"What is your name, young man?"

Nobody had called him young in ages. The thought made Adom chuckle, earning him a sharp look from the nurse.

A movement near the door caught his attention - the nurse's familiar, a large Sunhound whose name danced frustratingly at the edge of his memory.

What was his name again? Buddy? Bailey? Something with B...

The creature was watching him with unusual intensity, his head tilted in that peculiar way animals do when they sense something isn't quite right.

"Adom Sylla, ma'am." The words came automatically while his eyes wandered, trying not to meet the Sunhound's unnervingly perceptive gaze.

The infirmary smelled exactly as he remembered - bitter herbs and sweet-scented healing potions, with that underlying tang of antiseptic magic that always made his nose itch.

Afternoon light streamed through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air and making the Sunhound's fur shimmer like gold. He'd forgotten about those windows, how they filled the room with golden light at this hour.

"Is something wrong, Biscuit?" The nurse asked, noticing her familiar's unusual behavior.

Biscuit! That was it. The name clicked into place in Adom's mind with an almost physical sensation of relief.

The Sunhound's nose twitched, and Adom could feel the creature's innate magic reaching out, sensing... something. Something different. Something changed. Sunhounds were known for their ability to detect illness and magical anomalies - it was why they made such excellent familiars for healers. But surely it couldn't...

Adom looked away.

There were the familiar white curtains separating the beds, starched so stiffly they could probably stand on their own. And those shelves - rows upon rows of colored bottles, their contents shimmering with barely contained alchemy. Blue for mana restoration, red for blood replenishment, that peculiar shade of green for bone-mending...

"And what day is it?"

"Fifth of Sapin." His gaze caught on the ceiling beams. Dark wood, worn smooth by centuries of magic. How many generations of students had laid here, staring up at those same beams?

"Year?"

"847 After Restoration." He'd always wondered about that crack in the third beam that looked exactly like a dragon. Strange how some memories stay with you, crystal clear, while others...

"And who is our current Archmage?"

"Sir Gaius the..." Adom caught himself just in time. Sir Gaius the Dead, his mind supplied. Sir Gaius the Betrayed. Sir Gaius whose body would be found in three years, after...

"...the Wise," he finished smoothly.

The nurse - Miss Thornheart, that was her name - narrowed her eyes at his hesitation. She'd been old when he was young (the first time), her hair already steel-grey and pulled back in that severe bun. But her hands were steady as she held up her wand, its tip glowing with diagnostic light.

Ah, wands. He hadn't seen one in years - they'd fallen out of fashion in his time, as wand and staff users became increasingly rare. Not by choice, of course.

Hard to maintain a tradition when most of its practitioners were dead.

Wands were mainly used by those who struggled with manual spell-weaving - the "spell-dyslexic" as some unkindly called them - and first years just starting to learn the basics of magic. The runic inscriptions helped focus and guide the mana flow that some mages couldn't naturally control with their hands. So strange seeing one here now.

So strange seeing everything here.

Miss Thornheart sighed, finally lowering her wand. "He seems perfectly fine, Professor Crowley. Just a mild concussion. A night's rest should set him right."

Professor Crowley, shifted uncomfortably, his dark robes rustling. "Are you certain this isn't a case of..." He hesitated, then leaned closer to Miss Thornheart's ear, "possession?"

The nurse's expression hardened. "That was the first thing I checked when you brought him in, babbling about being 'back'. The diagnostic showed nothing unusual. No foreign essences, no spiritual intrusion. He's perfectly normal."

Crowley turned to Adom, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. "Then what was that about, young man? That shout about being 'back'?"

Adom managed what he hoped was a suitably embarrassed smile. "I... got knocked out, sir. Wasn't thinking straight when I came to."

He couldn't exactly tell them he'd traveled decades back in time. They'd either think he was mentally unstable - and wouldn't that be an interesting first day back? - or assume he was making light of serious magical principles.

Or worse, label him a deviant.

The Three Absolute Rules of magic were drilled into every mage from their first day: Nothing is created, everything is transformed. Death is irreversible. Time is uncontrollable.

These weren't just theoretical principles - they were fundamental laws that defined the boundaries between responsible magic use and dangerous deviation. Breaking them wasn't just impossible; the mere suggestion of trying marked you as someone who couldn't be trusted with magic.

Luckily enough, even the mad respected these boundaries. The last recorded attempt to break them was some 800 years ago - a rather unfortunate case of 'skill issue', as modern mages would say. So at least no one's first thought upon hearing him say "I'm back" would be time travel.

Time travel, in particular, was considered dangerous nonsense, the kind of thing that got you funny looks in the better cases and serious discussions about your fitness to study magic in the worse ones.

For the absolute worst case, as a deviant, you'd find yourself having a very final discussion with the Mage Council's executioner. They were quite efficient about it too - no dramatic trials, no last words. Just a very quick solution to a very dangerous problem.

Adom almost smiled at the irony. He'd spent years believing the same thing, dismissing the very notion as absurd.

Then he broke the Second and Third Rules an hour ago.

Which in itself would be fine to explain if he could prove it. Not that he could - or should. That would involve explaining things to people who solved magical anomalies by removing them permanently.

Well, in their defense, when entire civilizations are wiped out overnight and continents reshape themselves because someone decided to be "innovative" with these rules, you tend to take them seriously. The Fourth Age ended that way. And the Third. And the Second.

The ruins of those ancient magical societies stood as silent warnings, their perfectly circular voids in reality still studied by modern mages. So their zealousness in enforcing these rules was... understandable.

"Must have been quite a knock to the head," Crowley muttered, not quite convinced.

"You have no idea," Adom grinned, then noticed both adults staring at him with unsettled expressions. Right. Teenagers didn't usually respond to authority figures with knowing grins.

He swung his legs off the bed. "I'm leaving now-" The words were out before he could stop them, and he immediately saw Professor Crowley's eyebrows shoot up while Miss Thornheart's lips pressed into a thin line.

Decades of being an accomplished mage, of making his own decisions, of being the authority figure - he'd completely forgotten how these interactions were supposed to go.

Students didn't announce their departures to professors; they asked permission. Basic manners that had been drilled into him as a child, now completely forgotten in the habits of adulthood.

Adom caught himself and cleared his throat, fighting back another inappropriate grin. "I mean... may I be excused, Miss Thornheart? Professor?"

The nurse's expression had shifted from stern to oddly curious, while Crowley was looking at him as if he'd grown a second head.

Adom gestured vaguely at his own temple, forcing an apologetic smile. "The concussion, remember?"

The excuse was becoming quite convenient, really.

Biscuit finally seemed to make up his mind, padding over to Adom and pressing his warm nose against his hand. Whatever the Sunhound had sensed earlier appeared to have been dismissed as non-threatening, though Miss Thornheart's thoughtful expression suggested she'd be keeping a closer eye on her newest patient.

Much to Adom's displeasure.

"You may go, Mr. Sylla. Please be careful, and you do not have to come to tomorrow's practice. Get some rest."

"Thank you, Professor." And then Adom ran.

He ran.

Here's the thing about running: when you've spent decades barely able to walk, dragging yourself around in a wheelchair, watching your body betray you bit by bit... well, running becomes something of a dream.

A half-forgotten memory that makes your heart ache. Young people at the Celestial Academy of Mystical Arts or for short, Xerkes, took it for granted - this ability to just pick up your feet and move, to feel the wind in your face, to cover distance with nothing but the strength of your own legs.

Adom ran through the courtyard, his feet pounding against the ancient stones, past startled students with their various familiars.

Xerkes had only one rule about familiars: as long as it didn't burn or kill other students or furniture, and could fit in a classroom, it was allowed.

Hmm. That was two rules...

Anyway.

Students stared at the weird kid sprinting and laughing like a maniac. He didn't care. He ran in place, feeling his muscles respond instantly, perfectly, no pain, no stiffness, no betrayal. Just pure, beautiful motion.

The late afternoon sun cast the Academy's white towers in gold, their spiral tips reaching into the cloudy sky like they always had.

“Sylla,” someone greeted with a nod, while another called out, “Watch it, Sylla!” as he nearly collided with them. He waved a quick apology, laughing as he ran on. Snatches of conversation followed him—“Is he racing death?”—and a few curious glances turned his way - children who would become colleagues, rivals, friends, some even enemies.

But right now, they were just confused teenagers watching another teenager have what appeared to be a mental breakdown in the middle of the school grounds.

It felt like flying. It felt like freedom. It felt like a dream.

Except it wasn't a dream. And that? That was even better.

"Hey, shrimp!"

Adom stopped automatically, his body responding before his mind could intervene. What was that called again? Ah yes, reflexes, and in this case, it seemed his body was still wired in a way that made him answer to specific things still.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

A habit he would have to correct soon.

He turned around, still panting, still smiling, to see Damus approaching with his usual entourage.

They were talking among themselves, snickering - not really evil, just... kids drunk on the power of being in the right group, at the right time, with the right leader.

Damus Lightbringer. Now there was a story.

Heir to House Lightbringer, descendant of the last Sword Saint, and one of the most talented student in their promotion. Everyone knew who he was - how could they not? His magical potential was off the charts, and he had the kind of natural charisma that drew people to him like moths to flame.

Adom and Damus had known each other practically since birth. Their fathers - Duke Jasper Lightbringer and Arthur Sylla - had been adventurers together, part of the "Jolly Jumper" party. They'd even survived being trapped in the Midnight Labyrinth, an infamous Dungeon, for three years, and came out of it as its conquerors. The stories about them were still told in taverns across the continent.

Funny thing was, Adom couldn't quite pinpoint when Damus had changed.

The two of them been close as children, practically brothers. Then they came to Xerkes together, and something... shifted.

It started small - a joke here, a comment there, always about Adom's insecurities, always in front of others. The "friendly" sparring matches that left bruises. The way he'd wait until others were watching before pulling his little pranks.

And of course, there was the nickname - "Shrimp."

How lovely.

Though to be fair, looking down at his current body, Adom had to admit he was rather scrawny at this age. All knees and elbows and absolutely zero muscle. No wonder Damus had started calling him that.

Wait. Started? Was starting? Time travel really did mess with your verb tenses.

They crowded around him, that special kind of teenage intimidation disguised as playful roughhousing. Marcus Blackthorn grabbed him in a headlock, ruffling his hair with knuckles just a bit too hard to be friendly.

Finn Cooper and Leo Walsh flanked them, creating that familiar wall of bodies that always made escape impossible.

"Man, you really got your ass handed to you," Marcus laughed, still not letting go. "For a moment there, I thought you were dead!"

"Crowley's got some nerve," Leo added, his freckled face split in a grin, "matching you with Damus. Everyone knows he's the best fighter in second year."

There we go...

"Third year too," Finn chimed in, always the eager one. "Remember when he beat Jules from third year in practice?"

Third year? really?

"Fifth year," Marcus added, finally releasing Adom. "Don't forget about Catherine from fifth year."

It was a miracle their nose where not brown yet from all the licking.

Damus stood slightly apart, that familiar half-smile on his face as he watched his friends roughhouse with Adom. He had that look - the one that said he was above it all while secretly orchestrating every moment.

"Sorry about that spell from earlier, shrimp," he finally said. He always insisted on finishing all his sentences addressed to Adom with that word. Then came the usual patronizing remarks."You had it coming though. Your footwork's terrible. No wonder you keep falling." Good old Damus. So predictable.

Ooh. There goes that half-smile again, this meant it was time for the false sympathy, in three, two, one..."Hope you're not holding a grudge. Are you? S-"

"Shrimp." Adom finished. Earning him the widened eyes of Damus and his fanboys.

It was strange.

Back then - now? - when all this started, Adom had refused to believe Damus could be like this. They'd shared too many childhood memories, too many secret adventures. Then, gradually, that disbelief had turned into fear. And anger. Mostly at himself, for never fighting back, for letting it happen.

It was also, as Adom only now realized, the reason he hated eating shrimps. The taste of them, the sight of them, the word itself. It always reminded him of how passive he was back then when clearly, he had no reason to be. Others would end up paying the price for that passive acceptance, unfortunately.

But now? Looking at Damus, Adom felt more baffled than anything else. How had he ever been intimidated by... this?

Because this was just a kid. A privileged kid with that spiky blond hair that used to be the trend at this point in time (God, it looked ridiculous now that he saw it again). His face was scattered with acne that no amount of magical remedies seemed to cure.

His uniform was perfectly pressed, of course - couldn't have the Lightbringer heir looking anything less than perfect - but his tie was deliberately loose in that "I'm too cool to care" way that took at least ten minutes to get right.

Just another noble kid with pimples playing at being a big shot, really. Funny how perspective changes everything.

"What are you looking at?"

Adom smiled. A window!

"Actually, you should avoid scratching those," he said, gesturing vaguely at Damus's face. "Moonweaver Apothecary makes this really effective magical ointment for acne. Not very well-known, but it works wonders."

Marcus, Finn, and Leo froze, their heads swiveling back and forth between Adom and Damus. Their expressions shifted from confusion to shock to something approaching horror.

Ah, right. The unwritten rule: thou shalt not mention Damus Lightbringer's skin condition. Ever. It was like the sun - everyone saw it, everyone knew about it, but nobody dared speak of it. Not even to offer help. Especially not to offer help.

Damus's eyes went wide, and his face... oh, his face was turning a fascinating shade of red that had nothing to do with acne.

"...What did you say?" Damus's voice was low, his eyes darting around to check if anyone had dared to laugh.

"Oh," Adom said, raising his voice to ensure perfect clarity across the courtyard. "I SAID," He inspired, then, "YOU SHOULD AVOID SCRATCHING YOUR ACNE." He enunciated each word with deliberate precision. "AND THAT MOONWEAVER APOTHECARY MAKES A REALLY EFFECTIVE MAGICAL OINTMENT FOR IT. NOT VERY WELL-KNOWN, BUT IT WORKS WONDERS."

The words rang out across the suddenly silent courtyard. A few students who hadn't heard the first time stopped to stare. Someone gasped. A group of third-years paused their conversation mid-sentence.

Adom maintained eye contact with Damus, his expression perfectly neutral, as if he'd just commented on the weather rather than committed what amounted to social suicide in the hierarchy of Xerkes.

One might argue there was no need for this - Adom was technically an adult now, and stooping to teenager-level provocations seemed beneath him.

But this was long overdue.

Because here's the thing about letting people treat you however they want: you're not just setting your own boundaries, sometimes you're teaching them how to treat others around you. Adom's passivity, his weakness, his desperate hope that things would get better if he just endured it quietly - all of that had consequences. Consequences that extended far beyond his own suffering.

Sam.

It started in their third year. The signs were all there, crystal clear in hindsight. Sam switched rooms suddenly, made excuses not to be seen with Adom anymore. Then came the bruises he couldn't explain, the way he'd flinch at sudden movements.

The final straw came at their third end-of-year ceremony. Damus' friends thought it would be hilarious to project images across the great hall - images of Sam, naked, being forced to dance and pose, tears streaming down his face. They played it in front of everyone: the entire school, visiting dignitaries from the city, Sam's family. His little sister had been there.

If Adom had just once taken Sam aside, really talked to him, instead of pretending not to notice. If he'd asked about those bruises, about why Sam suddenly couldn't look him in the eye anymore. If he'd just... done something. Anything.

But he hadn't. Even though his own illness was already starting to show back then, even though his legs would sometimes give out without warning, even though he was scared and in pain - that wasn't really an excuse, was it? Because he could have still spoken up. Could have told a professor, could have confronted Damus, could have at least let Sam know he wasn't alone.

Instead, his silence had sent a message: if Adom wouldn't even stand up for himself, he definitely wouldn't stand up for Sam. It made Sam an easy target - the quiet kid whose only friend wouldn't even snitch. Free game, as they say.

One conversation. That's all it might have taken. One moment of courage, one decision to set boundaries, one friend actually being a friend instead of a coward.

But he'd chosen to watch instead. To stay quiet. To hope it would all just go away on its own.

It didn't.

Sam didn't live to see the next sunrise. He preferred ending his life than facing the humiliation.

And Adom? Adom just watched. Like he always did.

But not this time.

Not. This. Time.

The reasonable course of action, the mature one, would be to report any bullying to a professor. That's what any sensible adult would advise.

But sometimes, kids didn't need a scolding. Especially not privileged, self-absorbed little shits who were completely oblivious to the suffering they caused others. Sometimes, what they really needed was a good punch in the face.

Of course, it would be completely unethical for an adult to go around punching twelve-year-olds. That would be wrong on so many levels.

Oh, but wait.

Technically speaking, in this exact moment, Adom wasn't an adult at all. In fact, he was very much twelve years old too.

His lips curved into a smile.

Damus grabbed Adom's collar, yanking him close. "Have you gone completely insane?!"

"Easy, Damus, we could be se-"

"SHUT UP, LEO!"

Leo's mouth snapped shut.

"Mind letting go? I don't like being this close to people." His eyes flickered to Damus's face. "Especially with a face like that."

Damus's face contorted, a vein visibly pulsing in his forehead. His free hand clenched into a fist, drawing back.

Here we go.

Now, Adom wasn't a battle mage by any means. Though decades of practicing defensive and offensive spells did count for something. In his current physical state, he probably couldn't win a straight-up fight with Damus - the boy had at least twenty pounds on him, all muscle.

But street fights didn't work like duels.

Adom had read about this during one of his longer hospital stays, in a book that definitely shouldn't have been in the children's ward. Rule number one of street fighting:

The element of surprise.

As Damus's fist came sailing toward his face, Adom's mind was already moving, conceptualizing the pattern of a barrier spell. No time for hand gestures - just pure visualization, drawing mana from his surroundings and shaping it with practiced precision. The geometric patterns formed in his mind: hexagonal reinforcement, distributed force dispersion, minimal energy waste.

[Aegis Barrier]

Damus's fist slammed into the barrier with a sound like hitting thick glass. He stumbled back with a howl, clutching his hand. "What did- what did you do?!"

The translucent barrier shimmered around Adom, its hexagonal patterns catching the sunlight. He hadn't moved an inch, hadn't even raised his hands - the spell had simply... appeared.

"FIGHTING!" someone excitedly shouted as gasps and whispers rippled through the growing crowd.

"Isn't that Aegis Barrier spell?" a voice cut through the murmurs. "That's a third-year defensive spell. How's he weaving it without gestures or grimoire?"

The barrier hummed softly, steady and unwavering, while Damus stared at his reddening knuckles in disbelief. His eyes darted between his injured hand and Adom's calm face, trying to process what had just happened.

Second rule of street fighting: double down on the surprise.

While Damus was still blabbering, Adom charged forward.

The fifth of Sapin, year 847 after restoration - today, when Damus had used the spell 'Hardening' during their "practice session," knocking Adom unconscious with a blow to the face. That's when he'd returned to this time, waking up on the ground with the taste of blood in his mouth and decades of memories suddenly crammed into his twelve-year-old brain.

He couldn't avoid taking that hit - it had already happened. But now? Now he was grateful for it.

Because it made this moment so much sweeter.

As he closed the distance, mana flowed around his fist, condensing into a dark, metallic coating that seemed to drink in the light.

The little shi- no, the little noble's mouth was still open, probably forming some threat or insult, when Adom's mana-enhanced fist connected with his jaw. The impact rang out like a hammer striking an anvil, a satisfying CRACK that seemed to echo across the suddenly silent courtyard.

Damus spun, actually spun, from the force of it, saliva and blood arcing through the air, before crumpling to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.

This felt really, really good.

[You have dealt 32 damage.]

[You have received 5 recoil damage.]

[+1 Endurance]

[+1 Agility]

Adom froze momentarily as the words materialized in his mind.

What was that?

It was there when he came to. And here again. It surely was not magic. Spells could easily be identified since they had mana traces in them. This felt... like nothing at all.

Adom quickly glanced around. Had anyone else noticed? No, it seemed not.

Damage? Recoil? He instinctively understood their meaning, though the implications were foreign and troubling.

He pushed the thought aside, forcing himself to focus. This wasn’t the time.

Damus groaned, his hands pressing against the ground as he tried to push himself up. Blood trickled from his split lip, and his eyes were unfocused, but somehow he was still conscious. Had to give it to him - the guy was stubborn.

Rule three of street fighting: When in doubt, hit them again.

Adom took two quick steps forward and brought his foot up in a clean arc, connecting solidly with Damus's face just as he managed to get his head off the ground. The impact made a sound that was somehow both wet and crunchy and the strange blue messages appeared again.

"STOP!"

Leo and Marcus rushed forward, with Marcus grabbing Adom's arm while Leo positioned himself between them and Damus, who had finally, properly collapsed.

"You've lost your mind!" Marcus shouted, trying to pull Adom back. "You could have killed him!"

Adom looked at the hand gripping his arm with the same detached interest he'd shown Damus earlier. "Let go."

Marcus flinched at his tone, and Finn - who'd been watching from the side - cleared his throat. "Marcus. Let him go."

At least one of them was smart.

As they hauled Damus's limp form toward the infirmary, Adom called after them: "If any of you want some more, you know where to find me."

They didn't answer.

The courtyard erupted.

"Did you see that?!" "Without hand gestures-" "He just-" "Someone get Professor Meris!" The voices overlapped, creating a wall of sound.

"That was AMAZING!" a first-year practically bounced in place.

"He's going to be in so much trouble," a prefect muttered, already heading for the faculty wing.

"Damus had it coming," someone whispered, then louder when others nodded. "He really did."

"Professor Meris is going to FLIP-"

"Did anyone else see the barrier pattern? That was advanced geometric-"

"But from HIM? Isn't he barely passing-"

"I heard Damus was bullying-"

Adom looked up, scanning the growing crowd, and there - on the second-floor balcony - stood Sam. His eyes were wide, mouth slightly open, hands gripping the railing.

He smiled, gave a little wave, then pointed up: 'I'm coming there.'

The crowd parted as he approached the stairs. He could feel their stares - most of them just confused. A few older students were already theorizing about his spell work, gesturing at each other with academic excitement. Others whispered behind their hands, no doubt already drafting letters home about this.

"Someone should tell a professor," a girl insisted.

"Shut up, Maya, that was the coolest thing I've ever seen!"

"Did you see his face? He wasn't even worried-"

"Damus was bleeding-"

"Good."

His legs worked - for now at least - and he savored the simple ability to climb stairs without pain. The students on the stairwell pressed themselves against the walls, giving him a wide berth.

"That barrier spell though-"

"Forget the barrier, did you see that punch?"

"My sister said Finn made someone cry yesterday-"

"Yeah but this isn't the way-"

"Isn't it though?"

He kept climbing, one step at a time, heading toward Sam.

Toward a future he was going to change.