The first day of class arrived, and with it came a rush of new faces and nervous energy crackling in the air. Master Borduk had taken off right after the tournament ended, grumbling about having “real dwarf business” back home. We exchanged awkward dwarf-hugs (basically shoulder bumps) and said our goodbyes. He gave me a small, bigger-on-the-inside storage bag, saying, “I’ve tucked in enough coins to last you the year. Don’t spend it all on mead, y’hear?” He also told me to write often—like I’d forget to do that, right?


    Now I stood outside a towering building marked “Basic Magic Use 101,” my new textbooks poking out of the mystical bag that seemed never to run out of space. The other students around me looked just as unsure as I felt. Some were scouring their class schedules, while others were juggling half a dozen arcane tomes they’d probably never open more than once.


    I took a breath, trying to steady the swirl of anticipation (and maybe a little terror) in my belly. Sure, I’d messed around with rune crafting and hammered out a few magical repairs, but formal classes on spell theory and mana safety? That was a whole new ballgame. Part of me wondered if I’d end up accidentally blowing something up—and part of me was, honestly, kind of excited by that possibility.


    With one last glance at the cluster of wide-eyed first-years around me, I stepped into the lecture hall, dwarf pride in full effect. After all, if I could survive a pissed-off prince and his cronies, a classroom full of half-scared novices shouldn’t be too hard, right? Only one way to find out.


    I’d never actually seen an old elf before—or, if I had, I couldn’t tell. This teacher, though, was definitely old. He was the first elf I’d seen with wrinkles. His back had a slight stoop, and his ears drooped like wilted leaves.


    “You young are all the same,” he began, in a voice that carried the weight of centuries. “Not a brain in your head, quick to cast any spell that comes to mind. Willing to make dark pacts with beings beyond mortal ken…” He raised a finger to silence the class before we could protest. “Well, none of that will be done here. Now, can anyone tell me why I have you all in the same room? Every race has a different mana structure—your dwarven core isn’t the same as an elf’s or an orc’s—and yet here we are, all jumbled together.”


    He pointed to a girl in the front row, who stood hesitantly. “Umm… is it because the mana is the same for all of us?”


    “Correct,” he replied. “Mana is mana. Think of it like water in different rivers. Rivers may wind this way or that, the water may have different qualities, but underneath it all, water is water, and it flows wherever it can. The point of this class is to ensure that you don’t kill yourselves, or more importantly, don’t kill someone else. Now, how many of you can already use magic? Don’t hide it—hands up.”


    A bunch of people lifted their hands, including some sheepish humans who’d been trying to lie low. I tried to duck behind a taller guy, but the teacher’s gaze zeroed in on me anyway.


    “I see you, dwarf,” he said, pointing a thin, knobby finger in my direction. “I can sense your core. Tell me—how does your magic work? What is your affinity?”


    “Uh, rock,” I replied. “I pull mana into my core and use runes to focus it, shaping stone or enchanting items. I tweak the runes for whatever I’m trying to do.”


    The teacher gave a curt nod and then shifted his attention to an elf on the other side of the room. “You there—how does your magic work?”


    The elf stood, wringing their hands nervously. “My core looks like a tree, sir. I draw mana up through my roots… I mean, my feet… and then I guide it through my branches. Well, arms, mostly.”


    “That’s right,” the old elf continued. “Everyone’s core is different, but the mana is all the same. Now, some of you will ask about qi.” A handful of humans who had raised their hands earlier immediately dropped them. The teacher smirked. “Qi is just another name for mana, used by humans who like to complicate things. They develop techniques and fancy terms, but it all boils down to the same magic. Humans are indeed the most diverse in how they channel mana—and this is reflected in the many names they use for it.”


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    He took a breath, surveying the room of wide-eyed students. “One more thing—don’t let pride in your ‘special’ style of magic blind you. Every method has advantages. Every technique can be learned or adapted. That’s why you’re all here: to build a foundation. After this course, if you still want to blow yourselves up in your dorm rooms, at least you’ll know precisely how you did it.”


    A collective nervous laugh spread through the classroom. I forced a smile, realizing for the first time that maybe, just maybe, I’d learn a lot more about magic here than I’d initially bargained for.


    “Let’s talk about extraplanar beings,” the elf said, leaning heavily on his lectern as though the weight of his words was physical. “It is vitally important that you do not summon them. They don’t belong in our plane. Even if they mean no harm—most of them don’t have the faintest clue how our world operates, and their very presence can unravel reality. If you happen to hear voices in your head while casting, stop immediately and fetch a responsible adult. If you are the so-called responsible adult, find an adultier adult. In any case,” he added, tapping the front of the lectern for emphasis, “do not listen to the voices in your head, no matter how polite or persuasive they may sound.”


    “And with that,” the old elf continued, “I want you all to start absorbing mana. Do not do anything with the mana yet—just let it flow into you. Those of you who can already do it, sit quietly and observe, or listen if you think you could learn a new trick.”


    I took him at his word, closing my eyes and settling into my seat. The air around me felt thin, as though the mana here was soft and wispy, without any particular elemental flavor. I wasn’t used to that. In my village mines, the mana tended to hum with the resonance of earth and stone, a heavy presence that practically vibrated in my bones. This college air felt almost too light, too “unaffiliated,” like the difference between a hearty stew and a weak broth.


    The elf’s voice rolled on, gentle but insistent, guiding us through the process.


    “Reach out with your senses,” he said. “There is mana in every breath you take and every inch of space around you—no matter how faint. Imagine you have a set of invisible hands or threads, extending from your core, reaching outward to brush against that ambient mana. Let those threads tug the mana inward.”


    I visualized slender lines of energy streaming out from my chest, wrapping around the faint strands of mana drifting in the room. I felt something like a gentle tug in my gut as the mana responded, flowing back through those imaginary lines into my body.


    “As you draw the mana in,” the elf continued, “you hold it within your core. For many of you, your core may look different in your mind’s eye. Some see a shining orb of light; some see a roaring flame. Our dwarven friend here might envision a solid sphere of stone. The shape is personal. What matters is that the mana settles into that core and does not leak out.”


    I pictured my core as a rough sphere of rock, swirling with the earthy, grounded energy I preferred. The new, wispy mana trickled in, swirling around the edges of my imaginary stone center. It felt alien—like water swirling in a carved bowl. But I held it there, letting it sit without forcing it into any particular element.


    “Once the mana is within your core, simply let it rest,” the elf went on. “No shaping, no channeling. Breathe. If you feel any discomfort or hear any voices that aren’t your own, stop immediately. Remember, we are tapping into mana, not wrestling it into submission.”


    I took a long, slow breath, grounding myself in that idea. Despite the unfamiliar lightness of the mana, I could sense it flowing, filling the cracks and crevices of my mental “stone.” My whole body relaxed, more than I expected, and I realized this was the purest form of mana: unaligned, unshaped, and free of any element’s push or pull. It made sense that a school for every race and background would be steeped in such neutral energy.


    When I opened my eyes again, the old elf was scanning the room, watching for signs of strain or confusion. A few students looked stiff or uncomfortable, but most just seemed lost in concentration. I could feel my heart beating a bit slower, my mind calmer. This was different from my usual hammer-swinging approach—no big bursts of power, no intense reshaping of stone—just a gentle gathering of raw potential. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to learn how everyone else does it, after all.