The next morning, an unusual silence pulled me from my sleep. Not the customary muteness that reigned in the dormitories reserved for "special cases" like me. No. This silence was palpable, tense, charged with an invisible expectation.

  As soon as my feet touched the cold floor of the corridor, the nature of this silence became evident. The students were looking at me. Not all of them, nor openly. But their furtive glances slid towards me as soon as I came within range. Some immediately averted their eyes, feigning indifference. Others whispered among themselves, quick and discreet asides. And a few, the most arrogant, stared at me with a troubled mixture of suspicion and a curiosity they struggled to conceal.

  It only took a whisper for a rumor to proliferate through the corridors of this academy. And I, without seeking it, had become its central subject.

  Klaus Eisenwald. The half-demon with no affinity who dared to stand up to Elena von Silberlicht.

  Even spoken in a low voice, it sounded like the beginning of an improbable legend… or an imminent disaster. This sudden attention made me uncomfortable. I preferred the shadows to the harsh light of gazes.

  In the mess hall, the murmur of conversations faded slightly as I approached. I took my usual tray – a slice of stale bread, a ladle of watery soup, and a poorly brewed herbal tea – and mechanically headed towards my usual corner, the most isolated table in the room.

  But today, this island of solitude was occupied. A slender figure was sitting there, legs crossed with studied nonchalance, round glasses perched on a delicate nose, her long violet hair held back by a simple ribbon.

  She was waiting for me.

  "You're late, Klaus Eisenwald."

  I froze, my tray halfway there.

  "...Do we know each other?"

  "Not yet. My name is Ilya. First year, Class B, non-ranked magical aptitude, just like you. I've come to observe a rare specimen in its natural habitat."

  She patted the bench next to her, a gesture both inviting and authoritative.

  "Sit down."

  I sat down, almost reflexively. A particular aura emanated from her. Not threatening, but intensely analytical, as if she were dissecting every word, every breath, every tiny expression on my face.

  "You used... unstable magic during yesterday's duel."

  "...I didn't do anything special. I just... reacted."

  "False. I consulted the duel recordings. Yes, everything is meticulously archived. You reversed the trajectory of a light projectile, slowed down a magical salvo, and nullified a concentrated energy explosion. None of these actions correspond to the standard techniques taught here."

  I remained silent, aware of Ilya's piercing gaze.

  She offered a slight smile, almost imperceptible.

  "You see? You confirm my observations without uttering a single word."

  She crunched on a dried fruit with methodical application.

  "Your affinity is anomalous. Mine is just as much. That's why we're relegated to the margins. The system hates what it cannot categorize, what escapes its rigid algorithms."

  I slowly turned my head towards her, a silent question floating in my gaze.

  "What exactly do you expect from me?"

  "Nothing specific. I seek to understand. The world, as we know it, is structured like an immense spell. Everything is logical, codified, classified according to strict rules. And yet, from time to time, a wild element comes to disrupt this pre-established harmony. An anomaly. A bug in the matrix. Like you. Like me."

  My eyebrows furrowed, intrigued by her discourse.

  "You speak like a particularly eccentric professor of abstract theory."

  "I grew up in a family of ancient spell decipherers. I was never taught to believe blindly, but to examine, to verify, to dissect every tiny component."

  Silence settled between us, punctuated by the discreet murmur of the mess hall.

  Ilya continued, her gaze suddenly more serious:

  "You've awakened something, Klaus. This duel has had a much greater impact than you suspect. And this... Caprathor... you know something about it, don't you?"

  My body tensed imperceptibly.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "How... how do you know that name?"

  "Because I heard it too. It whispered a word to me, only once, years ago. But I've always wondered if it was a dream, a hallucination, or a reality my mind struggled to grasp."

  I placed my bowl down with deliberate slowness.

  "Then it's watching both of us."

  "Or perhaps... it's waiting for us."

  After the meager meal, I headed towards the library. Not towards the forbidden section, not yet. I felt the need to return to the foundations, to consult the recognized spell manuals, to review the fundamental principles of mana, the classic energy matrices. I wanted to precisely measure the extent of my deviation from the norm.

  But I had barely opened a thick treatise on elemental enchantments when a shadow fell across my page. Someone had sat down at the neighboring table.

  It wasn't Ilya. It was someone much more intimidating.

  "You're delving into first-year theory? Has the taste of humiliation gone to your head, Eisenwald?"

  I looked up, meeting the mocking gaze of Dirk Arvens. A third-year student, son of an influential count, he embodied brute force: two meters of muscle, an oversized ego, and a notorious mastery of explosive spells. His two usual acolytes stood behind him, wearing smug smiles.

  "I heard you stood up to Silberlicht," Dirk said, a nasty grin stretching his lips.

  "It was... a coincidence," I retorted, trying to minimize the event.

  "Yeah, that's what I'll say too when I've plastered you to the wall like a bug."

  I stood up slowly, my senses on alert. I didn't aspire to confrontation, not here, not now. But the brutal determination in Dirk's eyes left no doubt about his intentions.

  "A duel according to the rules, then?" I asked, my voice surprisingly calm.

  "Of course. Tomorrow, at dawn. North training grounds. Be on time, you nobody."

  I sighed inwardly. Perpetual fleeing wasn't a viable option. A categorical refusal would brand me a coward for the rest of the year, or worse: as easy prey.

  "Very well," I agreed, a hint of resignation in my voice.

  Dirk stared at me for a moment, his eyes gleaming with unhealthy anticipation, then walked away, followed by his two laughing shadows.

  I closed my manual, a growing sense of apprehension. And in the corner of my vision, a discreet notification appeared:

  [System Notification:]

  Duel recorded. Opponent: Dirk Arvens.

  Level: 21.

  Affinity: Pure Fire.

  Danger Level: High.

  Recommendation: Abandon.

  That night, sleep eluded me. I stayed awake until the late hours, sitting cross-legged on the cold floor of my room, a notebook open on my lap. Complex magic circles, tortuous logical matrices, abstract equations, scraps of backup plans piled up on the pages.

  I knew I couldn't defeat Dirk with brute force. He was too fast, too powerful, his mana overflowing with incandescent energy.

  But perhaps… perhaps I could exploit a contradiction, a flaw in his own power. And deep down, despite the persistent fear, an idea began to take root. If this world functioned according to logical principles, however twisted, then there inevitably existed breaking points, anomalies.

  And I wasn't a warrior. I was a walking anomaly, a disruption in the established order.

  An hour before dawn, I fell asleep, exhausted, my head resting on my scribbled notes. And in the silence of my dreams, a familiar voice resonated again, an insidious murmur:

  "That's good, little parasite. Keep sowing chaos. Keep pushing the limits of what you don't understand. I'm watching you, tiny artisan of shoddy spells."

  I didn't answer. But I felt vaguely that this imminent duel wasn't a simple formality, just another trial. It was a warning, perhaps… or an invitation.

  The next morning, the air felt colder than usual. Perhaps a subjective impression, amplified by my anxiety. Or perhaps the academy itself was reacting imperceptibly to the palpable tension in the atmosphere. After all, the ambient mana wasn't just an invisible flow of energy; it was also a form of subtle memory. And today, that memory was about to record an event that some were already awaiting with unhealthy anticipation.

  My duel against Dirk Arvens.

  I arrived at the north training grounds at the agreed-upon time. The sky was still a uniform gray, the lawn damp beneath my boots, the stands sparsely occupied by a few isolated figures: early-rising students, morbidly curious individuals, predators in uniform come to witness the spectacle.

  Dirk was waiting for me, arms crossed, a carnivorous smile illuminating his face.

  "I almost thought you were too much of a coward to show up."

  "I considered it," I replied, a bitter irony masking my nervousness.

  He let out a harsh laugh, tinged with contempt.

  I took a few steps forward, and the referee appeared: a gaunt, middle-aged assistant professor whose weary expression clearly indicated that he wanted nothing more than for this duel to end quickly.

  "Duel recorded. No use of external magical artifacts allowed. Standard rules: voluntary surrender or physical incapacitation. Let the duel begin at my signal."

  I took a deep breath, trying to calm the slight tremor in my fingers. I had slept barely two hours, but every detail of my improvised plan was etched in my memory.

  I had no illusions about my chances of winning according to the established rules. But that option had never been offered to me anyway.

  The referee raised a withered hand.

  "Begin."

  I didn't wait. My first spell manifested instantly. Not a flaming projectile, not a direct attack. Just a small luminous circle that appeared beneath my feet. A simple enchantment: a local and temporary reduction of the friction coefficient. Almost invisible to the naked eye. But potentially enough to unbalance the magical charges of a less attentive opponent.

  Dirk, for his part, without the slightest hesitation, invoked a circle of incandescent fire, the size of an imposing shield, and sent it straight towards my face, a plate of molten magma.

  I dove to the side, not through an instinctive reflex, but through a calculated anticipation of its trajectory. He expected to force me to retreat, to corner me against the wall.

  But I had already prepared a second circle behind me, a slightly out-of-phase mana loop. When my foot brushed against it, my weight was momentarily redirected, propelling me at an unexpected angle.

  Dirk blinked, a fraction of a second of surprise visible in his gaze. A tiny opening.

  And that was all I needed.

  One cannot counter what one does not even conceive.

  I launched a subtle, almost imperceptible counter-charge – not a frontal attack, but a micro-spell of tension applied directly to his energy belt. A minute imbalance, but enough to cause a fissure in the matrix of his next spell, which began to waver.

  He didn't yet understand the nature of the threat. And that was precisely what made my plan viable.

  In the stands, Ilya watched me in silence, arms crossed, her expression unreadable, but her dark eyes shining with concentrated acuity. She perceived what the others ignored. She understood the nature of my approach.

  This duel wasn't just a simple physical confrontation. It was a demonstration. I wasn't strong, I wasn't noble, I wasn't even stable. But I was an anomaly. And today, the Imperial Academy of Magic of Luxnheim would have to take note.