The grand doors of the classroom swing shut, leaving the recruits alone with Damien Crowley.
The atmosphere in the room shifts instantly. The ancient, almost mythic aura of Gabriel and Agamor is gone, replaced by the sharp, sterile precision of the man who now stands before them.
He is a study in controlled intensity.
Tall and impeccably groomed, he wears an immaculate all-black suit over a black collared shirt and tie. His hair, a dark, gunmetal gray, is slicked back from a sharp widow’s peak, with a few precise strands falling artfully across his forehead.
Thin, gold-framed glasses rest on the bridge of a narrow nose, and behind them, his eyes are the color of cold steel—analytical, piercing, and utterly devoid of warmth.
He walks to the front of the room, his polished dress shoes making no sound on the marble floor.
He places a thin leather portfolio on the lectern and looks out at them, his gaze sweeping across each of their faces.
It is not a warm or welcoming look; it is the analytical, appraising stare of a scientist observing a new set of specimens.
“My name is Damien Crowley,” he begins, his voice crisp and clear, devoid of any accent Carter can place. It’s the voice of a man who has mastered language itself.
“I am Sir Agamor’s branch assistant and, for the foreseeable future, your primary instructor in the theory and application of magic. Let us establish some ground rules.”
He holds up a single finger.
“One. This is a classroom, not a social club. The childish antics I witnessed moments ago will not be tolerated here.”
“You are no longer civilians. You are potential assets in a battle that has been raging for millennia. You will conduct yourselves accordingly.”
He holds up a second finger.
“Two. When I am speaking, you are listening. When I give an order, you obey it without question or hesitation.”
“Your survival may one day depend on it.”
His gaze lands on Ruby, who is sitting off to the side, observing the new recruits with a calm, practiced ease.
“And three. Ms. Sato is not a new recruit. While she is around your age, she is a competent combat specialist who understands the fundamentals.”
“For the duration of your training, she is not your friend. She is my assistant. You will address her as such.”
The recruits, who had been starting to relax after the excitement of the previous scene, now sit bolt upright, the mood in the room turning serious and tense.
“Good,” Damien says, a flicker of something that might be approval in his cold, steel-gray eyes.
“You are beginning to understand the gravity of your situation.”
“Magic is a power, but like any power, it is useless without knowledge.”
He places a single, open palm flat on the surface of the lectern.
“To that end, your formal education begins now.”
A low hum fills the room, a resonant frequency that vibrates in Carter’s teeth.
The air above each recruit’s desk thickens, shimmering with golden threads of light that begin to weave themselves together, spinning and twisting like a loom operated by invisible hands.
The light solidifies, and with a series of solid, definitive thuds that echo in the silent room, a thick, heavy book appears on each desk.
Carter stares down at the object before him. It is bound in dark, supple leather that looks ancient and feels cool to the touch.
The cover is completely blank except for a single, embossed symbol in the center: a silver Lotus Circle, the emblem of the Library.
He runs a hand over the smooth surface, a strange energy seeming to thrum beneath his fingertips.
“This,” Damien announces, his voice cutting through their awed silence, “is the Lexanomicon. It is your textbook, your dictionary, and your bible.”
“Inside, you will find a comprehensive guide to the known magical languages, their affinities, and their Dissonance ratings. It details the fundamental structures of spellcasting, from the simplest direct spells to the most complex mixed incantations.”
He pauses, letting them absorb the weight of the object before them.
“However, in its current state, it is useless to you. The knowledge within is locked, written in a cipher that none of you can read.”
“It must first be attuned to its owner.”
From his own portfolio, Damien produces a set of simple, black ink pens, placing one on the desk of each recruit with a sharp, precise movement.
“Take the pen before you. Open the cover. On the inside, at the bottom of the first page, you will write your name.”
Carter picks up the simple pen. It feels strangely mundane compared to the magical tome it’s meant for.
He opens the heavy cover. The first page is thick and cream-colored, filled with dense blocks of an intricate, alien script.
At the bottom is a small, empty line. With a hesitant hand, he presses the nib to the page and writes his name: Carter Cross.
The moment his name is complete, the ink sinks into the page and vanishes without a trace.
A soft, warm light emanates from the spine of the book, pulsing gently like a slow heartbeat.
Carter watches in stunned silence as the strange, alien script on the page begins to move.
The characters flow like liquid ink, blurring and stretching, the lines of text washing across the page like a tide.
They then reform, rearranging themselves into the crisp, familiar letters of perfect English.
He flips through the pages; every chart, every diagram, every word has been rewritten for him.
“The Lexanomicon has now attuned to you,” Damien explains, his voice a calm anchor in their sea of wonder. “It has recognized the language of your soul’s affinity and will now present all knowledge in that tongue.”
“Like a grimoire, once you are issued a Lotus Ring, this book can be stored and summoned at your will. It is a part of you now.”
He begins to pace again, his presence dominating the room.
“You will not treat this as optional reading. You will study it. You will memorize it.”
“You will sleep with it under your pillow if you must. The knowledge within these pages is not for academic curiosity. It is for survival.”
“Ignorance of the laws of magic will not grant you leniency in a battle. It will only grant you a swift and painful death. Is that understood?”
A chorus of quiet, intimidated “yes, sir”s echoes through the room.
Carter runs a hand over the smooth leather cover, the sheer weight of the book—and the knowledge it contains—a heavy, daunting reality.
“Now,” Damien says, opening his portfolio. “Before we begin, let’s address the… linguistic chaos in this room.”
“Most of you are speaking a fractured mix of Thaylic and the tongues you are just beginning to remember. It is the expected, messy symptom of breaking free from a lifetime of conditioning.”
His steel-gray eyes scan the group before landing squarely on Carter.
“Except for you.”
Carter feels a jolt, as if he’s been singled out by a predator.
“You speak perfect, unadulterated English, with no trace of Thaylic,” Damien states, his tone purely observational, yet it makes the hairs on Carter’s neck stand up. “Curious.”
“For someone who has just awakened, that is a significant anomaly.” He doesn’t wait for a response.
“This linguistic variance would make instruction impossible. However, every structure within the Library’s headquarters & the Marble City is protected by a powerful, ward.”
“It functions similarly to the Lotus Ring Sir Agamor described, translating all spoken languages into the listener’s own affinity. It is a convenience that will allow us to proceed.”
“Do not get used to it. The world outside these walls is not so accommodating.”
He closes the portfolio and looks at them, his expression severe.
“Let us begin with the absolute foundation. Magic is not a toy. It is not a series of tricks.”
“It is a science, a discipline governed by immutable laws. And the single most important component in all of spellcasting is intent.”
He begins to pace slowly in front of them.
“The universe does not care for your idle chatter. It is a vast, powerful entity that responds only to will.”
“Intent is the difference between speaking a word and casting a spell. It is the conscious, focused desire to enact change upon the world.”
“Without it, the most powerful incantation is nothing more than empty noise.”
He stops and turns to Yulian.
Yulian, looking slightly surprised, does as he is told, his large frame towering over the other recruits.
“You are a strong young man,” Damien says, his tone analytical. “Your body is well-conditioned.”
“This brings us to the first of the two great laws of magic. First is The Law of Embodiment.”
He gestures to Yulian.
“This law states that the human body is the physical channel, the conduit, for all magical energy. Think of your body as an electrical wire and magic as raw electricity.”
“A standard wire can handle a certain voltage safely. If you try to force too much power through it, the wire will overheat, melt, and break.”
“Your body works the same way. Every spell, no matter how small, has a real, physical cost. This cost is known as Backlash.”
He points to a massive terracotta pot on the floor near the window, where a tall, leafy plant soaks up the morning sun.
“Russian magic, for example, has a powerful connection to the raw earth. Mr. Volkov, your soul will one day resonate with that power.”
He turns his gaze from Yulian to the pot. He speaks, his voice a low rumble that is a perfect imitation of Yulian’s own accent.
“создать столб.”
(create a pillar)
Instantly, the dark soil in the pot begins to tremble.
With a low, grinding sound, the dirt churns and compacts, and a thick, perfectly formed pillar of solid earth rises smoothly from the pot, spiraling around the plant’s stem without disturbing a single leaf.
It stops a foot above the soil, a flawless, intricate sculpture of compressed earth.
“You see?” Damien says, his voice cutting through the recruits’ awed silence as the pillar crumbles back into loose soil with a flick of his wrist. “A simple, direct spell.”
“For a master, the cost is negligible. But for a novice, even a spell this basic would put a significant strain on an untrained body.”
“This is Backlash. Neglect your physical conditioning, and you will become a glass cannon, destined to shatter.”
“This brings us to the second law. The Law of Affinity.”
Damien says, his voice taking on a colder, more severe edge. “This law states that casting spells in your language affinity is natural, efficient, and powerful.”
“It is the path of least resistance.”
Paige raises a hesitant hand.
“Wait, what is a language affinity?”
“Is it genetic? Tied to our ancestry?”
“An excellent question, Ms. Hellen, and the most common misconception,” Damien replies with a slight nod. “It is not.”
“Affinity is not about blood; it is about connection. For those born before The Unity, it was the language most deeply imprinted upon their soul—the one they spoke, thought, and dreamed in.”
Yulian furrows his brow.
“But many of us weren’t born before Unity. We have only ever known one language.”
“Correct, Mr. Reyes,” Damien confirms, his gaze sweeping over the younger recruits. “Which is why for your generation, the process is different.”
“When you break free, the Consciousness of Magic does not look to your bloodline. It looks to your environment.”
“It assigns you the affinity of the majority of people who surrounded you in your formative years.”
He elaborates, seeing the confusion on their faces.
“For example: imagine you were born and raised in the United States after Unity was casted (2004). Your mother’s family was from Mexico, your father’s from Germany.”
“But the people around you—your neighbors, your teachers, the older generations in your community—their souls resonated with English before the spell was cast. Therefore, Magic would assign you an English affinity.”
“The words that first began to bubble up in your mind, the ones that felt like a forgotten memory, would be English. Your soul is not reclaiming what was yours by blood, but what was yours by community.”
Keyona leans forward, her expression sharp and calculating.
“So what about people who could speak multiple languages before? Or what about us, now? Can we learn more?”
“Another excellent question, Ms. Baker,” Damien says, a flicker of approval in his eyes. “You can, and you will, learn other languages.”
“But you will only ever have one true Affinity. That will never change.”
“However, a mage who is merely fluent in their own language is a blunt instrument. A polyglot—one who masters multiple languages and understands their unique magical properties, their strengths, their weaknesses, and their Dissonance levels—is a surgical tool.”
“Knowing multiple languages gives you a significant tactical advantage. It is what allows a truly skilled mage to weave different linguistic powers together, creating complex, reality-defying Mixed Spells.”
“That is a level of mastery you should all aspire to. But first,” he says, his tone becoming sharp again, “you must master the basics.”
He stops pacing and fixes them with a hard stare.
“Casting spells in a language that is not your affinity, however, invites chaos. It causes a phenomenon known as Linguistic Dissonance—a violent rejection of an incompatible frequency.”
“It is a backlash that attacks not just the body, but the soul. We have quantified this on a six-level scale.”
“Flip to the section on Dissonance within your Lexanomicon.”
Carter does as he says and searches for the pages on dissonance.
The book seems almost “alive”; it begins flipping itself to the pages he is searching for.
Did it just? Move itself? He thinks.
He holds up a hand, ticking off the levels on his fingers.
“Level one is your affinity: no Dissonance. Level two is a dull, persistent headache, easily ignored.”
“Level three, a sharp migraine, perhaps a nosebleed.”
“Level four is where true danger begins: intense, burning pain, as if your nerves are on fire. Level five is agonizing, all-consuming pain that can cause internal hemorrhaging, a stroke, or permanent physical damage.”
“Level six,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, chilling monotone, “is your soul and body being torn apart by raw, untamed energy. It is a spectacular and excruciating way to die.”
The recruits are silent, the descriptions painting a grim picture in their minds.
“However,” Damien continues, the single word cutting through the tension, “there are exceptions. Rare individuals whose souls have a stronger, more direct connection to the consciousness of Magic.”
“We call them Resonants.”
His steel-gray eyes land on Carter, a flicker of analytical curiosity in their depths.
“Mr. Cross, your… performance in the council chamber yesterday was a clear indicator of this status.”
His gaze then shifts to Akira, who meets it with a look of bored indifference.
“And Mr. Kendo’s known lineage and established abilities confirm his status as well.”
“I, too, am a Resonant. For us, the physical toll of Dissonance is reduced by roughly half.”
- Example = A Resonant mage who doesn’t have an affinity for Russian. But wants to use Russian magic, which causes level 4 dissonance, would only experience level 2.
“It is a significant advantage, but it is not invincibility. A level six spell outside of our affinity can still kill us, just slightly less efficiently.”
He turns his attention to the rest of the recruits, their faces a mixture of awe and apprehension.
“It is an exceptionally rare trait. In time, we will conduct a formal test to determine if any of you share this gift.”
“But for now, all of you—including our two known Resonants—will operate under a single, unwavering assumption: that using a language outside your affinity for anything more than a simple, direct spell is a calculated risk.”
“For a non-Resonant, it is a potential death sentence. Do not be foolish enough to test that theory on your own.”
He claps his hands together, the sharp sound making them all jump.
“Now that you understand the laws that govern you, you must understand the enemy that you will face. The Order of Babel is an ancient, powerful, and well-funded organization.”
“They are not a disorganized mob of fanatics. They are disciplined, they are ruthless, and they are everywhere.”
“Within the Library, we are structured to combat them on all fronts. As you have been told, we have three branches: Combat, Medical, and Scholarly.”
“Each is vital to our cause.”
He looks at them, his expression grim.
“This is a war of attrition, knowledge, and will.”
“And it is a war we cannot afford to lose.”
He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle over them, a heavy, suffocating blanket of responsibility.
“But all this knowledge—the laws, the languages, the strategies—it is all useless… until you take the first real step.”
He looks from face to face, his gaze lingering on each of them for a moment.
“Before you can truly use any of this, before you can cast a single spell or wield a single grimoire…”
“you must first open your Gate.”