Wulf followed the headmaster across the campus.

  They walked along a pathway, crossing a field of vibrant, green grass. The other three faculty members—professors whose names he didn’t remember—trailed behind him, hands on their vambraces.

  Judging by their equipment, they were Ascendants, but they weren’t golem pilots. That didn’t make them any less important. While golems and stone-aspect Ascendants were the most common, and always fought on the front lines, they relied on mage classes to deal proper damage to demons.

  Or…foes, in general. The demons would be arriving soon, but they hadn’t arrived yet.

  The staff members all proudly displayed a badge pinned to the breasts of their gambesons: a circle of iron the size of a coin. One line down the center for Low-Iron, two lines for Middle-Iron, and three lines for High-Iron. All of them were Middle-Irons (the most common tier for Ascendants to achieve), except the headmaster, who wore a silver badge with one line at its bottom. Low-Silver.

  As they walked, Wulf inhaled. The sun was directly overhead, the sky was clear and blue, and two misty moons hovered on the horizon. Most importantly, the air was clean and clear. Clearer than he’d ever tasted it for years. No smoke, no dust, no brimstone-soaked demon-breath. His heartbeat slowed, and his attention drifted away from the faculty members.

  The Istalis Academy was a sprawling expanse of land in the middle of the Istalis Confederacy. Hills of grass rolled up and down, hosting scattered stone buildings, and flagstone pathways ran between them. Students from all over Istalis milled about on the walkways, all in uniform, and all wearing leather bracers with their Academy-issued enchanted parchment (which would be a hefty cost to replace if lost—about the same as an entire textbook).

  Everyone at the Istalis Academy was an Ascendant, but there were only four major departments: Rangers, Mages, Artificers, and Pilots. Pilots were always stone- or earth-aspect.

  Except, apparently, Wulf.

  They passed between two buildings made of polished limestone, each with ornate facades, gargoyles, stained-glass windows, and steep shingled roofs. Students leapt out of the headmaster’s way and dipped their heads. They all wore badges, but most were either wood, coal, or copper—the three lowest tiers.

  Beyond Copper tier was Bronze, then Iron, then Silver—and it went much higher, all the way up to Orichalcum tier, but he didn’t suspect he’d see anyone higher than Silver for a long time.

  Finally, when they reached the top of a hill on nearly the opposite side of the campus, Wulf had to stop.

  Not because he was tired, but because he was seeing the main Academy complex for the first time in decades.

  A rocky butte protruded up out from a plain of fescue grass, and atop it was a sprawling city of beige sandstone and limestone. Halls clung to the side of the butte, with buttresses supporting them, and spires reached high up into the sky. Along the backside of the butte, facing toward the distant, snow-capped mountains, was a semicircle of stone with twenty enormous statues in front of it.

  Each statue had to be at least thirty storeys tall, and every one was unique, though they all had a vaguely humanoid shape. Their weapons, constructed out by Artificers, glimmered in the sunlight.

  They were the Academy’s giant golems. Oroniths.

  “One would think this is the first time you’ve seen an Oronith, Mr. Hrothen,” the headmaster grumbled. “Don’t delay. The Harrel family has been putting pressure on me for the past two weeks, ever since they learned that a farmer’s son would be sharing a class with their children.”

  They descended the hill for a few more minutes, before arriving at a causeway. It crossed over their fields and deposited them at the main center of the academy. They marched past lecture theatres and enormous, scattered halls that felt like they’d been cobbled together over hundreds of years. Which they probably had.

  When they finally reached the hall at the top of the butte, the headmaster thrust the two-storey tall doors open with a grunt. Still, those doors were much larger and thicker than a normal human would’ve been capable of moving.

  Irons would’ve had strengthening Skills and Marks, though. He’d seen plenty of them in his previous life. Wulf only put on a surprised expression because the others would get suspicious if he didn’t.

  They marched up through the high-ceilinged hallways, passing other faculty members, then wound up a spiral staircase until they arrived at the top of a spire—and at an office that overlooked the Oronith docks.

  The Headmaster motioned to the other faculty members. They all dipped their heads, then backed away, and dispersed down the hallway.

  “Shut the door, please,” said the Headmaster as he sat down at the desk in the center of the room.

  Wulf kicked the door shut nonchalantly, then walked over to the desk. He leaned forward and placed his hands on the varnished wood. “Sir, I’ll be honest, I don’t really remember how it started, but I know he deserved it.”

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  The Headmaster snorted, then motioned to one of the seats facing the front of the desk. Wulf nodded. He lowered himself down into the upholstery, expecting his joints to ache and muscles to creak, but they didn’t.

  Ascendants could slow their aging, but that only came during the Gold tier, and Wulf had never made it that far. In his past life, he’d been a Low-Silver, same as the headmaster.

  Wulf scanned the desk. Stacks of paper, inkwells and quills, and a block of metal that read, Dr. Langold.

  That was the headmaster’s name. Right.

  Wulf scratched the back of his head, and though he shouldn’t have been nervous, a glimmer of fear snuck in.

  “Mr. Hrothen,” said Langold, “I’m inclined to believe you. And I will admit, for a first year student to control a golem within his first weeks at the academy is impressive. But likewise, the Harrel branch of the Fletchers Guild has been a pain in my backside for every single one of their children who has attended the academy, and I’m sure their youngest will be no different—and they aren’t even the main branch. However, they are one of the Academy’s main donors, and if they catch wind of me favouring a farmboy from Carolaign over their son, they will pull their funds. No matter how justified you might have been.”

  Wulf sighed.

  “They might even drag the Istalis Academy through the mud with smear campaigns and the like,” Langold continued. “I would lose my position.”

  “But—”

  “Not to mention, you did steal school property. That golem wasn’t yours.”

  Wulf didn’t exactly remember the details of that, but he was pretty sure he’d borrowed it from the gym storage. They shouldn’t have left a golem unattended.

  “But, sir,” Wulf said, “you’re the headmaster. You don’t have any sway over affairs here? They can just replace you with a complaint?”

  “This is the Istalis branch of the Academy,” Langold said. “And I am only a Low-Silver. The central branch could pull strings and have me removed.”

  Damn.

  Wulf hadn’t exactly been keen on the ways of academia in his past life, and admittedly, he hadn’t learned much about the system as a whole. But he supposed the academy would try to stay out of greater trouble as best they could.

  “I am curious, though, Mr. Hrothen,” Langold said. “How did a farmboy from Carolaign afford tuition in the first place?”

  That, Wulf remembered clearly.

  “On my eighteenth birthday, I awakened my Class,” Wulf said. “Pilot. Turns out, I was an Ascendant. My entire village pooled their earnings to send me here, sir.” He shuddered at the thought of what they had given up. They were expecting him to do great things.

  “We’ve only had one other student from Carolaign,” Langold said.

  Istalis was a confederation of many smaller nations, including Carolaign, and though Wulf didn’t really understand the politics of it all, there was only one Oronith Academy in the entire confederation. That meant only twenty Oroniths for their entire generation.

  “I’m honoured to be the second,” Wulf said.

  “I don’t expect you to make it far, sadly. It’s rare, and even moreso now.” Langold shook his head. “Most of these guild kids have been favoured from birth. Some of them entered the Academy as Middle-Woods, and have two or three Marks.”

  The headmaster plucked a sheet of parchment off the top of the pile, then set it down and pushed it across the table, narrowly avoiding a candle. “We have your entrance scan results here.”

  Wulf craned his head, then leaned closer to the page. Back when he was nineteen the first time, he’d only just learned to read a few months before attending the Academy. This time, he had years of practice. But he had to maintain the appearance of a struggle.

  Name: Wulf

  Class: Pilot

  Rank: Low-Wood

  Skills: (1)

  Marks: (0)

  Wulf raised his eyebrows. That would’ve been his old status, and thank the Field they weren’t testing his status sheet again, or he’d be in trouble. Unique Classes, while sometimes powerful, could also be useless. Unique didn’t mean good. Aside from the fact that the academy had no proper alchemy department, they’d probably avoid the risk a Unique Class posed for them.

  “I see,” Wulf said. “So I’m behind. I can fix that.”

  “I trust you’ll give it your best shot,” said Langold. “But there are twenty Oroniths, each with a crew of four operators: one Pilot, one Mage, one Ranger, and one Artificer. Only eighty students in this decade will move on to pilot Oroniths, and some have already been spoken for. The rest will be left to pick up the pieces. After all, we need the best pilots to defend Istalis from exterior threats.”

  That wasn’t necessarily true. Last life, Wulf hadn’t graduated at the top of his year. But later in life, he took control of an Oronith called Fiendhammer. A battlefield promotion, sure, but he’d piloted the giant golem up to its very end.

  He nodded anyway, though his expression probably darkened.

  “Now, for the matter of your punishment: your ration credits will be docked by two chits for the next week. Mild, and you’ll only lose out on sweets if you spend your chits right, but it’s a warning shot.” Langold tapped the sheet of paper. “Stay away from the Harrels, and don’t anger any guild kids. Much less the main branch of the Fletcher Guild.”

  Wulf nodded. But the way things were going, he doubted he’d stay out of trouble for long.

  “From one Carolaignian to another,” Langold said, “good luck, and Field favour you.”

  “You’re the other?” Wulf asked.

  “If you need, use me as proof: the Field ensures a man can have anything as long as he strives for it, but it will be more difficult for you than most. You are dismissed.”

  “I understand.” Wulf stood up, then walked back to the door.

  If he was going to do this, he’d need potions. But he was ready to give it a shot.