"Welcome to The Drasilik School for Higher Mystics!" the old man sputtered out as he tried to catch his breath.
The wide-eyed young man in the front row barely managed to rip himself away from staring at the ornate ceiling as he heard that. The old man was bald, shrivelled, wore golden hoop earrings and was donning a beautiful cobalt blue robe with golden lining.
His voice trembled as he continued speaking while seated on an ancient oak chair on the dais.
"I'm Lucas Ricaryoth, your Headmaster and a descendant of the late Lord Solomon Ricaryoth himself. I hope you enjoyed your tour around the island," saying so the Headmaster looked around the room, "and before any of you ask, your dorm mates have already been decided for you by your teachers. And you have no say in changing your rooms."
The young man looked around to catch a glimpse of that redhead he had seen earlier. But the crowd of fellow mystics seated behind him were too many, and he couldn't find her.
"Do you see her?" Sargon murmured to himself.
"No, Young Master," came a reply from his jet black cloak.
"... and so, every mystic of the continent of Arcenia should aim to contract 72 spirits in their lifetime! Just like Lord Solomon, the sole Grand Mystic history has ever seen!"
'72?! Damn, that's a big number,' Sargon thought to himself, 'How can one body even host those many?'
A few hours later when the Headmaster's speech finally ended, the mystics were ordered to get themselves acquainted with the island as much as they could, but be ready and in there classes before the giant bell in the school's only tower gets rung.
Sargon had different plans though. A few minutes later, he was climbing the tallest Redwood tree from among a grove of them, and eventually, panting, he sat down upon the highest branch.
From here he could see everything. The humongous amphitheatre in the distance, the Misty Forest, the castle itself which was the School, and the tall hills behind the castle.
The library itself was a separate building, one he was especially looking forward to explore.
"How many spirits was dad contracted to, Baasha?"
Sargon's cloak fluttered and a black gas rose from it. When it took form, a blue skinned man with white glowing eyes, and donning a full-body jet black armour sat beside him.
"I heard he had 23, Young Master," he said in a voice that sounded like the breeze itself.
"And mom?"
"She had 41, excluding me, Young Master."
"She could probably have gotten all the way upto 50," Sargon's face twisted as he held back the emotions from overwhelming him.
If only it wasn't for that night, if only his uncle hadn't betrayed his parents. If only it wasn't for those darned jealous nobles. If only he had listened.
***
The classroom was huge. The floor was marble, but the walls and the ceiling were stone. It was empty of any furniture, except for a teak chair and a long wooden bookstand for the teacher who hadn't yet arrived.
Sargon had just plopped down on the ground near a bunch of fellow mystics who were having a conversation when footfalls were heard and the teacher strode in.
She was wearing a ruby red robe, had her long brown hair tied up in a plait that was almost waist length, had brilliant green eyes and was wearing silver drop earrings.
She looked not a day over 30, but it was hard to tell for High Mystics, since he had heard on the tour that they rarely looked their actual age.