The next day, in Ray’s private room, a quiet hum resonated from deep within Ray's core as he finished his daily cultivation . He opened his eyes, the faint golden aura around him pulsing in a slow, steady rhythm before being drawn back into his body. He could feel the steady, robust thrum of his Life-Force Capacity, a well that was slowly, painstakingly, deepening with every session. His body was now slowly strengthening.
The sun had not yet fully risen. Before Rina began her morning duties, Ray moved to his study. He sat at his desk and focused his will. A cool, blue interface bloomed in his mind's eye, his hijacked surveillance system . One by one, he toggled the "static loop" for the scrying wards hidden in his suite: the main hall, the training room, the kitchenette, and the perimeter outside his door. On his mental screen, the live feeds obediently switched to pre-recorded loops of empty, peaceful rooms. He switched them back. His fortress was secure.
He joined Rina in the kitchenette, where a simple breakfast was waiting. Her presence is a silent, steady comfort for Ray.
"Good morning, Rina. Thank you."
"Good morning, young master,"
she said, pouring him a cup of juice. She paused, her expression one of professional duty.
"The Headmaster's office sent word this morning. A reminder that your new tutor is scheduled to arrive today."
Ray paused, his cup halfway to his lips.
"Did they happen to give the instructor's name? Or the class title?"
"They did,"
Rina replied. She consulted a small note.
"The class is called 'Foundational Mana Control 101.’"
Ray almost smiled. The name was a masterpiece of political maneuvering. A quiet, sharp voice from his internal committee confirmed his thoughts.
Courtier: "A 101 course. How fitting. She is reinforcing the narrative that you are a remedial case, a beginner. A 'fluke' to be managed. This isn't an education, it's a political statement."
Ray took a sip of juice, his expression unreadable. He had no doubt the Headmaster had chosen his tutor with the same deliberate, condescending care.
"Thank you, Rina,"
Ray said, his voice perfectly even.
"Let's hope this one is a better teacher than Master Vorlag."
Ray was about to continue and take a sip of his juice when a silent, urgent chime flashed in his mind.
[SYSTEM ALERT: Scrying ward 'Main Entrance Area' has detected one individual approaching.]
Ray’s focus shifts and looks at the surveillance feed. He saw Sergeant Svane standing at his post outside the suite door. The sergeant was at a perfect, parade-ground attention, his posture was rigid but facial expression was full of confusion.
The man Svane was speaking to... was not a professor.
Ray’s eyes narrowed as he took in the bizarre figure. The man wore a frayed, wide-brimmed straw hat , a faded, unbuttoned tunic with a prominent dark stain that looked like old wine , and loose linen trousers that ended above his ankles, revealing simple leather sandals on his feet. A single, long stalk of grass dangled lazily from his lips.
Ray was genuinely baffled. The man looked like a beachcomber who had taken a wrong turn at the beach and came to Solhaven academy instead.
Why in the world did Svane let him through the perimeter?
Ray thought.
A moment later, a sharp, formal knock echoed from the main door. Ray smoothed his tunic and walked to the entrance of his suite. He opened the door to find Sergeant Svane looking at him, his expression a perfect mask of professional bafflement.
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“Lord Croft,”
Svane said, his voice a stiff, formal baritone.
“This... gentleman... is here to see you. He has... paperwork.”
The man in the straw hat gave Ray a lazy, one-eyed nod.
“Mornin’. You Ray Croft?”
He fumbled in his stained tunic pocket for a moment before pulling out a crumpled, stained piece of parchment, which he held out to Ray.
“Name’s Caleb Zipkin,”
the man said around the stalk of grass.
“Andrade sent me. I’m your new magic tutor.”
Ray and Sergeant Svane shared a look of profound, synchronized shock. Ray took the offered parchment. It was a total mess, damp in one corner and smelling faintly of fermented grapes. He read the contents and at the bottom, the Headmaster’s magical seal was glowing with a soft, undeniable, and perfectly authentic light.
Ray, recovering his composure with the practiced ease of an actor, stepped back from the doorway.
“Welcome, Master Zipkin. Please, come in.”
“Ah, no need for formalities,”
Caleb replied, waving a dismissive hand as he shuffled past.
“Just call me Caleb.”
His leather sandals scuffed against the clean stone floor . He stopped dead in the middle of the living area, his eyes lighting up as he spotted the dining table. Rina had just laid out Ray's breakfast: a plate of warm bread, sliced cheese, and fresh fruit .
“Oh, fantastic,”
Caleb said, his voice full of genuine appreciation.
“A welcome feast. You shouldn't have.”
Before Ray or Rina could utter a single word, Caleb pulled out a chair, sat down, and began to eat Ray's breakfast .
The reaction was immediate. Rina, who was holding a teapot, froze, her hand halfway to the table. Her face became a mask of horrified disbelief . By the door, Sergeant Svane, who had seen battlefield horrors, just raised a single, magnificent eyebrow .
Ray, however, didn't flinch . He watched the bizarre man for a long moment, his analytical mind processing the scene . This wasn't a power play or intentional rudeness. This was a complete and profound lack of conventional social awareness .