The lecture hall emptied.
A low roar of scraping chairs and murmuring voices echoed off the high stone ceilings.
Avaline remained seated, head bowed, a shield against the lingering stares. Pretending to gather notes that didn't exist.
She could still feel it – the phantom weight of Lucien Night's mocking gaze, the chill of Professor Ironwood's dismissal.
Forgotten again.
Good. For now, forgotten was safe.
When only a few stragglers remained, shuffling towards the exit, she finally moved.
Rising smoothly, she slipped out of her seat and melted into the bustling corridor beyond the lecture hall doors.
The corridor was wider than the entrance suggested. Vaulted passageways branched off in multiple directions. High stone pillars supported the ceiling, their surfaces carved with the faded, intricate forms of constellations she didn't recognize and beasts pulled from half-forgotten myths. Echoes of countless footsteps blended with the low hum of conversation.
Students in the standard navy and silver uniforms surged past.
Avaline kept close to the wall, observing. Subtle differences caught her eye – the quality of the fabric on some uniforms seemed finer, their silver emblems gleaming with a brighter, almost liquid light.
Higher ranks? Or just wealthier families? Likely both. The two often went hand-in-hand.
First things first.
Damage report. Control the spiral.
She needed facts, objective data, not just the fragmented, humiliating memories swirling within this body.
Spotting a shallow alcove further down, partially concealed behind a large statue, she moved towards it.
The statue depicted a stern-faced woman, muscles taut, wrestling a creature with far too many limbs – likely one of the historical Battle Art founders, judging by the dynamic pose. A flicker of memory – Matriarch Elara Vance, founder of the Serpent Coil Style? The name felt right, pulled from the novel's appendices.
The alcove offered minimal privacy, but it would have to do. She slipped behind the cold stone.
Closing her eyes, Avaline focused inward.
She reached out with her mind, searching for the interface, the prompt she theorized should exist in a world touched by systems and strange powers, even if the original Avaline Dubois had never accessed it.
A specific intent formed: Status.
A faint shimmer overlaid her vision, like heat haze on a summer road. It resolved into crisp, translucent text hanging in the air before her, visible only to her.
-----------------------------
Name: Avaline Dubois
Race: Human (Terran Subtype)
Rank: F
Talent Potential: C
Title: Apprentice Mage
[Attributes]
Strength: F
Agility: F
Endurance: F
Intelligence: D-
[Skills]
None
[Battle Arts]
None
[System]
Lucky Draw (Active) - Trigger Method Unknown
-----------------------------
Avaline stared, her breath catching slightly.
F-Rank.
Seeing it there, stark and undeniable, felt worse than just knowing it.
The Attributes... abysmal. Strength F, Agility F, Endurance F. No wonder the original Avaline was portrayed as perpetually exhausted, clumsy, weak.
The only 'decent' stat was Intelligence at D-. Barely average on the academy scale, but perhaps usable.
Talent Potential: C.
Mediocre. Painfully so. Room to grow, yes, but her theoretical ceiling was leagues below the S-rank monsters like Lucien Night who dominated the novel's plotlines.
Title: Apprentice Mage.
A basic designation. Almost an insult given her F-Rank, confirming she possessed only the barest spark required to manipulate mana. Technically accurate, nonetheless.
Her memories of the novel, her knowledge from another world... that might give her an edge. But she recalled Professor Ironwood's dismissal, Lucien's casual cruelty. Within Starcitzen Academy's rigid hierarchy, rank and demonstrated ability clearly spoke louder than any past life or hidden knowledge.
She possessed the potential for magic, yes. Based on fragmented orientation memories and cross-referencing with the novel's magic system descriptions, her current F-rank body could theoretically manage only the simplest Tier 1 spells.
A flickering Light spell, perhaps, barely brighter than a candle.
A Mana Bolt with the pathetic force of a thrown pebble.
Maybe a Minor Shield that could barely stop a stiff breeze, let alone a real attack.
Even achieving those minimal results required intense concentration. For low-rank mages without high innate talent, spellcasting wasn't about grand gestures or raw power. It was meticulous mental calculation. Precisely shaping and directing tiny, unstable threads of mana. Like solving complex equations on the fly, mapping trajectories and energy flows, just to achieve a minimal effect.
Her D- Intelligence was her only asset here. The foundation for the focus needed.
This careful, calculated approach... it felt less like the flashy sorcery of the novel's heroes and more like the beginnings of witchcraft. A different path. One built on knowledge, precision, and perhaps finding loopholes, rather than overwhelming force. A path she might have to embrace if she wanted to survive.
And then, the last line.
System: Lucky Draw (Active) - Trigger Method Unknown.
Avaline blinked. Read it again.
Lucky Draw? System?
What was this?
The novel never, ever mentioned Avaline Dubois having a System! This wasn't part of the original story she knew so intimately.
Was this... extra? A bonus prize for falling into a book? A transmigrator's perk? Some kind of cosmic joke?
It was Active, not dormant. But the 'Trigger Method Unknown' part was just as baffling. How did one use a lucky draw System? What did it even draw from? What were the stakes?
This threw a massive, unexpected variable into her calculations. Potentially powerful, potentially useless. Definitely dangerous in its unfamiliarity.
No skills.
No Battle Arts.
She was a blank slate in the worst possible way, aside from that theoretical grasp of Tier 1 magic and this bizarre, unmentioned System.
Hardly surprising about the lack of skills and arts, she supposed, suppressing a sigh. Even with humanity fighting for survival across the realms, advanced techniques weren't handed out freely. They were inherited through bloodlines, passed down through expensive tutelage, or purchased with resources the original Avaline Dubois clearly lacked.
Taking a slow, deliberate breath, Avaline dismissed the shimmering screen with a thought.
Panic wouldn't help. Analysis would.
This was her baseline. Terrible stats, low potential, basic magic requiring intense focus, and a mysterious System she had no idea how to operate.
Terrible. But known – mostly.
Objective two: find her assigned living quarters. Knowing her F-Rank meant the least desirable housing awaited. She needed to head towards the academy's oldest wing, the area designated for the lowest ranks according to the novel's descriptions.
She stepped out from behind the statue, back into the flow of students, keeping her posture neutral, trying to look like she belonged, like just another insignificant F-rank heading towards her designated place.
Engraved plaques, or perhaps signs illuminated by a faint, internal magic, were mounted high on the walls near corridor junctions, indicating the way to major faculties – 'Planar Studies', 'Elemental Weaving', 'Combat Division'. Nothing pointed towards simple dormitories, especially not the low-rank ones.
Further down the hall, she spotted a large, ornate Guidance Stone – a waist-high pedestal of polished obsidian topped with what looked like an enchanted, slowly rotating three-dimensional map of the academy grounds, shimmering with soft light. Useful.
But a cluster of boisterous students, their uniforms radiating the subtle sheen of quality she associated with higher ranks, were gathered around it, laughing loudly. Approaching felt like deliberately walking into a predator's den. Unwise.
Instead, she applied logic. She observed the drift of students whose uniforms looked slightly less pristine, whose postures seemed less confident. They were likely heading towards the same lower-status areas. She followed their general direction, maintaining a careful distance.
The architecture subtly shifted as she walked. The gleaming, magically-lit marble corridors gave way to older, worn stone. The air grew cooler. The enchanted illuminations became scarcer, replaced by flickering torches in sconces or simple glowing runes carved into the walls.
She passed an open archway.
From within, a vast courtyard paved with weathered flagstones, came the sharp clang of steel on steel, punctuated by shouts and the thud of impacts.
Curiosity overriding caution for a moment, she peeked through.
Students sparring. Intensely.
Some wielded blades shimmering with faint arcane light, leaving trails of energy in the air. Others moved with blurring speed, fists and feet striking sturdy practice dummies marked with complex sigils. The sigils flared defensively with angry light upon each solid impact.
Battle Arts.
Raw power, honed skill. A world away from the meticulous calculations of her own potential magic.
It was a visceral reminder. Even without innate gifts or rare skills dropped by monsters, dedicated training offered a path to power. A difficult, painful path, yes. But a path nonetheless. One she might have to consider, if only for basic self-defense.
Watching them move – effortless, lethal – didn't stir jealousy. It stirred something colder, more primal.
The sharp awareness of being prey among predators.
A cold knot tightened in her stomach. For a fleeting second, she pictured one of those blurring figures striking her down with that same contemptuous ease she'd felt from Lucien Night.
She pulled back from the archway, continuing down the corridor.
Further on, the passageway narrowed. The light grew dimmer still, the few enchanted sconces casting long, dancing shadows. Fewer students walked here. The air felt heavy, still.
Finally, she spotted it. A small, simple wooden sign, darkened with age and grime, bolted crudely to the stone wall.
'Sector 7 - Residential (Ash Ward)'.
Ash Ward.
The dismissive term for F-rank housing she recalled vividly from the novel. A place infamous for its decay, its desperate inhabitants, and its thriving unofficial trade in scavenged parts and dangerous favors.
Would she see evidence of that soon?
Almost there.
Relief warred with a cold apprehension. What state would the room really be in? Would she have a roommate? The novel barely mentioned Avaline's living situation beyond its general crappiness.
She turned the final corner, entering the Ash Ward's main corridor.
A single flickering torch in a rusty bracket halfway down cast long, distorted shadows that seemed to writhe like living things. The air felt colder here, heavy with the cloying smell of damp stone, mildew, and something vaguely unpleasant underneath – like old, stagnant magic residue.
The silence here wasn't peace. It was abandonment. Utter neglect. Punctuated only by the persistent, faint drip... drip... drip of unseen water somewhere deep within the walls.
Doors lined the hall. Scratched and dented wood, some bearing scorch marks, others crudely etched symbols or warnings.
Her assigned room number, retrieved from a fleeting memory fragment triggered by the Sector sign: 7G-13.
Unlucky number. Fitting.
She found it at the far end of the corridor, looking even more dilapidated than the others she'd passed. As she walked deeper into the Ward, the oppressive feeling intensified. The walls didn't just grow older — they felt closer, leaning inward.
Taking one last, steadying breath, Avaline reached for the simple, cold iron handle on the door of 7G-13.
Time to face her new 'home'.