The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Angie’s dad, a lanky rabbit beastkin name Jacques who after some initial panic at the thug following his daughter around calmed down.

  Oz tried not to take it personally when the nervous shaking beastkin, with his rabbit ears twitching had hopped between them to try and ‘protect’ Angie.

  At least it showed he was a good dad. He was appropriately embarrassed after he calmed down and Angie explained that Oz also helped her get her class. Once that was done the man became deeply thankful.

  Oz despite his protests ended up being treated to a meal out with them at a nice restaurant, with warm lighting and busy tables. Some kind of ‘chain’ restaurant that was getting popular for doing a mix of cuisines.

  Oz enjoyed their weakened down version of a dwarven mushroom curry, while Angie drowned her dad in chatter about her new class. The curry was good even if it lacked the punch he was after. Dwarves loved bold flavors and the most valued above all was spice. A challenge given that the dwarven constitution meant that lesser spices that might warm the tongue or pinch the sinuses of the other races did nothing for them.

  Proper dwarf curry houses had everyone sign an affidavit explaining they were not to blame for issues that ranged from heart palpitations to full blown hallucinations. If people asked why, then they’d get a brief introduction to where the articles of war specifically classified dwarven curries as a torture method.

  Greywater rarely if ever got the ingredients in for a curry, and it was only luck of the draw if a merchant happened to be carrying some left over stock. Even those sad curries paled in comparison to this, and Oz was lost in the flavour. He finished it far too quickly, and that meant he had to pay attention to the other side of the table.

  Jacques was radiantly happy for his daughter. Which left a burning sense of envy that even Oz tried to pretend was just the curry. He wasn’t annoyed at Angie, but at the world.

  Oz made his excuses after the meal and headed home with Chops, while the father and daughter pair planned to go out and celebrate some more.

  He caught another Cab home, after Oz deflected the initial pitch with a mention of Defiance he was left mostly in silence. The voice of the taxi muttered to itself about bad luck in what Oz suspected was the infernal language, the words had a tone and energy like the fairies chimes, only this sounded like rusted saw being dragged over along the rim of burnt out barrel.

  He did enjoy looking at the graffiti on the way back, enjoying how the orange glow of the aetherlights changed their appearance, bringing different parts of the art into focus.

  The last thing he did before he passed out back at the dorm was to load up [Paint Spray] and begin to process it.

  Oz woke up back at the dorms, the bed still felt unfamiliar, though he was getting used to it and the sounds of an eldritch abomination fiddling with the plumbing when it suspected he wouldn’t notice.

  A quick visit to his soul space and to his surprise, [Paint Spray] had appeared as an option, and he could designate it as either a class or general skill. With his general slots already filled by [Runic Empowerment] and [Healing Breath], he pushed it into one of the two empty class slots.

  He still had [Stance of the Menhir] to absorb later, hoping it too would count as a class skill, freeing up space for [Move Earth] or something else equally useful.

  But for now—he had paint to spray.

  Angie had said they were allowed to decorate their rooms, and Oz decided that probably meant he could experiment. He lifted a hand, focused on the skill, and let it flow.

  A distorted oval of hideous green exploded onto the wall—thick, gloppy, and wet. It smelt vaguely alchemical but looked like it should smell somewhere between mouldy cheese and old socks.

  He’d been aiming for a light green, what he’d got was the kind of green that made you throw out an entire fridge.

  “Well… it is definitely paint,” he muttered. “Kind of.”

  He hadn’t used [Paint Spray] since he was a kid, and his control had atrophied in ways he didn’t know were possible. Back then, the skill had felt natural—a tool for marking things, or at least doodling on walls when no one was looking. Now it felt like trying to sneeze art.

  He gave it another go. The result was a lopsided splatter that could have been a sun. Or a diseased eye. Or a fruit.

  Chops, who’d been napping, lifted both heads, stared at the wall, then at Oz. The right head barked approvingly. The left head sneezed directly on the masterpiece.

  “Thanks, critic,” Oz said dryly.

  Undeterred, he decided to “refine his control.” Ten minutes later, his dorm smelled like a potion explosion, and at some point Chops had somehow walked through a puddle of neon purple paint and was now proudly stamping bright paw-prints across the room.

  By the time Oz gave up and cleaned up, both of them looked like they’d survived a rave.

  “Alright, new plan. We practice outside next time,” he grumbled, wiping a streak of silver off his jacket.

  First was breakfast. He saw no sign of Angie, though her coat was hanging up which meant she must’ve got back at some point.

  Breakfast was uneventful except for Chops’ bitter disappointment at being offered porridge. The two-headed familiar sat by the table, staring at the bowl with the quiet intensity of someone waiting for bacon to materialize through sheer force of will.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Oz said, “I’ll get you something proper later.”

  For now, he had a far more exciting destination.

  It was time to find the gym.

  The Noxarcer gym complex sat a little way off from the main Academy—an enormous stone building, all function and very little grace. No stained glass or glowing sigils on the outside, just broad walls, high arches, and enough gargoyles to double as a security system.

  Inside, though, the place buzzed.

  The air was hot and alive with the sound of clanging weights, enchanted treadmills humming, and the rhythmic hiss of controlled breaths. Oz stopped just inside the doorway, taking it all in—the steam rising off bodies mid-workout, the low magical hum of rune-enforced equipment, the faint tang of metal and sweat and warding oil.

  This wasn’t a temple or a classroom. It was a forge, and every person in here was hammering themselves into shape.

  Oz loved it immediately.

  Though he was was a bit taken aback by the attire. Everyone was wearing… well, almost nothing. Or at least, nothing that looked like clothing to a frontier boy. The men wore sleeveless tops made of some shimmering, sweat-wicking fabric, and the women were in tight, formwraps that hugged every curve like enchanted second skin.

  Oz blinked.

  The Ozzer did not blink. The Ozzer stared blatantly until Oz mentally slapped him so hard he nearly staggered.

  “What is everyone wearing?” Oz muttered under his breath. Back home, the most advanced athletic gear he owned was a pair of shorts that used to be trousers. Here, people dressed like they’d been sewn into their outfits by a particularly enthusiastic tailor.

  Still… he had to admit, as he watched a Valkyrie deadlift what looked like a couple of anvils, the outfits did showcase everyone’s physique to an impressive degree. Probably intentional.

  Oz tugged at his own loose tank top and breathable training shorts—far more modest, far more comfortable, and, apparently, far more old-fashioned than he’d realized.

  He found an open space near the weight racks and started inspecting the machines—massive constructs of enchanted steel and reinforced leather that looked built to survive a siege. One even resembled a medieval torture device crossed with a rowing machine. He was trying to figure out which end was the “start” when someone called out.

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  “You new here?” A woman with dark braids and a grin like a friendly threat was watching him. She was halfway through a set of arm presses that looked like they’d cripple most mortals. Her skin was bronze — not the “just back from the beach” kind, but the actual element.. She gleamed like someone had dipped an athlete in a forge. That and the fact she had a head of height on Oz meant she was probably a Valkyrie.

  “Yeah?” Oz said cautiously.

  “Got a class yet?”

  “Yesterday”

  “Good on you. I’m Freeda, I’m just about to start third year. Let me know if you want help figuring out the gear before it kills you.”

  “Appreciate it. I used to work out in a shed back home.”

  “Ah, well you got dedication if you got your body that good in your shed.” Freeda was running a critical eye over him. Oz was not unused to female attention, he understood that muscles had a certain appeal, this however felt different. It was like an art critic examining an unknown canvas placed before them.

  “Well, you’ll love it here. The equipment doesn’t collapse on you, and we’ve got weights for days.”

  Oz chuckled. “That’s an upgrade.”

  Chops trotted in behind him, earning a few raised eyebrows. Oz could practically see some gearing up to say something. “Oh this is my familiar Chops.”

  “Damn,” Freeda said recovering quickly, “that’s one tonk familiar you’ve got there. Does he work out too?”

  “He could probably manage the treadmills.”

  That proved prophetic. Ten minutes later, Chops was an instant celebrity, galloping gleefully on a treadmill while both heads barked in joyous stereo. Every few minutes he’d accelerate, forget how treadmills worked, and thump adorably into the wall. By the third attempt, half the gym was watching and laughing.

  “He’s got spirit,” Freeda said, grinning. “He can join the club.”

  “What club’s that?”

  “Physique Club. We’re here every morning before lectures. We believe in beating the attribute tax the old-fashioned way—by working harder than the magic expects us to.”

  “Yeah that tax sucks.” Oz felt the Ozzer who’d been very quiet about the whole thing, apart from trying to sneak inappropriate looks at some of the girls, stamp on his toes. Oh right, he wasn’t meant to experience the tax yet.

  “Look at this guy planning for the future.” Freeda called out, and a few others around her shouted back words of encouragement.

  “He’s at Noxarcer! Of course he’s got the right goals! And well put it this way Oz you don’t strike me as Dynasty type.”

  “Nah, I’m a Scholar.” Oz nodded,

  “Well we’re like you. Most of us, that is, there’s a few sensible ones like Michael.” She said, indicating a man doing pull ups with weights strapped to his feet, “The Dynasty lot tend to get enough Essence from mummy and daddy and don’t need to work to shave off the extra.”

  “They’re idiots. You get better gains if you cut the tax, plus it makes you heal faster.” Michael called as he dropped down from a pull-up.

  “I’d not heard that about healing.” He frowned Lily had mentioned something about that when she’d healed him up, was that why she wanted to make sure he wasn’t lying about being F0?

  “And we’ll tell you much more, if you join the club. However, we're happy to get you started here.”

  “I’d be down for that.”

  A while later Oz had showered and changed into his uniform. The Physique club had put him in a good mood. They felt like his people. They’d been impressed with his strength and control. Freeda had started pressuring him to join till Michael had picked her up bodily and removed her. Explaining that clubs weren’t allowed to recruit or pressure students to join until after the first week of term.

  Oz maintained his good mood even as his cravat started undoing itself and he walked ot his next destination, the library.

  The library of Noxarcer was often considered one of the greatest repositories of knowledge in all of the Republic. It was also considered one of the most dangerous organisations to ever exist. The protection of knowledge was their sworn duty, and they took it with the seriousness of priests guarding a god.

  It is said that those who fail to learn history are doomed to repeat it.

  The librarians of Noxarcer knew their history—every atrocity, every declaration of war, every foul misdeed—and they catalogued them meticulously. Not only to prevent such acts, but also to ensure that, should the time come, they could be repeated correctly.

  When Oz stepped through the library’s threshold, the world went quiet.

  The silence wasn’t empty—it was dense, like standing beneath deep water. The faint whisper of paper against paper drifted through the air, the sound of a thousand pages turning themselves. The temperature dropped by a few degrees, and even Chops hesitated, padding softly beside him as if afraid to make noise.

  The place was vast. A cathedral built for thought rather than worship.

  The ceiling vanished into shadow above an expanse of pale marble and bookcases the height of fortresses. Bridges of dark wood crisscrossed the upper levels, where robed figures drifted soundlessly between stacks, their footsteps cushioned by enchantments. Candlelight flickered in orbs suspended midair, each flame perfectly still—disciplined, as though it knew better than to misbehave here.

  Between the shelves stood statues of past librarians: tall, robed figures carved in meticulous detail, each clutching a book like a weapon. One had an open volume whose pages were real and still turning—each flip revealing words in a new, shifting language.

  Oz swallowed. He’d fought monsters before. This was worse.

  At the main desk stood a tall, lean man of elven descent, his skin the soft grey of moonlight and eyes a cutting shade of lilac. He watched Oz approach with the calm of a man who’d long since decided the world could offer no surprises. When his gaze flicked to Chops, it barely lingered.

  “How can I help you, student?”

  “I have this overdue book.”

  “You let a book go overdue?”

  The change in atmosphere was immediate. The silence turned total, like the world had stopped breathing. Oz could hear the faint rush of blood in his ears, the creak of his jaw as his teeth pressed together. The librarian hadn’t moved, but suddenly he seemed taller—or Oz had shrunk.

  No notification popped up. His dwarven stubbornness and mental fortitude weren’t countering whatever this was. That meant one of two things: either this wasn’t magic… or the magic was strong enough to punch right through his defenses.

  Chops whimpered, then flipped onto his back, showing his belly in total surrender.

  Oz chose his next words very carefully. “I haven’t had a chance to take out a book myself. What I meant to say was—I found someone else’s overdue book.”

  The pressure lifted instantly. Sound rushed back in: the scratch of quills, the gentle hum of enchantments. Chops rolled back upright, blinking.

  “Oh, what good news.” The man smiled, which somehow felt worse than the silence. “Ozren, was it? Could you share the book with me?”

  Oz nearly fumbled passing it over, trying to ignore that’d he’d definitely not introduced himself.

  “Ah, this one’s been on our ledgers for quite some time! I imagine Champion Molmest will be pleased to know he’s finally been removed from the list.”

  “What list?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” The smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I am Librarian Derlame. Welcome to Noxarcer’s Library. How may we serve you today?”

  Oz decided that he definitely needed to ask Angie about “the list.” Preferably somewhere far away from here.

  “I have a list of books, and err…I have to confess this is my first time in a library so the basics would be good to know.” Oz decided that not knowing the rules here was too high a risk. It would be like walking down one of his father’s trap corridors without knowing where the pressure plates were.

  “I’m sorry you’ve not been in a library before?” Derlame looked at him like he’d revealed a war crime unrelated to retrieving books.

  “Not by choice, there wasn’t one in my town.” Oz rushed to say. He then bit down on his tongue before mentioning the school’s library which was a fancy shed. Something told him that Derlame might take offense.

  “My dear boy,” Derlame said softly. “How... tragic. You and your familiar are most welcome here.”

  Oz relaxed marginally. “You’re the first person who’s recognised he’s a familiar straight away.”

  “It’s written on his collars.” Derlame gave him a puzzled look, then turned with a graceful gesture. “Come. You’ll need orientation.”

  Oz was then taken on a tour of the library. He began to relax around Derlame, now he was in tour guide mode the lilac eyed elf was much more personable. The tour was overwhelming. The deeper they went, the more alive the library felt.

  Each floor seemed to breathe its own air—the scent of old paper mingled with ozone from the enchantments that held the place together. On the lower levels, heavy tomes were chained to the shelves, humming faintly with warding sigils. Higher up, the books seemed to watch back, whispering faintly in languages that weren’t meant for mortal throats.

  Derlame led him past floating catalogues shaped like orreries, where rings of runic text orbited a central globe of light. Every so often, one rotated and spat out a glowing index card that fluttered neatly into a librarian’s waiting hand.

  The other robed librarians floated through the shelves, nodding to Derlame whenever they met. His guide seemed to be a more senior sort as he only gave the faintest acknowledgement back.

  “Are the different floors organised by subject?” Oz asked.

  “Indeed, once, we required students to reach certain thresholds of power before accessing each floor. A dreadful system from a cataloguing point of view. And it encouraged all sorts of juvenile trespassing. Some idiots even tried invisibility cloaks.”

  “Seems pointless. There’s more than one way to detect someone.”

  Derlame smiled faintly. “Indeed. You’ll do well in the trapper course, I think.”

  “Is there things I’m not supposed to read?”

  “There are books you need permissions or to take tests to access. But you just simply won’t find them these days, much more efficient.”

  The tour concluded as Oz was shown to a study room. Which Derlame explained he’d proactively booked for him. The room was tucked away between some shelves. It was small but comfortable: walls paneled in warm oak, a single high window filtering golden light through a shifting enchantment that mimicked the sun. A sturdy table dominated the space, carved from blackwood and inset with a faintly glowing timekeeper rune. There was even a plush chair in the corner—one that looked like you could just sink into it.

  Derlame set down the stack of books Oz had requested. Most were mundane, but he’d also had some suggestions. Those had covers which pulsed faintly, sigils adjusting to some unknown stimulus, as if weighing whether he was worthy.

  “Your room for study,” Derlame said, hands clasped behind his back. “It will track your sessions automatically. If you find yourself lost in thought, the rune will remind you of the time.”

  Oz nodded. “So... basically a polite alarm clock.”

  “Precisely.” Derlame’s faint smile returned.

  He left Oz there with his thoughts, and the heavy hush of a place that didn’t merely store knowledge— it lived it.

  Oz sat, Chops curling up beside him. He placed the first book on the table, and took a deep breath.

  As he cracked open the cover, he couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere, something in the shelves was watching him.