Inglen's eyes snapped open at the first bird-alarms of dawn (or, more accurately, a very persistent rooster). He rolled out of bed, yawned twice—once for his body, once for his soul—and pulled on his trusty gardener's tunic, still smelling faintly of fresh earth.
A few steps later, he paused before a heavy wooden door and rapped three times. "Cheol! Gao! Morning's here!" he called.
From inside came muffled shuffling, a metallic click, and then the door opened—halfway. Peering out was Cheol, rigid as a fencepost, totally locked in, and dressed in his messy uniform.
Inglen: "Uh, Cheol, are you fine? Why are you so stiff today?"
Cheol gave no reply—only a tightly wound nod, as if he'd been sprung from a textbook.
Gao appeared behind him, yawning theatrically. "Let him be, Inglen. Exams are nigh—Cheol's brand of zen is a locked door and a uniform."
Inglen folded his arms. "Does he even study?"
Gao leaned close, whispering like a spy divulging state secrets. "Yes. Somehow he studies. He's got zero talent for studying, but he needs to survive first year to join the Martial Arts Sector of the Academy."
Inglen scratched his head. "And you? Where do you plan to go?"
Gao straightened, staring proudly at the ceiling beams. "Psychology and Criminal Criminology. Minds fascinate me more than muscles."
"Seriously?" Inglen quirked an eyebrow. Gao shrugged modestly. "My body isn't built for martial combat. No magic aptitude. Architecture's dull. Law's… law-y. Besides," he added with a slow grin, "I am my grandfather's grandson after all."
Inglen tapped his chin thoughtfully. "But architecture would suit Cheol and you. I remember a story from my original world; the author of the story was a model, and then he started writing it as his universe...the main point is the head of the architecture department from that story were something of a similar duo. It's as if you two are inspired from them."
Gao: "Ehh, what are you talking about? I cant understand a word coming out of your mouth, but whatever."
Cheol: "You will get Author-nim a problem if you just mention people from other authors stories."
Gao (whispers): "I dont get a thing these fools are saying."
Inglen reaches his usual spot by the greenhouse just as Cheol and Gao wave him goodbye and head off
All at once, the water and wind spirits swirl around him again—tiny motes of mist and a playful breeze that rustles the leaves. Without a word, Inglen pulls out his shears and begins trimming each cycas leaf into a neat, elegant fan shape.
Suddenly, the breeze spirit whistles sharply. Inglen stops and concentrates. In its soft, susurrating voice he hears: "Beware the wicked Miss Peterovana… One day she may end your story."
Inglen shrugs and resumes cutting.
A hand lands on his shoulder. He looks up into the bright eyes of Alesha, the lab assistant. Alesha: "How's the day going—wait, are those spirits?! How in the world are you able to summon them?"
He tilts his head. "My lady, they surround me every day. We even chat during breaks."
Alesha's eyes grow wider than saucers. "But it's unheard of! Spirits rarely speak to humans, much less help them… or reveal their thoughts!"
As she speaks, the tiny motes and breeze spirals vanish, leaving only the faint scent of wet earth. Alesha nearly faints with excitement. "I know just the man to help hone your gift," she declares, grabbing Inglen's elbow.
She practically drags him through the corridor to a spacious study at the end of the hall. Inside stands a tall, impeccably dressed gentleman with a small, pointed beard on his chin and a lit cigarette dangling from his lips.
He tips his head, eyes narrowing as he takes in Alesha and her gardener. "What is Alesha doing with… the gardener girl?"
Inglen flushes. "I am not a girl—I am a man!" he protests.
Inglen straightens his back and clears his throat. "I—I'm Inglen Thoithoi," he says, offering a small bow.
Lucien Devereaux lifts his chin, eyebrow arching as he regards Alesha first. "Enchantée, Mademoiselle Alesha," he purrs, sweeping off an invisible speck of dust from her sleeve with a gentlemanly flourish. He gives her a warm, encouraging smile.
Then, turning to Inglen, his smile fades into a thin line. "And you are…?" His tone is clipped, more adolescent teasing than courteous introduction.
"I'm—Inglen Thoithoi," Inglen repeats, a little stiffly.
"Right." Lucien's eyes flick toward the row of cycads. "The gardener boy." He exhales sharply, as if the title still tastes bitter. "Head Researcher of Spiritual Magic and Ki Department," he announces to Inglen in a brisk, brusque voice, as though checking off an item from a long to-do list.
Inglen glances at Alesha, puzzled. "Lady Alesha, how do you know Monsieur Devereaux so well?"
Alesha beams. "He's my uncle on my mother's side." She squeezes Lucien's arm. "Uncle Lucien, please be kind."
Lucien's gaze flicked from Alesha back to Inglen. "Now, you boy," he said, voice sharp as a scalpel, "what business do you have with my niece?"
Alesha stepped forward, chin lifted. "Uncle Lucien, I want you to assess Inglen's gift—his ability to commune with spirits."
Lucien arched an eyebrow and looked at Alesha with mock suspicion. "Is he your…lover, then, that you fuss so?"
Before he could finish, Alesha shot out her foot and gave his shin a playful kick. "He isn't worth it, you old goat!"
Inglen's face froze, heart clattering in his chest like a startled sparrow. "Perhaps you should learn to hesitate before jumping to conclusions," he murmured, trying not to sound wounded.
Lucien huffed, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Indeed. I can't very well assess some random gardener."
Alesha grinned and put a conspiratorial hand on his arm. "Fine, I'll fix a date for your assessment, and I'll consider it fair."
At once, Lucien's whole posture softened. "Anything for my dear niece," he said, and swept into motion.
He produced from a nearby shelf a compact machine bristling with wires and, on the desk, a clear cube of unknown material. "You—step up here, keep yourself relaxed," he instructed Inglen, voice suddenly clinical. "You might feel a bit of pain."
Inglen swallowed and sat on a stool. Lucien clipped two wires to the palms of his hands and one to his forehead. Sparks of curiosity—and nerves—flared in Inglen's eyes.
"Now channel your Ki," Lucien said, stepping back.
Inglen blinked. "…How?"
Lucien's lips pressed into a thin line of disappointment. "Just imagine you're…spitting through your palms."
Inglen frowned at his hands. Spitting? Through his palms? He forced himself to breathe, recalling the snippets from Gao's books… Then he focused all his will on the pads of his hands.
The machine whirred, lights flickered—and with a sudden CLANG and puff of smoke, it overloaded.
Lucien sprang forward, ripping off the wires. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed, brushing soot from the machine. He cocked his head at Inglen. "Now place your hands on the cube."
Still dazed, Inglen set his palms on the smooth surface of the clear block—ready, at last, for whatever came next.
The moment Inglen's palms settled on the cube, it shimmered with a soft white light. A gentle warmth pulsed through the block, and the air around Alesha filled with the most blissful, honeyed fragrance—like jasmine tea at sunrise.
Alesha inhaled deeply, eyes sparkling. "This is incredible… I should go now or else the demoness might eat me"
Lucien held up a finger. "Remember our agreement," he reminded her with a wry smile. Alesha bit her lip, then gave Inglen one last proud nod before dashing off down the corridor.
Once she was out of earshot, Lucien turned to Inglen and let a slow grin spread across one side of his cheek. "You, boy, are going to be my student. Your potential is second only to one other prodigy I know. You far surpass every genius I've encountered. You shall be my own disciple."
Inglen's eyes widened, and a broad smile broke across his face. "The other prodigy… who is he?"
Lucien's gaze drifted upward as if recalling a memory. "He's just a year older than you. One day you two may cross paths—I often wonder how he fares now." He clapped Inglen gently on the shoulder. "But enough talk. Let's get you admitted."