Metal clanged—spoons, forks, segmented trays—hammering against granite tables until the entire hall sounded like a forge line in some factory of hell.
The air was thick with the scent of spicy braised meat and herbs beneath the pale mana lamps. It was the kind of smell that made saliva gather in the mouth…
…but to someone without a “credit card,” it felt less like an invitation and more like deliberate mockery.
Boris didn’t seem to care about the room at all. He was demolishing the thick slab of hip-cut meat on his tray at an absurd speed, as if afraid it might escape.
In sharp contrast—
Rein was staring down at the “rye bread lump” in front of him with a seriousness that exceeded the moment he’d faced a Darkness Arrow in the library.
One hand pinned the dark-brown chunk—more stone than food—while the other gripped the dull canteen knife and began sawing at its stubborn surface.
Scrrrk… scrrrk…
Low-grade metal rasped against compressed flour fibers dense enough to qualify as construction material.
Rein’s mind ran the numbers.
Hardness at this level… if the applied force isn’t high enough, the knife will snap before the bread’s structure yields.
He increased pressure through his wrist, already considering the final option with genuine sincerity.
If this bread refused physics too aggressively… he might have to call Nightfall to deal with it.
At the very least, a legendary cursed blade should be sharp enough to cut through this “hazardous object.”
Mira, seated beside him, paused mid-salad and looked at him with a mix of confusion and faint suspicion.
She knew Rein as a Young Prodigy—the cold, unreachable number one of their year. The one who shattered entrance exam records and still took third place at the 68th Arcadia Grand Magic Tournament despite being only a first-year.
The version of him everyone carried in their heads was an arrogant genius, a mage who could control a battlefield at will—
And now that same person looked like he was about to declare war on a bread loaf worth 2 AC. Head bowed, already-messy hair falling even more chaotic, eyes sharp as if he were pinpointing an enemy’s fatal weakness.
“Rein… are you okay?” Mira asked quietly, watching his hand tremble faintly from the force. “That’s just bread. Not a monster’s head.”
Rein didn’t answer.
He applied the last twist of torque.
THUNK—!
The dull blade finally sank into the bread all the way to the tray, striking granite with a loud that made someone at a nearby table glance over.
Only Mira turned red. The other two boys at the table looked like the outside world had been permanently muted for them.
Rein exhaled hard—visibly relieved, like he’d just cleared a dungeon boss.
Without hesitation, he grabbed the conquered bread piece and plunged it into the steaming stew. He held it there, waiting for liquid to seep into the microscopic gaps between compressed starch molecules—letting the structure finally give away.
He wasn’t stupid enough to risk his precious molars on fossil-grade bread without preparation.
“You live another day, Nightfall…” he murmured, flicking his eyes to the “pen” clipped in his cloak pocket.
It was an enormous stroke of luck for a legendary cursed sword—not having its dignity reduced into a miserable bread knife today.
While he sipped stew that was already losing its edge, Rein finally caught the opening—Boris had slowed after reducing the hip-cut meat to bare bone.
Rein moved his spoon lazily, then spoke in a flat voice.
“Let me ask you something, Boris.”
The silver-haired boy lifted his head, wiping sauce from the corner of his mouth, and looked at Rein with mild suspicion.
“As you know… I’ve got a bit of an issue with my memory lately,” Rein said softly, pulling a strange little smile—one that made Mira’s instincts itch. It was the kind of smile an adult used when trying to coax information. “That silver card… that’s money in this world, right? And if someone—hypothetically—doesn’t have it… where do they get one?”
Both Mira and Boris went wide-eyed. They stopped blinking for a beat, then blurted at nearly the same time—
“You… lost it?!”
Rein went quiet.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked down at his tray—already scraped clean—then gave a small, resigned nod.
Boris stared at him like he was recalculating reality: how could the year’s “top genius” lose something as basic as an ID card? He let out a long breath, pulled out his own silver card, and began explaining with a more serious tone.
“This is a student Identification Card for the Academy,” he said, tapping it lightly against the granite table.
Tap… tap… tap…
The sound was strangely steady.
“It’s made from a special kind of enchanted metal that records the user’s Mana Signature. It doesn’t just store your profile—it also acts as a key that links to a scholarship student’s credit account. Like how I used it earlier to pay for our food. The system deducts the amount through a mana authorization signal—converted into money—directly from the Academy’s central account the moment the owner’s signature is confirmed.”
Rein frowned. A branching data-map was already forming in his head.
“And that account you’re talking about—where is it stored?” he pressed, the question landing with the instinct of someone who understood databases. “Don’t tell me the numbers are literally stored inside that dumb metal plate.”
Boris flinched slightly at the casual insult aimed at the pride of Academy students.
“Not exactly,” he said. “It works through a mana network that covers all of Arcadia. The main account is in the Central Registry. The card is just an identity authenticator—permission to access the balance.”
Mira’s expression sharpened. She leaned closer, studying Rein’s eyes as if searching for a crack.
“Rein… you’re asking like you’re not worried about ‘losing your card.’ You’re worried about the security model,” she said, uneasy. “Normally, if a scholarship student loses their card, the first thing they do is run to Registration to freeze the account—not sit here asking where the data is stored!”
Rein ignored her scrutiny. Inside, he was reorganizing the new information.
“I just…” he said, dodging cleanly while taking the last sip of stew, “…wanted to know if the door stays locked when the key disappears.”
He kept his spoon suspended, quietly repeating the core logic to himself.
“So the card is just a key… and the real numbers live in the central system.”
Boris nodded and flicked the silver card in the air. Mana-light caught its surface in quick flashes. “Mine’s silver. I get 2,000 AC a month. But yours is a Gold Card.” He grinned. “I’ve heard the year’s top rank gets as much as 5,000 AC monthly.”
“So unfair!” Mira blurted, pouting. “You two are the privileged class. You don’t struggle like normal students like me. My family has to send money from outside, and converting it into AC inside the Academy is a pain. Some months I don’t even have 1,000 AC.”
She grumbled and bit into her toast as if chewing down her frustration.
Rein stared at the silver card in Boris’s hand without blinking.
Inside his skull, numbers began to move.
5,000 AC per month… How much was that, really—for a student?
Previous Rein… If you hadn’t spent like a drunk noble for the last seven months,
the total sitting in your Central Registry account would qualify you as a scholarship-kid millionaire by the Academy standards.
“And this meal…” Rein asked, jutting his chin toward his own tray. “How much did it cost?”
“For a standard set like what you ate? At most 10 AC,” Boris replied with a half-laugh. “Clear stew and those rock-hard bread bricks you just performed surgery on.”
Rein looked down at the rye lump again.
Silence settled over him for a beat.
So I… picked the cheapest item in this entire canteen?
The pride of “defeating” the bread boss collapsed the instant he realized it was the bottom rung of the food chain.
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“Oh—The Pit only opens at lunch and dinner,” Mira added, brushing crumbs from her fingers. “You should watch your timing. Otherwise the good stuff—ingredients with high mana yield—gets wiped out by second- and third-years before you even reach the door.”
The Pit. Rein snorted internally at DVM culture.
It seemed like everyone in this department had a hobby: taking depressing places and slapping edgy nicknames on them to make them feel cooler.
He discarded the useless thought and fixed Boris with a serious stare.
“So if the card’s gone,” Rein said flatly, “what do I do?”
Boris froze mid-stab on the last piece of meat. His eyes shifted when he realized Rein wasn’t letting this go. “You report it to the department’s administrative office. But the problem is—replacement cards aren’t free. You pay a replacement fee. And that part… you can only pay with cash, or whatever remaining credit you still have access to.”
“And that fee,” Rein asked, voice still even, “how much?”
Mira rolled her eyes, thinking, then answered for him. “No idea. For a normal card like mine, maybe around 50 AC. But for a premium Gold Card like yours?” She grimaced. “It could jump to 100 AC.”
“One hundred AC…”
Rein repeated the number inside his skull immediately.
That was ten bowls of clear stew—at minimum.
Or—translated into brutal reality—five full days of starvation, just to buy the key that granted access to 5,000 AC he wasn’t even sure still existed.
Boris seemed to read the calculation flashing across Rein’s face. He chuckled in his throat with something like amused pity, then waved his silver card in front of Rein as if teasing him.
“Alright. Since you just crawled back from the dead… I’ll let you use mine for now. Once your new card’s issued and your account starts moving again, you pay me back.”
He finished—and then, just as quickly, slipped the silver “key” back into his cloak pocket, leaving Rein to drown in microeconomics all over again.
As Rein lifted his cup and drank slowly, his eyes swept The Pit once more—careful, methodical.
Now that his stomach had something in it, the researcher’s instinct kicked in: collect everything.
He glanced at Mira, who’d just finished her last piece of bread, and Boris, who was leaning back against his stone chair, content.
“One more question,” Rein said, nodding toward the far side of the canteen. “Over there—those are second- and third-years, right?”
Two groups of older students sat apart. Even from a distance, the pressure around them felt denser than the first-years—like the air itself had learned to brace.
“Yeah. Why?” Mira asked, sipping a clear green fruit drink.
“Nothing.” Rein’s gaze stayed on them. “I’m just wondering why their cloaks don’t look the same. Not a single one.”
To Rein, the first-year cloaks were mass-produced uniform pieces—standardized to the millimeter.
But the seniors’ cloaks looked custom.
Some had tanned leather reinforcement stitched into critical areas. Some had metallic fibers woven into strange patterns. Even the length and number of pockets varied—though every cloak still kept the DVM’s signature pitch-black tone.
“Oh, that,” Mira said, lowering her cup with a small smile. “DVM rules. Starting second year, The Academy allows students to modify—customize—their magic cloaks to fit their identity. It’s basically a department-exclusive privilege.”
Boris let out a quiet laugh, his voice turning oddly proud.
“Well… we’re Variant Mages, aren’t we?”
He tapped the table with his finger.
“Each of us has an Affiliation with an element or power that doesn’t fit the standard system. Some people’s mana radiates so much heat that normal fabric burns. Others need specialized damping points…”
He trailed off, then hooked a hand at the collar of his own cloak and tugged it, as if exposing the long-standing irritation of “standard issue” material.
“Forcing us to wear identical cloaks forever is like handing a woodcutter a kitchen knife and telling him to fell a giant tree with it. Sure—maybe you can brute-force it. But it’s slower, it’s harder… and the tool breaks for no reason.”
He paused, looking at his cloak as if imagining the future version—one that actually belonged to him.
“Letting us find a form that reflects who we are… is the only correct approach for people like us.”
Rein nodded slowly, filling the logic away.
A thought sparked in his head—quiet, sharp, and filed away into the category labeled: Later.
While they waited for food to settle, Rein listened to the “fun stories” his two new acquaintances traded back and forth. He shaped his face into something that resembled interest—even laughter at the appropriate beats—while inside, he dissected the probability and utility of every detail with bored precision.
Boris started with the chaos of the most recent quiz: a “magic beast” escaping an examiner’s control, sending first-years scattering through the corridors—abandoning books and sprinting for their lives. He acted it out with enough body language to make it feel like a slapstick scene, and Rein produced a mild chuckle on cue.
Then Mira’s story drifted somewhere else entirely—
Urban legend.
She told him about the “stone statue of an aged lord,” seated stiffly on a carved wooden chair deep within the DVM library. They said he was one of the founders of this fortress-building—and on nights when the halls fell silent under thin moonlight, some claimed the statue rose and walked the aisles, searching the shelves as if hunting a lost tome.
She also spoke of the “stairs in the Tower House”—how the number of steps in daylight and at night never matched even once, as if the building itself were alive, subtly stretching and contracting to lure visitors into getting lost.
“And the creepiest one…” Mira lowered her voice to a near-whisper, her eyes trembling beneath the pale mana-light. “They say… on the night when two full moons align—the Double Full Moon
—you’ll hear the sound of iron on stone.
Scrape... clank... echoing through the corridors And anyone unlucky enough to be outside their room that night… gets yanked into the shadows by that trapped spirit—”
Her throat bobbed.
“—and no one has ever come back.”
Rein took a slow sip of water to hide the grin threatening to escape.
Double Full Moon, huh? Interesting. What would the net gravitational effect look like on a night like that?
And the sound… could just be old pipes expanding and contracting when the temperature drops too fast.
Still, he played the role of a decent listener—nodding at the right beats, widening his eyes at the right moments—keeping the fragile “friends sharing a meal” atmosphere intact as best he could.
He needed Boris and Mira right now.
Especially with a wallet as empty as a vacuum chamber.
While Rein rested his chin on one hand and listened to teenage horror stories with practiced patience, his eyes caught movement at the edge of his vision—past his friends’ shoulders.
A group had just entered The Pit.
And their target was painfully obvious.
They headed straight for this table the moment they spotted Rein seated there.
A blond boy stepped forward with footsteps that were heavy—deliberately heavy.
He wore the academy uniform with a spotless white collar, and on the lapel sat two thin gold stripes, intentionally displayed: the mark of a second-year with enough status to announce himself without words.
His hair shone beneath the dim canteen light, combed with noble precision—like it belonged in a portrait from an old aristocratic era.
His skin was pale in the sheltered way of someone who’d never needed to meet sun or wind. His light-blue eyes were cold enough to raise gooseflesh, yet his lips carried a constant smile.
A smile that looked welcoming—
and that everyone in The Pit knew was the smile of someone perfectly willing to grind you into the floor with pressure alone.
His black cloak was adorned with gilded magical metalwork engraved in meticulous patterns, glittering just enough under mana lamps to make him look like he was glowing in the shadows.
The hem and cuffs were stitched with craftsmanship far too refined for standard student issue.
Every detail screamed: custom-made.
Expensive. Untouchable.
Behind him, five more students followed in disciplined formation like an escort. No one spoke. No one met Rein’s eyes. They moved like shadows—obedient, silent, and strictly attached to the will of the one in front.
The group stopped at the granite table, blotting out the thin light that had been falling onto Rein’s meal tray.
The blond boy’s smile widened a fraction.
Then he spoke in a tone that was soft—
and razor-deep.
“Didn’t think you’d survive long enough to sit here and hold your head up again, Rein.”
A pause. His gaze swept over Rein’s miserable tray with open contempt.
“For a cheater like you to crawl back alive… either that ‘Warlock’ isn’t as terrifying as the rumors say—”
His smile sharpened.
“—or he’s just as amateur as the methods you used in the tournament.”
The air around the table dropped several degrees.
Mira froze, forgetting to drink.
Boris—who’d been relaxed just moments ago—straightened, his cheer wiped clean, eyes sharpening with caution.
Mira set her fruit drink down slowly, careful not to let the glass clink against the tray. Her eyes flicked to Rein, worried, already mapping exits in her head. She was certain this lunch wasn’t going to end with words alone.
But the messy-haired boy beside her, he seemed… absent.
His eyes weren’t focused on the second-years looming over them.
They looked past them—far past—like he was surveying the stone ceiling of The Pit itself.
Mira followed his gaze in confusion, saw nothing—
and at the moment tension peaked, Rein stood up in one abrupt motion.
THUD—CLANG!
The sheer speed and lack of warning made all six second-years flinch. They jerked back two or three steps on instinct. One of them even reflexively gripped his magic staff; another half-raised his hand like he was bracing for impact.
They had numbers.
They had seniority.
But across Arcadia, Rein’s name had a different category entirely.
A monster.
“No longer hungry?” Rein said flatly—without even glancing at the blond boy. He turned to Boris and Mira, who were still sitting there in stunned silence.
“Let’s go.”
“W-Wait—where are you going?” Mira hissed as she scrambled up.
“To find Master Alvira,” Rein replied, adjusting the collar of his cloak with calm precision. “Right now, nothing is more urgent than money. Agreed?”
And with that, Rein walked straight through the gap between the six second-years as if they were part of the canteen’s decoration—stone pillars with better hair.
He brushed shoulders with one of them like it meant nothing.
Because in his mind, there was only one equation worth solving:
If the problem is money, fix it now, so you can return to more important problems.
And the 5,000 AC in the Central Registry was the single variable that would make surviving this irrational world significantly easier.
He took only a few steps past the blond boy before a furious shout yanked at his back.
“H-Hey! You dare ignore me—Timothy Viremont—like I’m nothing?! You lowborn orphan!”
Rein stopped.
His expression didn’t tighten with anger.
It shifted into something else—
a weary, unhidden annoyance.
He exhaled slowly.
Of course. Blond hair. Aristocrat pallor. A perfect entourage. And we’re leading with bloodline and social rank…
Is the god of this world so lazy he’s copy-pasting clichés now?
Rein turned around with the exhaustion of someone being forced to entertain a mosquito.
He flicked his hand through the air like he was shooing a fly.
“Alright… young master Malfoy,” he said in a voice so calm it could’ve been poured from ice. “I don’t remember you. And I don’t care what issue a young master like you thinks he has with me.”
A small shrug.
“Want revenge, want to insult me, want to do whatever—fine. But seriously… could you play somewhere else?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, unimpressed.
“Preferably not while I’m busy.”
Then he turned away again. His black cloak swept behind him with each steady step, and he left The Pit without once looking back to admire the damage.
Boris and Mira stared at each other in blank disbelief—then hurried after him in silence, leaving the canteen behind in boiling turmoil.
Timothy’s once-divine, prince-like face twisted into something ugly.
He’d been humiliated—publicly—before a hundred witnesses.
One of his followers scratched his head, genuinely confused.
“Wait… did that guy just call Young Master Timothy… ‘Malfoy’?” he muttered. “Is that another noble house or something? Did he mix up the family names?”
These entries expand the lore and mechanics introduced in this chapter.
Completely optional—read only if you enjoy diving deeper into the system.
Location Codex
A colloquial name for the Department of Variant Magic’s canteen. A cavernous hall with stone furniture and harsh acoustics, it serves as the primary dining area for students.
Known for its utilitarian, no-frills atmosphere and "end-of-the-world bunker" aesthetic, The Pit is open only during lunch and dinner and often suffers from ingredient shortages due to high demand.
First-years receive basic uniform meals, while upperclassmen with more AC credits gain access to higher-tier food. The name reflects both the grim setting and the brutal survivalist culture of the DVM.
Currency Codex
The main currency used within Arcadia Academy, linked directly to students' scholarship status and financial records. Managed through the Central Registry, credits are deducted automatically via mana-linked ID cards. Monthly allowance varies by tier—standard students receive a minimal stipend, while top-ranked students receive up to 5,000 AC. Physical cash is rarely used, but may be required for replacement fees or off-network transactions.
Item Codex
An enchanted metallic card used to store a student’s mana signature and profile. Acts as both an ID and access key to the Academy’s financial system. The Silver Card is for regular scholarship students (e.g., 2,000 AC/month), while the Gold Card is reserved for top-ranked students (e.g., 5,000 AC/month). Loss of the card requires reporting to the admin office and payment of a replacement fee (estimated at 100 AC for Gold).
A DVM privilege granted starting in the second year. Students may customize their standard-issued black magic cloaks to reflect their elemental affinity or combat needs. This includes alterations to fabric, length, structure, reinforcement materials (e.g., metal threads, leather patches), and pocket configuration. The customization reflects both function and identity, as Variant Mages often require specialized attire due to their non-standard mana behavior.
Key Characters
A second-year student from a noble house, distinguished by his custom-tailored black cloak with gilded magic etchings and noble air. Known for flaunting his status via white collars and gold lapel stripes. Acts as a social antagonist, attempting to exert dominance through aristocratic pressure. He is publicly humiliated by Rein, who sarcastically calls him “Young Master Malfoy,” mocking his cliché behavior and inflated ego.
A satirical nickname used by Rein to mock Timothy Viremont, referencing the Harry Potter character Draco Malfoy. The comment underscores Rein’s disdain for cliché aristocratic arrogance and signals his disinterest in petty social posturing.
The reference confuses other students, reinforcing the cultural gap between Rein and the world he now inhabits.
A set of supernatural rumors circulating among students at the Department of Variant Magic. Notable examples include:
– The Moving Statue: A stone figure of a former founder said to roam the library at night.
– The Living Staircase: Tower House stairs that change step counts between day and night.
– Double Full Moon Curse: On nights with two full moons, a spirit drags students away if they remain outside their rooms. The legend includes the ominous sound of iron scraping stone.
These tales contribute to DVM's eerie reputation and echo the unpredictable, often surreal environment its students endure.
A humorous but emblematic object in the story—a rock-hard piece of bread served in the canteen. Rein treats it like a physical challenge, comparing its durability to a “hazardous object” or “boss monster.”
His internal calculation of its density and cutting angle reflects his analytical mindset. It becomes a recurring gag symbolizing the harshness of academy life for broke students.
Reflected through the customization of cloaks and individual power expressions, Variant Mages defy the standard magical classification system. Their magic often includes unusual elemental combinations or abnormal mana properties, requiring unique tools and garments. The core philosophy emphasizes adaptation and identity over rigid uniformity.
A rare astronomical phenomenon in the world of Arcadia, surrounded by myths and fears. Its appearance is tied to ghost stories and strange happenings. Though likely based on natural explanations (e.g., thermal expansion of pipes), the lore adds a layer of magical realism to the academy’s already chaotic environment.
— Re:Naissance