Three days later, Mark Wilde walked through the gates of Blackstone Academy like a king returning from exile.
The old Mark would've kept his head low, eyes glued to the floor, praying to stay invisible.
That boy was dead.
Now, his spine was straight. His gaze, sharp. His steps, measured. He wasn't just a student anymore—he was a predator wearing the skin of prey.
Let them come, he thought. I'll remember every face, every laugh, every punch they ever threw.
But even as he moved like he belonged, a hollow tug echoed deep in his chest. Every step felt... slightly wrong. Too light. Too young. His muscles weren't as quick to respond as they once were. He resisted the urge to check his reflection again, to confirm this soft, teenage face truly belonged to him.
This body is weaker, he admitted. But it's mine now. Adapt. Or die.
The campus looked like a fortress disguised as a school—blacksteel gates, floating security spheres, and architecture that blended gothic towers with glowing glyphs carved into obsidian stone. Every wall buzzed faintly with magitek—a fusion of mana and science.
This wasn't an ordinary high school. Only the children of the elite—corporate dynasties, magical aristocracies, political juggernauts—got in.
And somehow… the forgotten Wilde heir had returned to their ranks.
"Hey, dead boy's back!" a voice barked.
Mark turned.
A tall brute swaggered across the courtyard. Blond hair slicked back, blazer unbuttoned, wand holstered at his hip like a trophy.
Calen Rook. Mana-blooded. Highborn. Arrogant.
Mark's inherited memories hissed—Calen had always led the tormentors. A lion in a pack of jackals. The one who smiled when he struck.
"You get brain damage, or just finally ready to drop out, freak?" Calen sneered. A few laughs rose around him like a hyena chorus.
Mark didn't blink. He simply turned, locking eyes with Calen. No fear. No flinch. Just a cold, unblinking stare.
Then, flatly:
"Are you always this loud, or is that just insecurity talking?"
The courtyard went still. The laughter died.
Calen's grin cracked. "What did you just say?"
Mark stepped forward, voice lower now. "You heard me."
He was testing the system. Would the school step in? Were there rules—or only consequences?
"You think you're funny?" Calen growled, mana flaring at his fingertips.
Mark's voice dropped to ice. "I think I'm done pretending you matter."
That did it.
With a roar, Calen lunged—fast, arrogant, confident.
But Maximilian Wilde had been trained by mercenaries, assassins, and military ghosts. This new body was unfamiliar, but the instincts were eternal.
Mark sidestepped cleanly, seized Calen's arm, twisted it behind his back, and drove his knee into the back of his leg. Calen dropped like dead weight.
Silence.
Then—
Buzz. Click.
Security spheres locked on. Synthetic voices echoed:
"Unauthorized aggression detected. Combat threshold exceeded. Detention threat initiated."
Mark raised his hands. "Self-defense."
The spheres scanned. Paused. Scanned again.
Then slowly drifted back.
Calen gasped, humiliated on the stone floor.
Mark hadn't even used mana.
Let that be the first lesson, he thought. I don't need magic to break you.
Inside the main building, whispers trailed behind him. Some stared. Some avoided him entirely.
Good. Let the rumors ferment.
He made his way to his locker, guided half by instinct, half by Mark's fading memories. But this time, his eyes noticed more—glyphs in the walls, wards in the floors, invisible enchantments humming beneath every surface.
Blackstone isn't just a school, he realized. It's a cage. A chessboard. And everyone here's a piece.
But who's moving them?
As he opened his locker, a voice said behind him:
"That was reckless. Calen's father is the Minister of Enchanted Arms. He won't forget this."
He turned.
A girl stood there—tall, poised, raven-black hair in a braid sharp enough to cut. Glasses. Silver badge gleaming: Prefect. She had command in her posture.
"Let him remember," Mark said flatly.
She studied him, more curious than judgmental. "You've changed."
"You've noticed."
"I'm Elira Vale," she said, offering her hand. "Mana discipline specialist. I don't care who you were… I care who you are now."
Mark shook her hand—firm, but cautious.
"And who do you think I am?"
She didn't answer immediately. Her gaze sharpened behind her lenses.
"Someone who doesn't belong to any known Circle… but walks like he owns one."
"Someone who isn't afraid of being watched."
"And someone who doesn't know what's coming."
Mark tilted his head. "What is coming?"
She leaned in slightly. "The Crucible. Four days from now. Surprise evaluation. They call it a trial—but it's a hunt. Magical aptitude, combat readiness, social alignment. Most fail quietly."
She turned to leave, then paused.
"Don't let your pride get you erased before you even see the real board."
In the shadows of the hallway, a teacher watched through mirrored glasses, his eyes glowing faintly behind the lens.
"The forgotten Wilde boy," he murmured. "He woke up… different."
A thin smile curled his lips.
"Let's see if he survives the Crucible."