Chapter Text
(Excerpt from a battered blue notebook. The pages are soaked in the faint scent of rust and antiseptic)
I almost forgot this thing existed. I used to write in it after every session, at least the times when I could still hold a pen without shaking. It used to help a little, just enough to make me feel like I wasn’t disappearing completely. Maybe I’ll start again. The handlers never check under the drain anymore. I think they’ve stopped caring whether I hide things, or maybe they already know and just want to see what I’ll do with it.
To my future self, I hope you’re free now. Or dead. Either is better than this.
(The rest of the page is torn, the ink smudged into dark, dried streaks, like something tried to escape through the paper.)
The first sound to break the darkness was a scream that did not belong to any human throat.
It pierced through the room like a knife through silk, rising and falling in shrill, terrible waves. The alarm stones of Honmoon Academy for Aspiring Hunters had been designed by battle mages of old, also known as people who believed a pleasant awakening dulled vigilance. Their philosophy was simple; hunters must wake fast enough to defend themselves from death.
Baby, however, would rather get murdered by a pebble before sunrise if it meant getting a few more minutes of sleep.
He flung an arm out from beneath his tangled blanket and slapped blindly across the small bedside table, searching by touch alone while the little enchanted menace screeched with the enthusiasm of a dying bird. His fingers knocked over a cup, then a book, then something that clattered and rolled beneath the bed.
“Fine!” He snarled at the universe. “I surrender! Congratulations! I’m awake!”
Only when he opened his eyes did his fingertips finally brushed the alarm stone. He groped for the correct rune and jabbed it, stopping the infernal screaming, before flinging the stone across the room and embedding it on the wooden wall filled with other dents and cracks from his previous mornings.
Baby groaned as he laid there, arm dangling over the edge of the narrow mattress as he stared into the stale darkness of his room. The silence that followed was thick, cloying, and full of unsaid things. It pressed down on him like a second blanket, heavy and intimate.
He hated mornings.
But mostly, he hated that the alarm stone was the only thing loud enough to drown out the gnawing thoughts that tended to chew on him the instant he woke.
He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. The cracked lines in the stone formed strange shapes; branching rivers, star maps, or the roots of a tree growing upward instead of down. The cracks glowed faintly with residual rune-light, reminding him that even the ceiling could hold magic better than he could.
“Fantastic,” The boy muttered, voice thick with sleep. “Even the architecture is more magically competent than I am.”
He knew sarcasm was not an official coping mechanism according to any healer or training manual, but it worked.
Mostly.
Knowing that the dorm head would come for him in a few minutes, Baby eventually sat up and stretched, his muscles popping in a way that felt deeply unfair for someone who had not been alive long enough to justify sounding like an old man.
Looking around, he is greeted by the sight of his room. It was small, not cozy small, but coffin small, like it had been designed to remind students that safety was a privilege, not a guarantee. The bed was shoved into one corner, the desk in the other, and somewhere in between lay the shredded remains of Baby’s dignity.
His room existed in the oldest wing of Honmoon Academy. Back when the institution was first built, they believed hunters should sleep surrounded by warded stone walls for containment. He was sure most of them don't even work anymore, yet he could still feel the walls closing in until they restrained.
Baby swung his legs over the side of the bed, letting the cold stone kiss the soles of his feet. The chill traveled up his bones and into his spine, making him shudder, as the air smelled faintly of smoldering herbs and dried ink; the scent of too many late nights spent trying to make sense of spell diagrams that looked more like mocking squiggles than language.
He braced his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands.
He should get up.
He needed to.
Today was casting practice, also known as the most humiliating part of his entire curriculum. Today, someone would inevitably set their sleeve on fire, or accidentally summon a minor tempest, or conjure the wrong animal familiar. And then there would be him, the boy who couldn’t conjure anything except static burn marks and other people’s laughter.
He dragged himself toward the washstand like a man approaching the gallows. The stand was old, wooden, and lopsided, its legs uneven from decades of students kicking it in frustration. A chipped basin sat atop it, filled with cold water.
Baby splashed his face, not bothering to check whether it woke him or simply startled him into a different level of misery. The water dripped down his jawline and into the neckline of his thin sleep shirt.
He looked up at the mirror.
The enchanted glass flickered awake, casting a faint halo of bluish light around his reflection. Like always, he saw himself as though illuminated by moonlight; small, wiry, and fast—five foot nothing of restless energy and weaponized ego. He had teal hair that stuck up in odd directions, round cheeks that made him look younger than seventeen, and eyes that reflected too much mischief for someone allowed access to burlap sacks of throwing knives.
Hunters-in-training usually looked fearsome.
Baby looked like the academy’s mascot.
“Ugh,” He whispered, brushing his hair back with wet fingers. “You look like a half-plucked chick.”
The mirror, unlike most students, did not laugh.
Still, he found he liked the silence better.
His reflection leaned closer as his eyes traced the curve of his cheekbones, the faint scar under his chin from his time in the streets, and the stubborn set of his jaw. A stray thought intruded—sharp and quick as a needle.
You don’t belong here.
He pressed his palms to the edge of the washstand, knuckles whitening.
It never came from a specific voice. No bully had said those exact words, but they didn’t need to. They expressed it with looks, sighs, snickers behind hands, and exaggerated sympathy.
All because Baby was the only student at Honmoon Academy who could sense magic but not cast it.
Everyone else drew power from the Honmoon; the invisible weave of energy threaded across the land, humming beneath every stone and stream. They channeled it into spells and weapons with elegance or force, ready to defend the lands from demons who dared to slip past the Honmoon to harvest souls for their great demon king, Gwi-ma.
Baby felt it.
And that was all.
If magic was a symphony, others were the musicians and he was the audience; painfully aware of every note but powerless to play.
He could vaguely remember when it first manifested. Back when he was younger, when surviving was his full-time occupation, he had thought sensing magic was normal. He had assumed everyone’s skin tingled when they walked by a mage. That everyone tasted metal when spells were cast nearby. That everyone felt the Honmoon in the air like humidity, clinging to the lungs.
He had been wrong.
The Headmistress had found him scavenging behind a bakery on a cold night, magic crackling around him like sparks flung off a grinding wheel. She knelt, inspected him as though he were a puzzle, and declared his talent “rare.”
Back then, he hadn’t known “rare” could be a synonym for “inconvenient.”
But if she hadn’t enrolled him, he would still be out there, still sleeping under bridges, still stealing food and picking pockets, still—
No. None of that now.
Magic had saved him, even if it refused to obey him.
Reaching for his toothbrush, his fingers eventually brushed against the unsealed envelope propped behind the basin. He shouldn’t have kept it. It only hurts to look at it, after all. But something in him clung to it like a lifeline.
Taking a deep sigh, he slid the letter out carefully. The paper was thick and expensive, the kind of stationery nobles used, or important politicians used when addressing someone whose life they planned to change. On the top was calligraphy in shimmering ink:
From the Desk of the Headmistress of Honmoon Academy for Aspiring Hunters
He unfolded it gently, heart tightening even though he had memorized every word.
Baby,
Your ability to sense the Honmoon weave with precision is unprecedented. Accommodations will be provided shortly, but in the meantime, please answer the forms attached herewith. Remember, you are not a mistake. — Headmistress C
That line—You are not a mistake—was why he kept it.
Nobody had ever told him that before.
He set the letter down and lifted his head to look at himself again, from his teal hair to the dark circles under his eyes, to the once-toothy grin he always used whenever he played pranks during his first year. He tried to believe it, he really did.
But some mornings, like today, was harder.
The academy should have been a dream. Kids spent their whole childhoods applying for the chance to train here—sons and daughters of prestigious families, prodigies who could cast their first spell before they could write their names.
Baby? He got in because someone saw him sensing magic and decided that was worth investing in.
He didn’t get in for skill. He didn’t get in because he was strong.
He got in because he was useful.
And if he stopped being useful?
He knew exactly where he would end up.
Back on the streets. Sleeping in alleyways. Stomach hollow. Fingertips numb from cold. Always ready to run because adults don’t like stray children and they like stray magical children even less.
At least here, the bed was warm and the food wasn’t something he dug out of the trash behind a bakery.
Baby shook his head sharply to get rid of the unwanted thoughts then dropped his gaze, putting the letter down before reaching for the academy uniform folded neatly on the chair beside the desk. Sliding the fabric over his body, he could feel the vest hug his torso and the enchanted threads tighten slightly to his form. The uniform was built for movement, for combat, for students expected to leap into danger with confidence.
Baby looked like a child playing dress-up in someone else’s destiny.
Still, he tied the fastening on his boots with sharp, efficient movements, trying not to think about how yesterday he tripped in these same boots and fell into a shrub in front of upperclassmen who still hadn’t stopped laughing.
“Stop thinking,” He told himself. “Thinking means spiraling.”
Yet it didn’t stop. He should have slept more. He should have studied longer. He should have done a dozen things differently. Those thoughts followed him everywhere, like a stray dog nipping at his ankles.
Opting to procrastinate his own morning routine, his gaze slid to the notebook on his desk. The cover was worn soft from constant use, pages fattened by humidity and spilled coffee. He approached it as though approaching a confession.
Then he opened the first page.
Baby’s Spellcasting Breakthrough Notes.
In neat handwriting below:
Try not to panic.
Try really hard.
He read his own words and rolled his eyes.
“Wow,” He murmured. “Deep. Very scholarly. I’m sure this will revolutionize magical theory.”
His sarcasm wrapped around the anxiety like a shield.
Through the narrow enchanted slit of a window carved high in the wall, a thin line of dawn seeped through—pale at first, then gradually taking on the faintest blush of pink. The wards around the window, old and stubborn, filtered natural light into something colder.
The world beyond the walls existed, but he could see it only as a distant suggestion.
He paused, hand resting on the strap of his bag. The idea of leaving the room pressed against his mind like a weight. Out there waited classmates whose spells bloomed like fireworks. Out there were instructors who asked him to “channel with confidence,” as though confidence were something he could borrow like a pencil.
Out there was failure. Again.
He inhaled slowly, forcing air past the tightness in his chest.
This room was safety. This room was solitude. But solitude also bred stagnation, and he refused to be a rotting thing.
He rolled his shoulders back, steadying himself with a sharp exhale. His pulse thudded beneath his skin. Fear did not have claws in him, not anymore. Anxiety, yes. Humiliation, constantly. But fear? Fear had been burned out of him years ago.
He pushed up his sleeves and retied the straps of his training bag. The leather touched him like an old companion, a reminder that while magic refused him, muscle and reflex never did.
That thought comforted him. Even if magic didn’t listen to him, gravity obeyed. Turning back, he reached for the letter one more time, but he stopped.
No.
If he kept needing someone else’s words to believe he belonged, then he’d never believe it on his own.
Letting his mind settle on that tidbit, he sighed and faced the door.
The doorway might as well have been the threshold to another world. Beyond it lay ridicule, struggle, pressure…but also possibility. If he stayed inside, nothing would change. If he stepped outside, he could fail.
But he could also surprise them.
He placed a hand on the metal latch.
“Alright,” He murmured to himself. His voice wasn’t brave. It was rough and real and trembling with stubbornness. “Time to go be disappointing in public.”
He pulled the door open.
The hallway beyond was dim and quiet, chilled by lingering night air and lined with old hunting banners whose fabric whispered when the breeze slipped through unseen cracks. Runes pulsed faintly along the stone corridor, guiding early-rising students toward morning drills.
The path Baby chose that morning was not the shortest route.
In fact, it was the exact opposite of short, sensible, or efficient.
He slipped out of his dorm and turned left despite being fully aware that the classroom he needed to be in sat to the right. The long hallway absorbed his footsteps, the echo swallowed by cold stone and ancient banners.
Every tapestry lining the corridor displayed hunters of old standing triumphant, Honmoon-summoned blades raised, demons cowering beneath their heels. The fabric shimmered faintly with old enchantments, and the woven faces of the heroes watched him with blank, judgmental stares.
Baby lifted his chin and replied mentally: I see you, you thread-woven overachievers. No need to glare.
He could already imagine the lecture if anyone knew why he took the detour: lateness meant less time under the professor’s scrutiny, and less time under scrutiny meant fewer chances to be called upon. The calculus of survival.
He passed through a courtyard shrouded in early morning mist, its fountain trickling lazily as if even the enchanted waters were too tired to be majestic at dawn. He watched as the courtyard’s trees trembled with faint magical resonance, the leaves here drinking from the Honmoon.
Even in the mundane, Baby could always feel the magic in the air. Not like a whisper, but a pressure, a persistent buzz beneath his skin. The weave of the world brushed against him, pulling at every nerve ending. Sometimes it felt like wearing clothing that didn’t belong to him. Too tight. Too itchy. Too present.
He tugged at the strap of his bag, muttering under his breath, “I get it, world. You’re saturated with energy and possibility. I’m thrilled for you.”
The academy buildings formed a labyrinth; arched corridors, bridges suspended across courtyards, spiral staircases with no center column. Some students loved the architecture, but Baby found it exhausting. Walking toward class felt like wandering through the veins of some enormous creature that breathed magic instead of air.
He drifted through the faculty wing, passed a courtyard where advanced students were already practicing focus drills, and resisted the urge to break into a sprint as his pulse thrummed with a familiar cocktail; dread, determination, and resignation. The closer he got, the more the magic of students casting nearby prickled against his senses, making every fine hair on his arms stand on end.
Someone launched a lightning spell, but Baby didn’t need to see it to know. The crack of energy rippled through the air like a peel of thunder, followed by the scent of burned cloth and a chorus of groans.
He rolled his eyes. “And they call me hazardous.”
By the time he reached his classroom—Rune Casting Fundamentals, taught by the notoriously apathetic Professor Sae-won—Baby had successfully delayed himself by just over two minutes.
Small victories mattered.
He slipped through the door as quietly as someone aggressively not trying to be noticed could manage. Professor Sae-won did not look up from his lectern. He rarely did. The man had perfected the art of ignoring anything that did not actively catch fire, explode, or swear at him.
Baby relaxed slightly.
He was late, but not late enough to draw attention. If he entered quietly, and if he did not trip over his own boots, then maybe the gods of humiliation would spare him.
A hand shot up from the third row and waved frantically.
“Baby!”
He turned his head to the side and was greeted by the sight of his best friend.
Zoey.
Her hair, always in glossy black twin buns, bobbed with her excitement as she worse an expression that was bright and conspiratorial, almost like she was in on a secret no one else could understand. She had made “eccentric determination” into a personal aesthetic, yet half of her notebooks were covered in doodles of explosions, magical beasts, or coffee cups labeled fuel for bad decisions.
He slid into the seat beside her, finally letting his muscles soften. The desk was slightly wobbly—because Zoey, in a burst of midnight inspiration, had attempted to put a decorative engraving rune in it a week ago. It hadn’t been structural.
“Why’re you late?” She whispered, leaning toward him. She had that intense sparkle in her eyes that suggested caffeine, curiosity, or chaos. Possibly all three.
“I was communing with nature,” He whispered back. “Nature told me to avoid class.”
“Then nature gives great advice.” Zoey grinned. “But that means my clairvoyancy is getting better though!”
She passed him a folded piece of parchment. On it, she’d drawn a cartoon of Baby running away from the classroom while magic symbols chased him, all poorly doodled and misspelled. The speech bubble above cartoon-Baby read, you’ll never take me alive.
He snorted quietly.
Zoey nudged him with her elbow. “Did you finish the homework? The rune emulation sheet?”
He opened his notebook and pretended to flip through pages. “Yes.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Define ‘yes.’”
“I define it by emotionally identifying with the concept of completion, instead of actually completing it.”
Zoey groaned, head dropping onto her arms before immediately passing him her notebook as if she already expected his answer. Maybe she wasn’t lying about her clairvoyancy after all.
“You’re going to get hexed into a small woodland creature one day and I’m going to laugh.” She took a moment to think, before muttering. “But also cry, because I’ll have to take care of you.”
“A squirrel's life sounds peaceful.”
“You’d pick fights with birds.”
He considered that. “…true.”
While Professor Sae-won droned on, Baby took a moment to observe Zoey’s notebook. He didn’t need to touch it to sense the residual magical fizz clinging to each stroke. The girl might not be top of the class, but she could use magic. She always said it felt like diving into a river.
For Baby, magic felt like drowning in fog.
“Rune casting is not about drawing. It is about focus. If your focus wavers, so will your rune.”
They both opt to tune out the Professor droning on and on about useful rocks and symbols as Zoey leaned toward him again, whispering, “Want to see how mine wavered?”
She unfolded the sheet fully.
The rune had melted through the paper.
Baby stared, then whispered, horrified, “What did you do? Summon a miniature sun?”
Zoey puffed up with pride. “I tried to make a rune that would heat up the water of my ramyeon.”
“And instead you—”
“Turned it into concentrated lava potential. Yes.”
A soft laugh escaped him before he could stop it. For a moment, the fear of being noticed evaporated. Zoey had that effect on people—her presence was like a tiny chaos storm that loosened knots in the chest.
And like someone who folds under zero pressure, she leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Okay, fine,” she admitted, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I didn’t do this entirely on my own.”
Baby raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? Pray tell, what dark alliance forged this molten monstrosity?”
Zoey rolled her eyes, tapping the edge of the page. “Rumi and Mira helped me. They…sort of guided me through it.”
Baby could feel a grin creep on his lips.
“Aww, look at you, asking them for help now.” He crooned. “It’s adorable. Also terrifying, because I remember you crashing into every hallway trying to follow them every end of lunch.”
The punch he got on the shoulder stung, but only served to widen his smile.
“So,” He continued, flipping through her notebook, “Have you told them?”
“Told them what?” Her expression went blank. "I mean—told who what? I don't—what are you talking abo— "
“Who else?" He smirked. "The senior girls. The one with the purple braid and the one with the pink hair and legs that go on forever.”
Zoey turned scarlet so fast even Baby felt secondhand heat.
“I don’t—they’re—that’s—”
“I thought you would've said anything by now. You stare every time they walk past,” Baby whispered. “Last week, you tripped over your own broom. You nearly died tripping over your own broom.”
“It was a strategic collapse. I was demonstrating gravity.”
“Sure,” he teased, leaning back in his chair. “And when the one with the braid asked if you were okay, you said—”
Zoey slapped her hands over her face. “Don’t.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘I enjoy ceilings.’”
She made a strangled noise behind her palms. “I panicked.”
“You also saluted.”
“I was trying to hide my shame with military precision!”
Baby nearly choked trying not to laugh aloud. It felt good—this tiny reprieve. Talking to Zoey made the world feel less hostile, less sharp. She was the only person at this wretched academy who never looked at Baby with pity or disbelief when he struggled to cast. To her, he wasn’t broken; he was Baby.
Zoey straightened, glaring at him through her fingers. “You mock me now, but when you finally confess to someone, I’m going to sit in the front row with popcorn.”
“Me? Confess? Absolutely not. My type is fictional.”
"Well—"
Professor Sae-won’s voice cut through their amusement like a cold wind through open shutters.
“Miss Lee, would you like to say something?”
The room fell silent.
Slowly, like prey animals who just heard a twig snap, they turned their heads toward the front.
Professor Sae-won stared at them with the dull irritation of someone experiencing mild indigestion.
“Would you two care to join the rest of us in this class, or are your private conversations of greater academic value?”
The room wasn’t entirely silent but the air tightened, shrinking into something sharp and watchful as every student lifted their head like hounds scenting blood. Baby felt dozens of pairs of eyes swing to him as he realized that predators didn’t just live in forests and demon realms; sometimes they sat behind desks.
Zoey tensed beside him, shoulders shrinking like she wanted to fold into herself. Baby didn’t have to look at her to feel the panic tensing in her frame. Zoey talked big and joked bigger, but attention—negative attention—strangled her like a vice.
Baby hated that.
Professor Sae-won capped the chalk before turning to face them with the same expression someone might use for a particularly unimpressive mold growth.
“Is your private conversation helping you understand runic stabilization, Miss Lee?” Sae-won continued, “Or are you merely convinced the rest of the class will absorb knowledge through osmosis on your behalf?”
Zoey inhaled, small and shaky.
Baby cut in without thinking.
“It was my fault, professor.”
Zoey whipped her head toward him in horror, eyes wide. But he didn’t stop. If he let Zoey take the hit, he’d never forgive himself. She could handle explosions, not public humiliation.
“I distracted her,” Baby continued. “I won’t—”
“I did not ask for an explanation,” Sae-won interrupted, voice cold. “I asked whether you believe yourselves above the need to listen.”
Baby clenched his jaw. So that’s the game. The professor wasn’t looking for accountability. He was looking for spectacle.
Sae-won descended the steps from the podium, hands clasped behind his back as he paced slowly toward their row—toward Baby.
Students straightened in their seats.
Some leaned forward.
A few smirked.
Baby could feel the attention like heat, and suddenly he was twelve again. Back in the dimly lit room and stone walls with deep grooves gotten from claws, forced to stand at the center and endure whatever came next. And then came the laughter; the shrill, mocking—
Sae-won stopped directly in front of his desk.
“Baby,” the professor said, voice pleasant in the way frost could be considered refreshing. “Please stand.”
Baby stood.
His legs felt like sticks jammed into boots two sizes too small. His stomach twisted like it was auditioning for knots. Still, he pasted on his patented Baby Expression™; casual indifference crossed with mild annoyance, designed to hide the internal screaming.
“Yes, professor?”
Sae-won pointed to the half-drawn rune drawn on the chalkboard.
A simple focusing rune.
Foundational level.
Basic.
Even first-years could force one to activate.
Perfect.
The professor wanted to watch him fail.
“Since you are so confident in your ability to spend your time talking,” Sae-won said, “Demonstrate that same confidence in your practical skill.”
Baby heard Zoey’s tiny whisper from beside him, something in the lines of I'm so sorry.
He forced a tiny smirk and brushed his thumb over her quivering knuckles under the table. “Hey, I was overdue for a public beheading away." He gave a wink. "Don’t steal my spotlight.”
But regardless of his false bravado, his pulse hammered in his throat.
Because he knew what came next.
Sae-won gestured toward the board. “Complete the focusing rune.”
Baby walked to the front with the begrudging gait of someone marching to an execution, thoughts spiralling over and over again.
If this goes badly, I’m throwing myself into the river. Or into demon territory. Something with less judgment.
The chalk felt dusty and dry in his fingers. Sae-won stood just behind him, close enough that Baby could feel the weight of scrutiny.
Not guiding.
Judging.
“Begin.”
Baby took a breath.
All right. It’s just a rune. A simple concentration rune. You draw a circle, anchor the energy, and channel your intention through the line.
He started to outline the circle.
He could feel the magic in the chalk—runes stored residual energy from previous lessons. It pulsed, faint but alive, like holding a tiny lightning bug inside a thin shell of stone. He focused on the feeling of the Honmoon, the weave beneath everything. It pressed against his skin like humidity before a storm.
Don’t mess up. Don’t think. Just do.
He drew carefully.
The chalk line trembled. His hand shook.
Not because the task was difficult.
Because expectation weighed more than failure.
Sae-won spoke again, voice lazy. “Your hand is unsteady. Are you nervous?”
Baby swallowed. “Just…focused.”
“Focused,” Sae-won repeated, tone flat. “How fascinating.”
He fought the urge to throw chalk at the professor’s face.
The rune’s first section finished, the circle was more oval than round, but he moved on to the anchoring point, pressing chalk harder.
Magic prickled violently under his skin.
It was always the worst part. He could feel every thread of the Honmoon like an itch under the skin, a static buzz that crawled down his spine. Everyone else in this academy reached into the weave like dipping hands into water. But for Baby, the weave slammed into him like a wave breaking over his head.
Control it. Don’t let it flood. Don’t let it see how badly you want this.
He completed the last line and stepped back.
“There,” Baby said, exhaling shakily. “Done.”
“Now activate it.”
Of course.
Sae-won’s favorite part: watching Baby fall on his face.
Baby pressed his fingers to the rune. Immediately the chalk sparked—magic reacting to his touch, chaotic and wild. He focused inward, trying to pull energy—just enough to activate the symbol. It should’ve been easy.
All he needed was focus.
But focus required clarity, and Baby’s thoughts were anything but clear.
Breathe. Calm. Focus. I can do this. I have to do this. If I mess up, they’ll start calling me Fizzle Fingers again. I swear to every ancestor I will haunt this classroom if that happens.
The rune flickered.
A tiny pulse.
Then—
Nothing.
Sae-won raised a brow. “Remarkable. I believe I’ve seen dying fireflies with more conviction.”
Laughter erupted behind him.
Baby’s face burned.
He tried again. Harder. He reached deeper into the Honmoon, past the first prickling layer, further into the threads that hummed beneath the floor.
Come on. Please. Just this once. Work. Let me have this.
The rune sparked violently.
A crack of unstable energy shot up the chalkboard. The spark hit a shelf of unlit candles. They ignited; bright, aggressive, flaring like mini fireworks.
Several students screamed and ducked.
Sae-won didn’t flinch.
With one flick of his wrist, the professor dispelled the fire. The flames vanished with a hiss, smoke curling lazily from the wicks.
Baby stepped back, throat tight. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“I am fully aware of what you intended,” Sae-won said. “Unfortunately, intention without skill is simply a hazard.”
The humiliation hit like a slap.
Sae-won addressed the class while still staring directly at Baby. “This is precisely why we emphasize discipline. Without it, magic becomes volatile. Dangerous. Some students are better suited for theoretical study. Or…other career paths.”
That hurt.
More than Baby expected.
He could handle classmates laughing. He could handle the occasional spell blowing up in his face. But Sae-won implying he should quit—after everything he fought to even be here—felt like having the ground ripped out from under his feet.
Zoey stood abruptly. “Professor, that’s unfair. He—”
Baby shook his head sharply, eyes begging her not to. Zoey didn’t deserve to be dragged into this.
Sae-won’s gaze slid to her.
“If you’d like to join him at the board, Miss Lee, I can certainly—”
“No,” Baby snapped, stepping in front of Zoey. “You’re mad at me. Take it out on me.”
Sae-won paused—not impressed. Not softened.
Just cold.
“As you wish.”
He snapped his fingers.
Baby’s failed rune vanished.
Sae-won drew a new symbol in elegant, Expert-level strokes; one far more complex than anything a second-year should be able to activate.
“Stabilize this.”
Baby stared.
That wasn’t a test.
That was a firing squad.
Students murmur-laughed behind him.
Baby swallowed the urge to scream, Why do you hate me so much? What else did I do but try? But he steadied himself, fingers trembling.
Fine. You want to watch me fail? I’ll fail spectacularly.
He reached again.
The Honmoon slammed into him like a flood of static. His skin prickled. His vision tunneled.
He tried to channel.
Tried—
Nothing.
The rune didn’t even flicker.
Sae-won sighed, as if deeply disappointed to have wasted time on such a predictable disaster.
“Return to your seat.”
Baby didn’t move.
And so Sae-won continued—with precision, with clarity, and with no concern for the shards of the boy he was crushing.
“This academy exists to shape hunters. Hunters who can control magic, not merely…sense it floating around like perfume." He paused for a moment before continuing. "Because sensing without wielding is like hearing music and being unable to play a single note.”
Zoey stood halfway again, as if to speak. Baby shot her a warning look.
The professor addressed the class, not Baby anymore.
“This is what happens when a student relies on raw instinct instead of discipline. An undisciplined hunter is a liability. A danger. To himself and others.”
Baby felt the humiliation like a physical punch to the sternum.
Sae-won turned back to him.
“Tell me, Baby—if you cannot even form a containment rune, what exactly do you imagine you will achieve in the field? Against demons? Against the unknown?”
Baby opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“Do you believe the power to merely feel the Honmoon is enough?”
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
It had to be.
Otherwise…why was he here?
“If sensing magic is your only gift,” He droned, “Then the most useful place for you would be sweeping classrooms for magical residue.”
The laughter that erupted was sharp, merciless.
He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t run.
He could only endure.
Not waiting for another signal, Baby walked back to his seat, spine stiff, every step feeling like glass grinding underfoot. The moment he sat down, Zoey’s hand found his under the desk, rubbing slow circles into his knuckles.
“You were brave,” she whispered.
Baby sank into his chair, throat tight. “I was stupid.”
He said nothing else for the rest of class.
But the fire in him burned.
Someday, I’m going to prove you all wrong.
Someday, the world would see he wasn’t a mistake.