silver haired witch walked in.

“Alright. Looks like everyone is here,” Professor Wright said. “But before we begin. Let's get some names. Tiffany, Brianna, Faith, Josephine, Piper, and Sylvia.”

The brown haired teacher pointed at each girl in turn. The redhead guide was Piper. The rest of the names, Sylvia strove to hold onto. If she was lucky, she’d remember who was who. All those points put into wit had to be worth something.

Quite a few eyes stopped on her. As the only witch in a green dress, Sylvia was massively out of place.

“We’ll do a meet and greet later,” Professor Wright said. “On to the main topic. Every seven years, just after the Festival of Light, Demon King Vilhelm Codrin hosts the Young Demon’s Tournament.”

Three girls nodded. Ninth years, Sylvia guessed.

“The tournament is an opportunity for talented newcomers. Slaves can be freed. Debts can be erased. Crimes can be forgiven. Those with skill can use the tournament to overturn their fate. Politically speaking, it’s a method the nobles use to separate the wheat from the chaff. The goal is to find demons worth investing in while providing the public with a circus.”

No need for bread. Demons didn’t have to eat.

“The tournament consists of two major divisions,” the brown haired instructor continued. “The minors and the majors. Only demons under the age of ten can participate in the minors, while any demon with less than fifty years can fight in the majors. A tournament for the kids and the adults, if you’d prefer, though in the noble’s eyes we’re all children.”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Abigail grinned. The seniors were not amused. Sylvia rolled her eyes. The baroness was just under two centuries, by netherworld reckoning, and she was the youngest noble in the Timeless Beryl Wilderness.

“As you’ve probably guessed, everyone in this room has been selected for the minors tournament. Since this is a display of the Academy’s prestige, we’ll be providing special lessons for the next two months. Classes are on Sunday. Tutoring will extend for a full three periods.”

In other words, six hours. Basically what Sylvia had been suffering since becoming the dean’s apprentice.

A hand rose. Brianna, a witch with snow-white hair, spoke with a tone that was all business.

“I’m president of the hunter’s club. We delve the Daylight Forest every other Sunday. Is attendance obligatory?”

“No,” Abigail answered simply. “But anyone who skips won’t participate in the tournament. We understand that you’re focused on graduation right now. And we won’t force you if you’re busy. Instead, we’re rewarding participation. Anyone who completes the Sunday course will earn three academic credits. Pass the preliminaries and the Academy will sweeten the deal by taking ten-thousand soli off your debt.”

That set off a wave of murmurs.

As a first year student, debt and graduation were distant things. For senior students, they were front and center. The academy had six periods a week, one of which was dedicated to clubs. Each class granted one academic credit a quarter.

Meaning the max any witch could earn in a year was twenty.

A hedge witch certificate demanded sixty credits. Students could obtain one after three years. Herself excluded, everyone in this room had it in the bag. This was important. With a hedge witch certificate alone a girl could earn enough to pay off her debts.

But that was just the beginning. Six years for a novice witch certificate and nine for a starlight witch certificate. The former would score a student an express ticket to Hell’s middle class. The latter earned respect even outside the Timeless Beryl Wilderness.

All of this sounded simple. It wasn’t.

Credits were lost whenever a student scored a poor on a quarterly test. Even one missing credit, meant one more year to secure the required number. In practice, most students became hedge witches after completing their fourth year. Normal students had a shot at becoming a novice witch after eight.

If they made it that far.

Upon entering their fifth year, juniors became seniors. At this point, attendance was no longer guaranteed. The Academy would decide each year’s enrollment based upon a combination of grades and debt. Debt had a hard ceiling of 400,000 soli, half of which was filled the moment a starlight witch was born. As a year of classes incurred a cost of 25,000 soli, the money would run out quick.

Particularly when the capitalist scumbags were throwing in additional debt to cover lost books, uniforms, unapproved deaths, and so on.

To make it to ninth year, much less tenth, a witch either needed to earn money or consistently score superb on their quarterly tests.

The witches in the room with Sylvia were definitely over achievers. Having a starlight witch certificate meant graduating with honors. And that meant respect. It meant Baroness Vallenfelt might offer the girl a chance to become a retainer, washing away her debt entirely.

To Sylvia’s seniors, those three credits were extremely enticing. It was hard to make through all the years without fucking up. Pretty much everyone scored poor once. The horrible professor, Roisin Owsley, was a teacher at this Academy. Not to mention the unfortunately sods who got iced at the start of Isabella’s tests and tournaments.

As for Sylvia? None of this had anything to do with her. Sylvia’s debt had already been waived, and being the dean’s apprentice was worth more than ten graduation certificates.

But training for a tournament sounded more fun than practicing her etiquette.

Tiffany raised a hand. The girl was tiny, with deep blue hair reaching her waist. “How does the tournament work?”

“The minors consists of two rounds,” Professor Wright explained, holding up a pair of fingers. “A preliminary followed by team survival. Anyone that makes it through the second round of the minors can bypass the major’s preliminary and compete against their seniors directly. But I strongly suggest you don’t. Glenda, though, will probably enjoy turning you into a flambee should you have the guts.

“The preliminary round is simple. You’ll be set against a random opponent and fight a one-on-one battle to the death. Win and you’re eligible. But eligibility doesn’t mean you make it to the next round. For that you have to be selected by a team captain. If you aren’t, you can keep fighting additional rounds to prove your worth. If you win five rounds in the preliminary, you can take a captain’s slot. Should all the slots are filled, you can challenge any existing captain for their spot.”

“What happens if we run into someone we can’t beat?” This time it was Piper who spoke.

“Then you’re out of luck. If you lose, you’re out of the tournament. It doesn’t matter if it’s your first match or your sixth,” Abigail said. “The good news is that you girls only need to win once. Skilled mages are on the top of every captain’s recruitment list.

“A word of advice. Don’t aim for a captain’s slot. We’re too squishy for head-on-head battles. Five fights in a row is too much of a risk. If you want to be captain, fight it out here. Lady Vallenfelt has the right to gift one person the position directly, and she’ll be handing it over to whoever performs best in this course.”

Brianna turned, furious eyes falling on Piper. Piper returned a disdainful look. Sparks were already flying. Sylvia hoped nepotism wasn’t in the cards. The silver haired girl didn’t want to sooth feelings if a more worthy girl was wronged.

“We’ll be brushing up on your dueling skills to help get you through the preliminary, but our main focus will be the survival round.

“The survival round will be fought by twenty teams of five. That makes for one hundred participants. All contestants will be placed in the Twilight Forest, near the River of Fire about fifty kilometers south of Port Blaze. As you know, the Twilight Forest is in the strip between the daylight zone and the night zone of the Timeless Beryl Wilderness meaning it contains phantasms resident of both territories.

“However, the wildlife won’t be the biggest danger. The survival round lasts for three days. Victory is decided by points. Each team will start with a flag worth five points. An additional thirty flags will be added to the field during the survival round, giving the teams something to fight over. The more flags you have, the higher your score.

“However, there are also penalties. Your team will lose four points every time a member dies. Hence, the word, survival. The name of the game is patience, strategy, and judgment. Losing a team member doesn’t just mean losing points. It means it’ll be tough to stay in the game.

“One thing to note, you will be observed during the survival round. The best plays will be projected into the sky above Orasul Lunii. Fourteen years ago, we had a girl who didn’t realize and decided to take a roll in the hay. The Baroness was livid.”

Brianna lifted her hand again. “What’s the payout for the winner?”

“The team with the highest score takes home 100,000 soli. Second and third place get 50,000. That’s for each member of the team, dead or alive. Captains get double. Not all of that will go into your pocket. The Academy will take ninety percent and use it to cover your debt.”

“What happens if we tie?”

A witch with pinkish purple hair asked the question. Faith, if Sylvia remember correctly.

“Then the teams will fight it out for a better position,” Professor Wright explained. “And, if by some miracle, all twenty teams tie, that won’t change. The survival round will be followed by a free for all that lasts until three teams are left standing.”

No matter what, the audience was going to see blood. Hell loved murder and mayhem. It was right up there with their other favorite past times, sex and drugs.

To be entirely fair, Hell’s entertainment sector was lacking. The barbarians of the netherworld didn’t have video games, much less an internet to shit post on. Also, their works of fiction were utter garbage.

Sylvia had heard that they had some pretty incredible plays and orchestras, though.

Not that she’d find them in a backwater world like the Timeless Beryl Wilderness.

“What are we allowed to bring in?” Brianna asked.

“Standard tournament rules. Whatever you can fit in your soul,” Professor Wright answered. “The only exception is consumables. They’re forbidden to be brought in direct, but you are allowed to make them during the fight. But I’d recommend against it during the preliminary round.”

What kind of freak would try to brew a potion in the middle of a duel?

“Anything else?” Abigail asked when the silence dragged.

“I have a question.” The gentle voice came from Josephine, a witch whose brown hair spilled down to her calves in beautiful curls. “Who will pay the resurrection costs?”

“The Academy will cover all deaths related to training, as well as any resurrection fee incurred during the tournament. That’s legitimate training activities only, so don’t be randomly killing each other during practice,” Professor Wright answered. “The Academy will also provide staves and robes for all participants. Nothing expensive, mind you.”

“One last question,” Brianna said. Her vivid, violet eyes turned on the silver haired witch. “Why is she here?”

The brown haired teacher grinned.

“Same reason you are,” Abigail said. “Because she’s one of the best in the Academy. For this tournament, we scrounged up all the witches who were competent with combat magic and who’d entered – or had a shot of entering – the first consolidation.”

“Eh!” Tiffany’s hand went to her mouth, aquamarine eyes wide.

“What? She’s only a third year,” Brianna said, disbelieving.

“A first year, actually,” Piper corrected.

Sylvia shifted uncomfortably. While she kinda liked the praise, she’d rather not be put in the spotlight.

Faith’s blue eyes peered at her curiously. Josephine’s void filled gaze joined in. Where Faith showed a friendly smile, Josephine’s expression was as flat as a doll’s.

Brianna whirled toward the redheaded Piper, her white hair fluttering.

“Is that a joke?” she demanded, threateningly.

“I pulled her out of charm club,” Piper said, amused by the snow haired woman’s anger.

“With the faerie?” Brianna questioned, her tone approaching a sneer. “Can she really fight?”

Sylvia scowled. “■■”

A wind blade rippled, condensed air cutting past Brianna’s head. The senior witch leaned, her vivid, violet eyes snapping to the silver haired witch.

“I can fight,” Sylvia asserted with irritation.

“Wind blade is a twelve rune spell,” Faith murmured.

“Two syllables,” Piper noted. “I counted.”

Tiffany clapped her hands. “Wow. I don’t think I can cast that fast.”

“As I said, everyone here is competent with combat magic,” Professor Wright interrupted. “If you’re all done with the questions, I was thinking you girls could have a little spar and get to know each other. But keep it friendly. No killing.”

With that said, Abigail retired to the far side of the room.

A duel that wasn’t to the death? Sylvia scoffed. Did Professor Wright think this was Heaven?

Brianna approached roughly. Sylvia kept her gaze steady, ready for the challenge.

“Join my hunter’s club,” the witch demanded. Brianna’s gaze dipped. “And lose those shoes. They’re ridiculous.”

“I can’t switch clubs this year,” Sylvia rejected. And yes, her shoes were, indeed, ridiculous. “But I can try next year.”

“I think they’re cute,” Tiffany cut in with a smile. The blue haired senior clapped hands eagerly. “I heard a rumor that a junior is visiting Vallenfelt Manor. Is that you?”

Sylvia nodded.

“Yeah. That’s me,” she confirmed.

No sense hiding it.

“Explorers is more suitable for a junior,” Piper suggested. “Less fighting. More adventure. Plus, we have brooms.”

Sylvia’s pastel pink eyes lit up.

Brianna’s gaze flashed to the redheaded senior. “You and me. Right now.”

“You want to throw down?” Piper jeered. “We both know who’s taking that captain’s slot.”

In silent agreement, Piper and Brianna advanced to the opposite side of the room. Brianna planted herself seven meters from the redhead.

“Since those two are going to play, who else wants to join in?” Tiffany asked. Her aquamarine eyes scanned the remaining three.

“I don’t mind,” Faith volunteered.

The two took off, leaving Sylvia with Josephine. Josephine gazed at her, eyes like fragments of void. Deep in the black, faint specks of light shimmered.

“We can watch the others,” Josephine said, her tone as mild and expressionless as her face.

“I want to see how I stand up,” Sylvia replied.

Short Dumas, all of Sylvia’s battles had been in Armed Combat class. Her peers could put up a pretty good fight, if Sylvia limited herself to the spear. But the moment magic came out, they’d fold. Sylvia’s casting speed on another level. First years didn’t stand a chance.

The silver haired witch wanted to know exactly how good the older witches were.

And she wanted to experience it herself.

“Okay,” Josephine accepted. “Then please make the first move.”

Not one for ceremony, Sylvia started with a bang.

“■■, ■, ■”

Wind blade’s incantation consisted of twelve runes, seven when chained. The first spell fell from her lips in a calm six, six. The next two were released in a seven rune percussion. Three blades summoned in a single second. The first two curved. That last flew straight.

A simple combination. Any of Sylvia’s classmates would’ve died to one blade, much less three.

“■■■■”

With four syllables the brown haired witch drew a stretched oval of rippling water. The spell caught two wind blades before exploding into droplets. With a lifeless expression, Josephine evaded the third. Because the room was small, the last blade had no chance to boomerang back.

Water shield. A ten rune spell. That put Josephine’s casting speed at two or three runes per a syllable.

In this, Sylvia had an advantage.

Casting speed was most directly measured as runes incanted per an action. This wasn’t absolute. The rate at which a mage spoke, the velocity of their mana, and the alacrity of their reactions all played a role.

This was particularly true when a spell was condensed to two syllables or fewer.

So, while simple calculations said Sylvia’s speed was twice that of Josephine’s, in the real world the gap was a fair bit smaller. But smaller didn’t mean small. Even accounting for compression at the limits, Sylvia’s advantage was large enough that she could directly overwhelm the doll-like witch.

She chose not to.

When no spell followed, Josephine titled her head slightly.

“You are very fast,” she said, voice like a sweet whisper.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Sylvia replied. Fifteen-hundred hours worth.

“Your turn,” Sylvia offered.

“Please be careful,” Josephine said lightly. Then she incanted. “■■ ■■■, ■■ ■■”

Fire ether swirled. The brown haired witch condensed a blazing ball before lobbing it high. Flame Shot. Wait. Sylvia’s eyes narrowed. A variation. Sylvia sensed the faint wind ether curling around the construct. The orb flew with preternatural agility.

A moment later, Sylvia picked up the flow of earth ether.

That combo. What a classic.

Sylvia side stepped, high heels clicking with her nimble dance. Not a moment too soon. A giant stalagmite burst from the ground below. Sharp, crystalline shards reached out like grasping branches, twisting as they sought the silver haired girl.

“■■■~■.” Even as she moved, Sylvia completed a leisurely chant.

The blazing ball plunged, chasing Sylvia’s evasion. Water shield was casually chained into water burst. The moment the liquid barrier formed, it violently exploded, sending torrents of water through Josephine’s flame.

“Nice try,” Sylvia offered.

Sylvia didn’t learn the waltz of flowers for nothing.

The waltz of flowers was a ki art emphasizing mobility and lightness. When taken to its limit, it let the practitioner walk on air.

Sylvia was far from this level.

With inner flow, it was impossible to realize the art’s concept. At most, Sylvia could use the technique to distribute her strength, improving agility and precision. Which, when combined with the netherworld’s inconsistent physics, allowed her to fight comfortably in heels.

Yes. It was, indeed, an extremely humiliating skill for a ‘man’ to cultivate.

Sigh.

“Should I have another go at it?” Sylvia asked, hiding her lament.

Expressionless, Josephine nodded.

Taking a moment to think, Sylvia decided her next combo.

-oOo-

Alchemy

Alchemy is a process of transforming a phantasmal substance by means of editing the nether code. This is distinct from shaping, which modifies the outward character without changing the underlying material.

Nether Code

Nether code is the netherworld equivalent of DNA. The main difference being that nether code can be found in any essence, living or unliving, whereas DNA is limited to biological creatures. The presence of nether code is what separates essence from ether, allowing the ether to congeal into stable forms and shapes.

Nether code consists of at least one string of runes. Simple essences consist of a few thousand runes. Complex essences can contain millions of runes. Studying nether code is difficult, not only because the runes are very small, but also because nether code contains an extremely wide variety of runes. What’s more, witches often draw their runes in simple, stable, discrete units. Runes in nature are tiny, twisted, tangled, moving messes, often demanding special magics or tools to read their sequence.

Purification

Purification is the process of reducing an essence into a standardized form. This allows the resulting substance to be used in well known alchemical recipes. The purification process is unique to each essence type. For instance, wood essence from the beryl oak requires a slightly different purification approach than the helheim pine.

While purification can be done by hand, professional alchemists more often use specialized equipment. This allows an essence to be much more consistently reduced. Just as importantly, it eliminates the need to contain that essence with ki lest it dissolve into the ether.

Transmutation

Transmutation is the process of changing one essence into another by adding runes or incurring a reaction. This can be done through incantation, creating enchanted tools to steadily release the desired runes, or by form of an etheric reaction. Certain types of transmutation overlap with the art of smelting.

Synthesis

Synthesis is the extremity of alchemy. This is the technique of creating essence from pure ether. Even synthesizing simple materials is difficult, as this requires incanting millions of runes. Because of this, alchemists are always looking for tools and process chains that allow the substance to be transmuted instead.

Despite this, there remain materials which can only be produced through synthesis. Aetheric gold is the most common such essence, the creation of which is viewed as a symbol of alchemical attainment.