[Location: The Grand Opera House – Dressing Room 1]

Time soon passed, and just like Damien had expected, his opportunity soon came.

The applause outside was still thundering, vibrating the floorboards of the dressing room, but inside, the air was dead silent.

Damien sat on the velvet couch, unbuttoning his collar. Barnaby had already vanished into a spatial pocket, leaving him alone to face the storm that was coming through the door.

Knock. Knock.

It wasn't a regular polite knock; this was one with command.

"Enter," Damien said, making sure his voice dropped into the cool, detached tone of 'Mozart'.

Hearing this, A woman walked in.

She wore crimson robes that flowed like liquid blood, stitched with protective runes so subtle only a Master could see them.

Her presence filled the small room instantly, heavy, metallic, and smelling of ozone.

Dean Alice. The Head of Recruitment for the Imperial Academy. A Peak 6th Order Mage known as the "Blood-Eye Sage."

She didn't smile like other fans nor did she ask for an autograph.

She instead closed the door behind her and locked it with a flick of her finger.

"That wasn't music," Alice said, her voice sharp.

Damien poured himself a glass of water. "The critics seem to disagree."

"The critics are ignorant," Alice spat, walking closer. Her eyes, glowing faintly red, scanned him.

"You did something I, who have seen the world, have rarely seen"

"You managed to weave your intent and mana so cleanly into your music notes, you made me feel like this was a whole other branch of magic left to be discovered!"

She leaned down, placing her hands on the table, bringing her face inches from his silver mask.

"You aren't a musician, 'Mozart'. You're a mana monster in a tuxedo."

Damien smiled behind the mask. He didn't flinch.

"Art is control, Dean Alice," Damien replied smoothly.

"If the audience feels nothing, the artist has failed. I simply... helped them feel."

Alice stared at him for a long moment, searching for fear after all, as a sixth-order mage, her presence alone was terrifying to mortals

However, she found none; this alone was enough to prove the man she was dealing with was extraordinary.

She straightened up, crossing her arms.

"The Academy is full of brutes," Alice admitted, her tone shifting from accusation to business.

"Professors who know how to blow up a mountain but can't thread a needle with mana. We need someone like you who is so skilled in mana manipulation."

She looked at Damien.

"Also, if you agree to come, you also have to help with another problem. The new class this year. Class F."

"F for Fantastic?" Damien quipped.

"F for Failure," Alice corrected coldly.

"It is a dumping ground. Students with broken cores. Volatile elements. Political liabilities that we can't expel but can't put in the main roster"

"No teacher lasts a week. The last one had a nervous breakdown because a student set his beard on fire."

She tossed a scroll onto the table. It was a contract.

If you agree to come, I, as the dean of recruitment, can promise you one condition!"

Damien picked up the scroll. He didn't read the fine print.

"Conditions?" Damien said.

"Yes, conditions", Alice narrowed her eyes.

"I want unrestricted access to the Royal Library," Damien said, without any hesitation.

"Including the Restricted Section on Dimensional Theory."

Yes, for his future plans and plot, he had to have these conditions answered; otherwise, his journey going forward would be more difficult

Fortunately, it didn't seem like they were too out of reach

Alice paused. The Royal Library contained state secrets.

"And," Damien added,

"total autonomy over my curriculum. If I tell them to jump off the spire, you don't intervene."

Alice weighed the options. A dangerous, unknown variable teaching the trash class? It was risky. But if he failed, she could just fire him. If he succeeded...

"Fine," Alice agreed. "But if a student dies, it's your head."

Damien signed the scroll with a flourish.

"Deal."

…...........

[One Week Later]

[Location: The Imperial Academy – The Star-Reach Spire]

The Imperial Academy was less of a school and more of a fortress city, a sprawling testament to the arrogance of all races, built atop the volatile convergence of five major ley lines.

Anchoring it all was the Star-Reach Spire, a needle of white marble that pierced the cloud layer, serving as the highest point on the Central Continent.

At the very pinnacle of the spire, in a sanctum constructed entirely of enchanted glass, a woman stood watching the world below.

To a mortal eye, she looked barely thirty. Her hair flowed like liquid starlight, and her eyes held the terrifying, infinite depth of the cosmos.

She wore simple, unadorned white robes and stood barefoot on the glass floor, unbothered by the cold altitude.

Headmistress Astra. One of the three known Demi-Gods in charge of the academy.

She gazed down at the thousands of airships docking at the Academy's sky-ports.

She watched the students, the supposed future of Elias, streaming into the gates like a colony of ants.

'The flow of mana is turbulent this year,' Astra thought, her voice not spoken, but echoing in the mental realm like a bell.

She shifted her focus downward.

Her sight bypassed the marble, the soil, and the bedrock, boring deep beneath the Academy's foundations into the crushing dark.

There, buried in the abyss, the Level 10 Abyss Gate was trembling.

It was a subtle vibration, utterly imperceptible to the Arch-Mages below. But to her, it felt like a heartbeat. A hungry, arrhythmic pulse waking from a long slumber.

"The seal is weakening," she whispered to the wind. "The era of peace is ending."

Suddenly, her gaze snapped back to the surface.

She felt a ripple.

Her eyes zoomed in, focusing on a single figure walking through the Faculty Entrance.

A tall man in a tailored black suit. He wore a silver half-mask that glinted in the sun.

He didn't walk with the nervous shuffle of a new hire; he moved with a lazy, predatory grace, like a panther strolling through a petting zoo.

Astra narrowed her eyes. She reached out with her senses to read his core.

Usually, she could strip a soul bare with a glance. She could see their mana capacity, their elemental affinity, and their darkest secrets.

But when she looked at this man, she didn't see a core. She saw... music?

His soul was shrouded in a layer of Intent so dense and woven so tightly it resembled a physical barrier.

It felt like trying to read a sheet of music written in a language that hadn't been invented yet.

'Who are you?' Astra mused, a flicker of genuine intrigue sparking in her eyes. 'A Bard? No... but what is this? Fire? Shadow? Gravity? Dragon?.'

The more she pried, the more her confusion grew

Unknowingly, she began to tap her window in confusion.

"Alice," she spoke into the empty air.

A shimmer of light coalesced into the projection of Dean Alice. "Yes, Headmistress?"

"The new hire," Astra said, pointing a slender finger at the masked man far below.

"The musician. Keep an eye on him."

Alice frowned, her projection flickering. "Mozart? He is arrogant, certainly, but his talent is genuine. Do you sense a threat?"

Astra watched Damien disappear into the building's shadow.

"I don't know," the Demi-God admitted softly.

"But I sense that the wheel of fate has just started spinning faster."

…..........….

[Location: The Grand Auditorium – Faculty Wing]

The backstage area of the Grand Auditorium was a sea of velvet and ego.

It was filled with the elite of the magical world, Grand Mages, Sword Saints, and Alchemists of the 5th and 6th Order.

They wore robes heavy with medals, their chests puffed out with the sigils of their noble houses.

Each standing in tight clusters, sipping expensive wine and comparing accolades, the air thick with the smell of ozone and perfume.

Damien however stood alone.

He leaned against a marble pillar, casually inspecting his fingernails. In a room full of colorful peacocks, he was a shadow in a black suit, his silver mask reflecting the magelights overhead.

"So," a voice sneered from his left. "You must be the piano player."

Damien didn't bother to look up. "And you must be loud."

The man bristled. He was a mountain of a mage, broad-shouldered and wearing crimson robes embroidered with living flame patterns. The air around him shimmered with heat.

Professor Arthur, Head of the Pyromancy Department.

"I am Arthur," the man spat, smoke curling faintly from his nostrils. "I teach Class S. The Golden Class. My students are the heirs to the Empire. Future Arch-Mages."

"Fascinating," Damien drawled, finally deigning to turn his head.

"Do they fetch sticks, too?"

Arthur's face turned a shade of violent purple. The surrounding teachers gasped, the chatter in the room dying instantly.

"You have a sharp tongue for a glorified entertainer," Arthur growled, stepping into Damien's personal space.

"Dean Alice may have been charmed by your little parlor tricks, but here, power is the only currency. You have been assigned to Class F, haven't you?"

A ripple of snickers went through the room.

Class F. The "Failure" Class. The dumping ground for students with broken cores, volatile magic, or political baggage too heavy to carry.

"The Trash Can," a wind mage chuckled from behind his wine glass.

"Good luck, Maestro. The last teacher for Class F quit after three days lets see how long you'll last."

"Another one had a nervous breakdown before lunch," an alchemy teacher added with a cruel grin.

Arthur smirked, crossing his massive arms.

"Don't worry. When you inevitably fail, I'll petition the Dean to let you play background music in the cafeteria. It suits you better."

Damien smiled beneath his silver mask.

It was the smile of a wolf watching a rabbit explain why it was dangerous.

"Class F," Damien repeated, savouring the word. "Excellent."

He pushed off the pillar and walked toward the stage entrance, brushing past Arthur as if the man were made of smoke.

"I prefer raw clay," Damien whispered, his voice low but carrying clearly to Arthur's ear.

"It's so much more satisfying to mold than... finished porcelain."

GONG.

The massive academy bell rang.

"Faculty to the stage!" the announcer boomed magically.

"The Entrance Ceremony is beginning!"

Damien walked out into the blinding white light of the stage.

Before him, in the massive tiered seating of the auditorium, sat five thousand students. The sheer pressure of their collective gazes was heavy enough to crush a normal man.

Damien scanned the crowd.

His eyes, enhanced with each break through, bypassed the nervous first-years in the front rows ignoring the preening nobles in the VIP seats.

He looked to the very back. To the shadowed corner where the "rejects" had been corralled.

He saw a boy with messy black hair and fresh bandages on his arms, staring at his lap with the posture of a broken sword. Alaric.

He saw a girl with golden hair and pointed ears, staring at the ceiling with bored, ancient green eyes. Elena.

And he saw a boy trying to light a candle with his finger, only to accidentally scorch his own eyebrows in a puff of smoke. Lukas.

Damien's smile widened behind the mask.

'Found you,' he thought. ' my dear protagonists!.'

[System Quest Updated]

[Quest: The Syllabus of Despair]

[Objective: Take control of Class F and survive the first week.]

[Reward: 5,000 Destiny Points.]

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