“I know they exist, but I don’t know which ones there are—or how to join,” Arlen admitted.

“That’s easy!” Finn exclaimed, eyes lighting up. “There’s a board near the cafeteria with all the club lists. Magical Combat, Advanced Alchemy—though that one looks kind of shady—Magical Gardening...”

He nodded with childlike enthusiasm.

“I’m in the Alchemy Club myself! We learn to craft static spells and magical artifacts. You should totally check it out! Come on, I’ll take you to the board!”

The two boys strode down the academy’s long corridors. Voices of countless students mingled into a lively background of chatter, laughter, and the occasional spark of magic from a careless demonstration gone wrong.

“You’ll see,” Finn added as he wove between groups of overexcited students, “this is where every club tries to advertise itself. Some of them even fight to recruit!”

They emerged into the main hall, where a massive polished wooden board covered in parchment notices dominated the wall. Each sheet bore a bold title, some adorned with glowing seals or magical sigils that caught the eye.

Arlen scanned the names.  

— Magical Combat.  

— Spell Effect Studies.  

— Formula Breakdown.  

— Shifting Practice.

“Hey, Finn,” he whispered, frowning. “What’s a static spell? And… shifting? And… Etheryte?”

Finn opened his mouth, but before he could answer, a group of older students swaggered up, loud and arrogant. They all wore the insignia of the Magical Combat Club. The tallest among them, his smirk sharp as a blade, spoke loud enough for everyone to hear:

“Pretty young to be hanging around here, aren’t you? Guess the academy’s really lowering its standards. Shouldn’t a kid your age be playing in a sandbox?”

His companions burst into laughter. Arlen felt his cheeks burn hot.

Then, a new voice cut through the crowd:  

“Magical Combat is all smoke and mirrors. Without formula breakdown, your spells are slower than snails!”

A ripple of murmurs spread. Arlen, stunned, said nothing and instinctively lowered his gaze.

The leader turned to him, eyes narrowing. His lips curled into a cruel smile.  

“Tch… You. What’s your name?”

“A… Arlen.”

“Well, Arlen, remember this name: **Victor Von Dorkar**. Seventh class. Everything you think you can do—I can do better. And I’ll prove it.”

He stepped closer, casting a long shadow over Arlen.

“In two weeks, I challenge you to a duel. In front of everyone. Then they’ll see the difference between a real mage… and an insect.”

The hall erupted in laughter, sharper and meaner than before.

Arlen’s pulse thundered in his ears. His throat tightened. But he forced his voice steady.

“I accept.”

The laughter grew louder, echoing in his skull.

A duel… in two weeks. In front of the whole academy… I don’t even know how to cast a proper spell yet. How am I supposed to survive?

But he had accepted. There was no turning back now.

Victor turned on his heel, his dark coat sweeping the air dramatically behind him. His two henchmen lingered, blocking Arlen’s path with sneering faces.

“So the little hero thinks he can fight?” one jeered.  

“You’d be better off quitting before you embarrass yourself,” the other added.

The pressure mounted, until Victor’s icy command sliced through the hall:  

“Leave him.”

Obedient as beaten dogs, they backed away, though their eyes still glinted with malice.

Arlen’s legs trembled, but he stood his ground, breathing deep.

That was when a familiar voice called out. Elliot appeared, looking tense.  

“Hey… you okay?” he asked quietly. “I heard. A duel with Victor Von Dorkar… Are you sure about this?”

Elliot’s face tightened with concern.  

“Arlen, you don’t know Victor like I do. We’re in the same class. He’s ruthless. In a duel, he won’t hold back. He could seriously hurt you—and the professors won’t intervene as long as the rules are followed.”

Arlen met his gaze, determination flickering in his eyes.  

“I’ll be fine. I just need to find the right club—and train properly.”

“Properly won’t be enough,” Elliot warned. “So which club are you going for?”

Finn, who had been silently watching the exchange, tilted his head curiously. It was the first time he’d seen Elliot, and his sudden appearance—paired with how well he seemed to know Arlen—sparked his curiosity.

“Uh… Arlen?” Finn asked, glancing between them. “Aren’t you going to introduce your… friend?”

Elliot gave a polite smile. “I’m Elliot, Arlen’s classmate. And you are?”

“Finn! Alchemy Club. I’ve known Arlen since he arrived.”

Arlen hesitated, then spoke firmly:  

“The Formula Breakdown Club.”

A spark of resolve lit his eyes. _It’s the only way I can grow stronger fast enough. I need to join right away._

He turned back toward the board, found the location, and memorized it.  

“West Wing, third floor. Room 47.”

Without another word, he left Finn and Elliot behind and headed upstairs.

The higher he climbed, the quieter the corridors became. The bustling noise of the hall faded into an almost solemn atmosphere of study and focus.

He stopped at the door marked “47,” took a steadying breath, and knocked.

“Enter,” a clear, commanding voice replied.

Arlen pushed the door open. Inside, a bright room was filled with a dozen students poring over parchment diagrams that glowed faintly with magic.

The one who seemed to be leading them turned. Arlen recognized him instantly: the same boy who had spoken up in the crowd earlier. Tall, sharp-featured, two strands of brown hair framing his face beneath a black cap that revealed only the tips of his ears. His gaze was sharp, intelligent, and full of authority.

“Well, well,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “You’re the newcomer—already famous for getting challenged by Victor. Arlen, right?”

Arlen bowed awkwardly.  

“Yes… I’d like to join the Formula Breakdown Club.”

A thin smile curved the young man’s lips.  

“Perfect timing. I’m **Kael Marwyn**, club president. Here, we don’t just cast spells—we build them, piece by piece. It’s not just a technique, it’s a way of thinking about magic.”

Kael studied him, measuring his determination.

“Alright, Arlen. If you really want to progress quickly, I’ll give you something special.”

He retrieved five carefully folded parchments from his desk and handed them over.

“These are lessons I wrote myself. They go beyond what the academy teaches. The first covers magical flow fundamentals. The second explains accelerated mental visualization. The third is about extreme focus techniques. The fourth deals with synchronizing body and mind. And the fifth… that one’s my personal method for instant formula breakdown.”

Crossing his arms, Kael fixed him with a piercing gaze.  

“This isn’t ordinary magic. These methods demand iron discipline. Are you ready to commit yourself completely?”

Arlen nodded without hesitation. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“Good. Study them tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll begin practice.”

Back in his dorm, Arlen spread the parchments across his desk. The techniques were fascinating—yet overwhelmingly complex.

The more he read, the tighter his stomach knotted.  

This is amazing, but I don’t even know where to start… I don’t have the basics for this.

It was like trying to build a castle without ever having laid a single brick.

Frustrated, he slumped into his chair. I need another way…

Then he remembered Cornelius’s words: he could ask professors for personal lessons.

That’s it! If I start with solid basics, I’ll understand these methods better later. And the headmaster said I’m allowed to ask.

Arlen hurried into the corridors, scanning for a teacher. He spotted Master Pyra leaving her classroom, her fiery red hair unmistakable.

“Master Pyra!” he called, running up.

She turned with a warm smile. “Ah, Arlen! How are you?”

“Good, thank you. I’m looking for Master Elyrian. The headmaster said I could request personalized lessons, and I want to start with the basics.”

Pyra’s lips curled into an amused smile as she pointed behind him. “He’s right behind you.”

Arlen spun around, startled. Master Elyrian stood there silently, as though he had appeared from thin air.

“I have ears everywhere, Arlen,” Elyrian said with a sly grin. “And I accept—before you even ask.”

Arlen opened his mouth but found no words. How had he known?

“Come,” Elyrian said, already turning. “It’s time for your first personal lesson.”

Arlen followed, still reeling from the bizarre encounter. Behind him, Pyra muttered with a chuckle:  

“That boy has no idea what he’s getting into…”

Far below, in the academy’s hidden basements, Victor ruled over his so-called “Magical Combat Club.” In truth, it was nothing more than a cover for his own ambitions. The members were not comrades—they were prisoners, pawns forced to serve as living targets for his experiments.

“Luc!” Victor barked from his raised platform. “Stand there and don’t move!”

The trembling boy obeyed. Everyone knew resistance was useless. Victor always found ways—threats, blackmail, or sheer intimidation—to keep them in line.

Victor raised his hand, channeling raw energy.  

“Water strike, maximum output, concentrated impact!”

A compressed torrent shot from his palm, slamming Luc against the wall with brutal force. The boy crumpled, gasping for breath. Victor didn’t even glance at him.

“Pathetic! You didn’t even try to dodge!” he sneered.

Behind him, Damien—his loyal shadow—scribbled furiously on parchment, noting every angle, every fraction of power, every reaction.

“Theo! Your turn!” Victor ordered coldly. “Stand at the far end of the room. We’ll test maximum range.”

Theo obeyed, hoping distance would lessen the blow. He was wrong.

“Try focal mode,” Damien suggested smoothly.

“Focal mode!” Victor shouted.

The stream narrowed into a needle-like jet, slicing through the air with deadly precision. It struck Theo squarely, dropping him instantly.

“Excellent!” Victor smirked. “Now, semi-focal spread!”

He adjusted his casting, widening the impact zone while retaining sharp power. The explosion sent not only Theo but two nearby students crashing to the floor.

Damien beamed as he scribbled. “Brilliant adaptation, Victor. Your progress is remarkable!”

But then Victor froze, eyes glinting with a dangerous new idea.

“I’ll try something different,” he murmured darkly. “I need another subject.”

His gaze swept the room until it landed on a trembling girl in the corner—Elena, a first-year.

“You. Come here.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she obeyed. Victor pointed to the center of the chamber.

“Stand there. And when I tell you… run.”

Terror etched itself across her face. She had no choice.

Victor spread his arms, power swirling around him in a violent vortex. This incantation was longer, deeper, heavier than before. The air thickened with raw energy, crackling like a brewing storm.

A minute dragged by. Then another. The atmosphere itself seemed to vibrate.

“Now!” he roared.

As Elena bolted, Victor’s spell detonated. The result made his lips curl into a cruel, triumphant smile. His laughter rang out, chilling and merciless, echoing through the underground hall like the roar of a beast unleashed.