After some frantic running, minor existential screaming, and what he can only describe as trauma-level arts-and-crafts, Aster’s head is reattached.

  Not rewound—just stitched back on this time.

  Apparently, the Sergeant isn’t around to flex his time magic, so they have to go the old-fashioned route: actual healing. Which means relying on the school nurse, a woman who applies medicine like she is icing a cake she hates.

  The salve she rubs onto his neck is a pungent green smear that tingles like pop rocks laced with regret. He feels his skin knit back together in real time, nerves buzzing as if trying to reestablish their Wi-Fi connection.

  Three deaths. One day.

  “Is the Void Wyrm still active?” Aster mutters aloud, squinting at the ceiling.

  Lena helps him sit up. “What?”

  “Nothing. Just wondering if I’m still possessed by that bad luck magnet or if I’m just impressively dumb.”

  “Well, it’s not the wyrm…” she says, patting his shoulder.

  “Thanks.”

  She winces, watching the healing finish. “So… the Mashe family. They were the ones who infected you?”

  “That’s what Matter said,” Aster replies, rolling his newly glued-on neck. It creaks like an old door. “I saw another member when the Celestials interrogated me in that dream court thing. Are they... strong?”

  Lena hesitates. And that is enough of an answer.

  “She’s the No.1 strength rank in our year,” Lena finally admits. “Her great-grandfather sits on the Celestial Council. Their family’s got influence in the Archipelago, the Caverns, the Wilds…”

  “…the moon,” Aster mutters. “Cool.”

  “They’re not to be trifled with,” Lena finishes.

  Aster stares at his blanket, his grip tightening.

  Right. No big deal. Just picked a fight with the heir to a dynastic slaughterhouse with planetary reach.

  He barely survives her sigh.

  But even now, something inside him burns—not fear, not really. Something colder. A decision, settling deep in his gut.

  He will become stronger.

  Strong enough to end this curse. Strong enough to save Anathi. Strong enough to stand where Matter once had.

  Ziya Mesha will be his first step.

  She is expected to take the top spot in the Initiate Tournament?

  Then he will make her No.2.

  His spine straightens.

  Lena notices the shift in his eyes, the way the haze of failure turns to something sharper.

  “Since you’re clearly still held together with hope and healing paste,” she says, “why don’t we go through the basics of Spellcraft?”

  Aster gives a slow nod. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

  His head wobbles slightly. The nurse, watching from across the room like a disappointed ghost, stomps over and applies another slather of green goo to the seam on his neck before walking off without a word.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Lena sits cross-legged beside him, flipping open a heavy leather-bound tome like she is preparing to tutor a ghost. Her voice, as usual, walks the line between professor and conspirator.

  “This is my family’s grimoire, a collection of glyphs, runic scripts, and condensed knowledge passed down to Initiates in my family. It contains all sorts of glyphs—one of which I’ll gift you so you can get some practical experience.”

  Before Aster can even wonder if she is gifting him the equivalent of a smartwatch or a bus ticket, she continues.

  She flips to a new page—a diagram of seven interconnected circles, one central, six radiating out like a flower.

  “This is the Elemental model. The atomic makeup of the Astral Plane. Unlike the real world where everything is made from atoms, the Astral Plane is composed entirely of Aether—think of it as raw energy composed from the fabric of reality. We separate Aether into two types of energies. The one forming matter, the physical stuff, which we call Elemental Aether. And the other forming the laws that govern it, which we call Spirit Aether.”

  “Every elemental typing,” she continues, “has seven subtypings or hues. Six of them are elemental variations—like Flame, Ash, or Magma from the fire element. Each carries its own hue or nature of that element, but the seventh is always Spirit. That’s universal.”

  Aster tilts his head carefully. “So even a Fire cultivator would have access to a Spirit gate?”

  “Exactly,” Lena says. “That gate is how they perform Spellcraft. Spirit Aether is the medium of the runic language. It’s the ink needed to write the alphabet that the universe uses to build itself. The other six gates generate elemental Aether—fuel—but the Spirit Aether is the DNA, the script that tells it how to behave. You need both the code and the power source to perform spells.”

  He frowns. “So it’s like every typing gets a built-in spell editor, but only for their element.”

  “Right. A Fire-typed cultivator can only write with Fire Runes. They use a Fire subtype’s Aether to power it. Simple, limited, but efficient.”

  Aster nods slowly. “Like a gas tank for whatever flavor of cosmic nonsense you run on.”

  “Yes. It dictates the purpose, nature, and direction of how the fuel is applied. Think of it like this: Elemental Aether is the electrons. Spirit Aether is the proton. It’s the syntax of reality. Without Spirit Aether, elemental energy is just… hot mist. Or cold mist. Spirit gives it purpose and form.”

  “So elemental Aether is the fuel. Spirit Aether is the command that tells it to be, say, a fireball?”

  “Exactly. Every elemental typing has a Spirit subtyping as its seventh Gate. So a Fire cultivator stores Fire Aether in their core, then uses their Spirit Gate to shape that fuel into a spell.”

  Aster leans back. “Okay. That tracks. But Spirit-typed cultivators like me… how do we work?”

  “You don’t have six elemental subtypes. Instead, all your gates are Spirit gates, but each one is tuned to a different element’s spiritual frequency. Spirit Fire. Spirit Water. Spirit Earth. Spirit Air. You don’t produce Ash or Wind or Ice Aether. You produce the language that governs those elements, but only the language. Unlike elemental types, you don’t generate the fuel. You can write the script, but you can’t run it without outside help.”

  “So I’ve got a keyboard in every dialect,” Aster mutters, “but I can’t power the screen.”

  “Right,” Lena says. “You can write the spell but can’t run it. That’s your trade-off. You don’t produce fuel—only the blueprint. Which means you need two additional inputs: Cores and Faith.”

  She holds up a small iridescent orb. “This is a Tide-Mouse core. Elemental in nature. This one’s attuned to Current, a subtype of Water. Cores like these contain dormant Gates—ones you can’t grow naturally. Instead, you inject Faith into them, and they create the Elemental Aether you wouldn’t normally be able to access.”

  Aster stares at the core. “So I burn my soul-money to rent fuel from a dead mouse?”

  “Welcome to Spirit Typing,” she says cheerfully. “Your advantage is flexibility—you can write in any elemental language. Mix Flame and Mist. Fuse Lightning and Earth. The potential is enormous. But the catch is: you’ll always pay. In cash, in Faith, in cores, in time.”

  “And everyone else?”

  “They only get one element’s runes. But they generate that element’s Aether naturally after they’ve opened their gate, so they don’t need to pay for fuel. It’s narrow but efficient.”

  Aster mulls it over. “So they’re engines with one gear. I’m an entire keyboard... with no power source.”

  “Until you get one.”

  Lena leans in, her voice quieter now.

  “A powerful Spirit-Typing is rare. Not because it’s weak, but because it’s costly. Families with access to runic libraries and vaults of cores? They build empires on it. You, though... you’ll have to do it the hard way. Learn the code. Harvest the glyphs. Forge your own spells. And scrounge, buy, or steal every last drop of Elemental Aether you use.”

  Aster looks down at his hands. Not weapons. Not yet. But maybe—eventually—scripters. Keys.

  “Every spell,” he murmurs, “a blueprint written in Spirit... powered by the bones of monsters and the weight of my own Will.”

  “Exactly,” Lena says.