Aster pressed his fingers against the mirror’s cold surface, tracing each glyph with precise strokes and muttering each rune under his breath like someone programming a printer that might explode if disrespected. The symbols shimmered, pulsing with faint light as they completed the spellform.

  As he checked himself over one last time—adjusting the sharp cuffs of his white-and-silver Galamad uniform, pulling the hem straight, smoothing down the faint crease on the collar—he couldn’t help but recall, with the clarity of trauma, how he’d first received this so-called prestigious attire.

  Delivered. By a fish. To the face.

  He’d barely crossed over from the Material Plane when it happened. One moment: spiritual transit, peaceful disorientation, the gentle metaphysical slip into the Astral Realm. The next—

  [?? Incoming Courier Familiar]

  [Salm’oon. The briny parcel daddy.]

  Before he could even register the pervert now monologuing in his head—

  Whap. A salmon-shaped missile of divine postal vengeance clocked him square in the jaw, trailed by a dainty paper tag that read: “Welcome to Galamad. Uniform delivery courtesy of the Astral Courier Guild.”

  The fish.

  Even now, standing perfectly pressed and properly creased, Aster glared at his own reflection. “I will push the courier service to another animal—a sentient rock, for all I care,” he muttered. “But I will make the courier fish learn that we evolved past fins for a reason.”

  With an exasperated sigh and his pride moderately repaired, he stepped forward—and was swallowed by the mirror.

  The world reassembled around him in a rush of color and grandeur. The Sylvi Wing of Galamad Academy unfolded like a hallucination with a design budget. Deep ocean-blue marble gleamed under his boots, polished so intensely it could trigger an existential crisis. Gold filigree laced the white-tiled walls, each trimmed like it had a royal appointment to attend. Weapons and relics lined the corridors, glittering under chandeliers like aristocratic ghosts waiting to judge you for walking too loudly.

  It was all too much. Again. Always.

  Aster adjusted his collar and inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself. He’d missed a few cultivation classes—poverty, void wyrm, ritual, trauma, and a mild existential spiral. Lena had promised to help him catch up. Not like he had much choice. He needed this. Needed to keep moving.

  He turned into the classroom, already mapping out the fastest way to sneak into a seat unnoticed. No need to draw attention. Just blend in. Keep quiet. Learn a few things. Easy.

  Then the silence hit like a slap.

  Voices stopped. Heads turned. A roomful of synchronized stares pinned him in place like a museum specimen labeled “Void Cursed: Do Not Touch.”

  He froze.

  Reflexively, he checked behind him. No one there.

  Great. Definitely him.

  And before he could think up a clever line to cut the tension, Lena appeared beside him like summoned shame. She grabbed his wrist with all the urgency of someone dragging a fire hazard out of a gas leak and yanked him from the room.

  “Good to see you too,” Aster muttered as the door shut behind them.

  Lena shoved a folded newspaper into his chest. The headline punched harder than the fish.

  Survivor of Void Wyrm Saved by Impossible Means – Cure Still Not Found

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  His throat tightened. He remembered Aerathena’s words—how she would “control the narrative,” keep things quiet.

  Ambiguous, she’d said. This? This wasn’t ambiguous. This was full-on tabloid armageddon.

  “They printed this?” he croaked.

  “They’re not supposed to use names,” Lena muttered, rubbing her temple. “But even if they hadn’t, people talk. They know it was you.”

  “And what?” he asked, though he already felt the answer simmering under his skin.

  “They think you didn’t deserve it,” she said, straight to the point. “That if there’s only one ‘cure,’ it should’ve gone to someone else.”

  “Someone richer. More photogenic. Less… me.”

  “Basically.”

  Aster looked at her. “And you?”

  “I think they’re idiots,” she said. “And so does Yani. Musa called it ‘peak victim-blaming,’ which is how you know he’s still mad but trying to be eloquent.”

  He felt something unclench in his chest.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go remind them you’re not made of glass.”

  They stepped back inside. The tension hung in the air like wet laundry, but Aster walked through it this time. The silence didn’t crush him—it just… buzzed.

  Aster, mid-thought about how many ways he could fake a stroke to skip this class—

  “Seats, everyone!”

  Aster turned just in time to see the instructor enter, and for a moment, his brain completely short-circuited.

  She was breathtaking—a tall, striking African woman draped in a loose-fitting sundress that hugged her curves with effortless grace. Her dark skin glowed under the classroom’s candlelight, her movements exuding an air of controlled power. Every student sat up a little straighter as she entered, though Aster remained frozen in place, still standing while the rest of the class had taken their seats.

  The instructor’s full lips curled into a knowing smile. “Mr. Elchen, I presume? The Void Cursed who lives.”

  Aster’s breath caught in his throat as every eye in the room turned on him once more.

  He wasn’t used to attention. Living on the streets meant staying on the periphery—unseen, unheard. This? This was suffocating.

  “You can take your seat, Mr. Elchen,” she said lightly. “We’re covering Aether Refinement today. I’ve already been informed by Mrs. Brambel about your situation. She’ll help you catch up, but don’t hesitate to ask me any questions.”

  He nodded mutely and sank into his chair.

  The instructor—Mrs. Lerato, as he quickly learned—moved gracefully to the front of the room.

  “Aether refinement and absorption,” she began, her voice commanding yet melodic, “is the cornerstone of cultivation.”

  Aster perked up.

  Ah. There it was. The cornerstone. The holy grail. The mythical real part of the lesson, after everyone kept trying to liken magic to accounting.

  He leaned forward slightly. Pen ready. Mind open.

  Then she reached under her desk and slapped a dripping slab of blue meat onto the polished surface with all the reverence of a discount butcher restocking his Friday special.

  Aster blinked.

  “…Is that—?”

  “Unlike the creatures of the Astral Plane, who passively absorb Aether through consumption, we must refine and process it before absorption.”

  Aster glanced sideways at Lena, mouthing wtf?

  She ignored him.

  “This,” Mrs. Lerato continued without missing a beat, “is Aquaguana flesh. Rich in Water Aether of the Mist Hue. With proper technique, this becomes the fuel for advancement. With the wrong approach, it becomes dinner. Let’s begin.”

  With a flick of her wrist, two glowing glyphs materialized on the surface of her desk, floating, one to either side of the meat slab. They hovered in place, spinning slowly like celestial ornaments, humming with restrained power. She placed her hands on the desk, eyes scanning the room.

  “This is the crucible—the structure into which your materials will be placed.”

  The glyphs closed inward, forming a sort of arcane pressure cooker around the flesh. A flash of energy pulsed from her into the glyphs. The meat began to glow faintly, then distort. Fibers unwound. The muscle liquefied and shimmered as steam-like mist coiled upward—luminescent and oddly… beautiful.

  Aster stared.

  So… the cornerstone of cultivation is… monster vapor.

  The vapor gathered at the top of the glyph structure. It hovered for a moment, then surged into her chest, vanishing just beneath her sternum in a brilliant flare of blue.

  She didn’t so much as blink.

  “Mist Hue corresponds to my diaphragm gate,” she said matter-of-factly. “Each Typing corresponds to an intake point on your Astral Vessel. These gates are what we refine during our Initiate level.”

  She flicked her fingers. The glyphs dispersed, the remaining ash falling to the floor.

  “At your level, you can expect to extract, at best, twenty percent of usable Aether from any given mass. Which means those of you who spent your entire allowance on flashy materials are about to learn what it’s like to set fire to money in slow motion.”

  Aster leaned back slightly in his seat, processing. His thoughts, however, had already rebelled.

  Right. So to cultivate, I melt alien steak with faith, absorb the smoke like a mystical vape pen, and somehow this upgrades my ghost.

  He nodded to himself. “Totally normal,” he muttered under his breath. “Absolutely nothing culty about breathing in soul-mist from interdimensional seafood.”

  Mrs. Lerato clapped once, the sound crisp and commanding.

  “Your samples and scripts are at the front. Collect them. Today you’ll be practicing Aether Refinement. If you get it wrong, you lose faith. If you get it really wrong, I have medical staff on standby. Begin.”

  The students surged forward.