Frid—no, Albert—walked into town with measured steps, his head slightly lowered, his features carefully neutral. His old self had died in that river, washed away with his blood. Now, he was Albert, a simple scholar seeking a quiet life.

  The town of Velhan was neither large nor small, but it was lively. Merchant stalls lined the stone-paved streets, their owners shouting about fresh produce and exotic wares. Children darted between passing carriages, their laughter mixing with the clatter of hooves. It was a town untouched by war, by chaos—a stark contrast to the world he once navigated.

  Dressed in a clean, unassuming tunic and a dark cloak, Albert blended into the crowd. He had abandoned his illusion magic for now. Instead, he relied on more traditional disguises—a neatly trimmed beard, a slight change in posture, a different way of speaking. The illusion magic he possessed was incomplete, unreliable for long-term use.

  But here, in Velhan, he didn’t need it.

  At least, not yet.

  His goal was simple: find work, establish a stable routine, and stay hidden.

  His first stop was the Velhan Scholar’s Guild, a modest building near the town’s main square. Unlike the grand academies in the high continents, this was a place for local teachers and historians—hardly a place where a fugitive would be expected to hide.

  Albert stepped inside, inhaling the scent of parchment and ink. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books on various subjects—agriculture, philosophy, local history. Several scholars were already engaged in quiet discussions, their robes marking them as teachers of various disciplines.

  A receptionist, an elderly man with a thin mustache and spectacles, peered up at him. "Can I help you?"

  Albert nodded, adjusting his posture to appear humble. "I’m looking for work as a history teacher."

  The man narrowed his eyes. "Do you have credentials?"

  Albert smiled politely. "I studied under Master Wergin in the southern provinces." A lie, of course, but a convincing one. Master Wergin was a known historian who had died years ago—no one could verify the claim.

  The receptionist hummed. "And your specialty?"

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "Magic history."

  That got the man’s attention.

  Velhan’s schools had many scholars, but few who specialized in the origins of magic. Most mages focused on the practical application of their elements—fire for combat, water for healing, earth for construction. The history of magic, however, was an often-ignored subject, one that Albert had studied obsessively.

  The receptionist studied him for a long moment before nodding. "We do have an opening at Velhan’s Small Academy. The pay isn’t high, but if you can prove your knowledge, I’ll send a recommendation."

  Albert inclined his head. "That’s more than enough."

  Two weeks later, Albert stood before his first class.

  The classroom was modest—a dozen students seated on wooden benches, their eyes filled with varying degrees of curiosity. Some were noble children sent here for a basic education, others were commoners hoping to learn enough to secure decent work.

  Albert placed a book on the desk and looked at them. "Tell me," he said, "what is magic?"

  A boy in the front row raised his hand. "It’s power!"

  A girl beside him scoffed. "That’s obvious. Magic is an energy we’re born with."

  Albert nodded. "Both of you are correct. Magic is power, and it is something we inherit. But how do we use it?"

  Silence.

  Then, a hesitant answer. "We use grimoires?"

  Albert smiled. "Yes. A grimoire is a book of patterns, a guide that allows a mage to wield their element efficiently. Without it, a mage can still use their magic, but it would be… wasteful. Like trying to paint without a brush, or fight without a weapon."

  He turned and wrote two words on the board:

  Old Magic.

  New Magic.

  "The magic we use today is different from what existed long ago. During the era of the True Dragons, magic was raw, unfiltered. It was so thick that humans couldn’t use it without suffering terrible consequences."

  The students leaned in, intrigued.

  Albert continued. "New Magic—the magic we use today—requires control. It requires a medium. A grimoire allows us to refine our spells, to prevent our magic from consuming us."

  A boy in the back raised his hand. "Then how did the old mages survive?"

  Albert’s smile was thin. "Most didn’t."

  Later that night, Albert returned to the academy’s library.

  By now, he had settled into a quiet routine. He taught during the day, blending into the role of an unremarkable scholar. But at night, he pursued his true goal.

  Immortality.

  Though he had abandoned his reckless methods of the past, his obsession remained. He spent his nights scouring the library’s archives, searching for forgotten texts, hidden knowledge.

  It was on one of these nights that he found something unusual.

  A book.

  It was old, its leather cover cracked with age. Unlike the other books in the library, this one had no title. Albert flipped it open, scanning the text.

  The words spoke of a sealed chamber beneath the academy, an underground ruin dating back to an older era.

  His pulse quickened.

  He had always suspected that the past held the key to immortality. If this chamber contained even a fragment of Old Magic, it could be the breakthrough he needed.

  Albert closed the book, his mind racing.

  For now, he would continue playing the role of the scholar.

  But soon… he would uncover the secrets buried beneath this place.