Stellarkeep.
The city fortress, looming in the dark, is a sight to behold even under the night sky.
Its sheer scale is almost unfathomable, stretching far into the distance with its massive walls blending into the darkness, making it difficult to discern where the fortress ends and the night begins.
From a distance, Stellarkeep's silhouette is an unyielding mass against the stars, dwarfing everything around it.
Up close, its vastness becomes even more overwhelming.
The walls rise high into the sky, their surfaces cold and smooth, with only the faintest hints of the intricate carvings visible in the moonlight.
After disembarking at the station, visitors find themselves on a wide road paved with polished marble.
The stones, faintly glowing in the light of distant lanterns, lead the way toward the fortress.
Shadows cast by towering statues of ancient guardians line the path.
At the end of this road, an immense gate stands, carved from the same marble as the road but far grander in scale.
The gate itself is a colossal structure made entirely of marble, its surface adorned with intricate carvings of mythical creatures, celestial bodies, and ancient symbols that seem to pulse with a life of their own.
Standing at an imposing 30 meters tall, the gate dominates the skyline, each of its doors 12 meters wide and 3 meters thick.
The doors are so massive that it seems impossible for them to be moved by mere human hands alone.
When the engravings on the gate begin to glow with a soft, bluish light, the entire structure comes to life.
A deep, resonant hum fills the air as the enormous doors slowly swing open, revealing a thick curtain of mist within.
The mist, tinged with the same bluish hue as the light from the gate, swirls gently, obscuring whatever lies beyond.
Passengers from the train disembark in awe and form a neat queue to enter the gates.
"Hmm, the line is still long."
Oz muttered, his voice tinged with impatience.
His train, car number 2, had stopped at the far end of the platform, forcing him into this unfortunate position.
No amount of grumbling would change the situation; it was just like when you open the refrigerator multiple times, hoping to find something different inside, only to be met with the same contents each time.
"Huff, huff. I told you to only bring what's necessary!"
A stout man puffed as he struggled to push five enormous suitcases up the marble road.
His bowler hat bobbed with each labored breath, and his impressively long, curled mustache twitched in rhythm with his panting.
"But father, I need all of it!"
Protested the smaller, plumper version of the man beside him, though he lacked the hat and mustache.
"Clothes, toys, books, pillows, blankets, shoes, and, most importantly, food."
The child, who looked like a miniature replica of his father, was lugging three sizable suitcases of his own. It was a wonder he managed to move at all under such a burden.
—Aren't they the ones who were nearly buried by their own luggage on the train?
From one of his suitcases, the child take a bottle of juice and a few pieces of bread.
In less than a minute, the bread had vanished into his mouth, as if by magic.
—Even without spells, it seems he could make all the food on a table disappear in an instant.
Oz, intrigued by the display, found himself staring at the child for longer than he intended, enough to catch the child's attention.
"Hi! Are you signing up for the academy too? My name's Pickwick, Samuel Pickwick."
The boy said cheerfully, his plump cheeks bulging as he stuffed another piece of nuget into his mouth, which disappeared just as quickly as the bread.
"Oh, me? Yes, I'm signing up too. My name is Oliver Twist, but my friends call me Oz."
Oz replied, his usual calm demeanor momentarily disrupted by the speed at which Sam consumed his food.
Startled, Oz awkwardly took Sam's outstretched hand, the handshake firm despite the boy's small, chubby fingers.
"Ok, Oz! Then just call me Sam."
His round face flushed with excitement at having made a new friend.
"Hohoho! Your first friend before entering the academy?"
Mr. Pickwick, Sam's father, chuckled heartily, his mustache twitching with every laugh.
"Good evening, Mr. Pickwick."
Oz greeted, shifting his attention to Sam's father, who loomed over them with his chubby body.
"I don't see your parents around? Are you here alone?"
Mr. Pickwick inquired, his voice laced with a genuine concern.
Oz, is a skilled marketer in his previous life, effortlessly slipped into the role of a helpless, naïve child.
His wide, innocent eyes and slightly trembling voice completed the act.
If anyone knew his true age, they might have been nauseated by the display.
"Um… I'm an orphan, so I came here by myself."
Oz said softly, lowering his gaze to the ground, the epitome of a lonely, vulnerable child.
In fiction, it's a common trope for protagonists to be orphans or 'soon-to-be orphans.'
This gives them the freedom to embark on adventures without the constraints of their parents.
Except when their families are nobility.
In those cases, the stories will feature either asshole siblings or a beautiful sister who is overly obsessed with the protagonist.
Therefore, a protagonist who comes from another world is the easiest choice, as they usually arrive in the fantasy world alone, without their parents.
"... Oh, I'm so sorry, little one! Here, take this sandwich, some bread, nuget, and an apple. You need to eat plenty to grow big and strong."
Mr. Pickwick said, his eyes full of sympathy as he handed Oz the food.
"Th-Thank you."
Oz accepting the food with a gratitude that wasn't entirely feigned.
—At least I don't have to buy dinner tonight.
"Well then, why don't you come along with us? Sam is also applying to Mistheaven."
Mr. Pickwick offered, his hearty voice full of warmth.
Mistheaven.
The name alone sent a shiver down Oz's spine.
Mistheaven was the most prestigious magic academy in the country, a place where only the most talented and promising young sorcerers were admitted.
Every child with magical abilities dreamed of attending, and every year, thousands of hopefuls applied.
But only 400 were accepted.
For six years, Mistheaven would shape these young minds, training them with the finest curriculum in magic and the arcane arts.
Graduates were guaranteed lucrative positions in various fields, their futures all but secured.
—Even in this world, it seems the job market is incredibly fierce.
Mistheaven occupied the entire 5th floor of the city's magical tower, a floor dedicated solely to academic excellence.
—Master ordered me to get accepted there. If I fail… Brrr, I don't even want to think about what would happen.
"Are you cold, Oz?"
Sam asked, pulling out a steaming cup of tea from one of his many suitcases and offering it to Oz.
In the other suitcases, Sam had packed a tea brewer, a coffee maker, and even a waffle iron.
—Why not just bring your entire kitchen in the suitcase instead?
"Oh, the line is moving!"
Mr. Pickwick exclaimed, his voice filled with excitement as the queue began to inch forward.
One by one, the people ahead of them entered the towering gate, which was now heavily guarded.
The guards, clad in shining armor, were armed not only with swords but also with firearms.
In this world, where magic reigned supreme, firearms were just as deadly.
Unlike in many fantasy world where firearms are rendered useless in in favor of cool sword fights or spectacular magic, here, 'American magic,' as Oz called it, still a formidable force.
Firearms were overpowered—no spells, no incantations, just a simple pull of the trigger, and even the most powerful sorcerer could be brought down.
Usually, in stories, authors make the protagonist the only one who uses firearms so they can have a unique power.
"Open Shazam!"
Oz muttered under his breath, half-jokingly, as they approached the gate.
"..."
Nothing happened, of course. But who hasn't, at least once, tried to open a mysterious door or a hidden passage with those words?
"Move along, don't stop!"
One of the guards barked at Oz, his stern voice breaking Oz's playful reverie and causing him to quicken his pace.
With swift steps, Oz hurriedly entered the mist.
Inside the mist, his visibility dropped, the thick bluish-white fog enveloping him completely.
The air was cool, damp, and filled with the faint scent of certain flower.
Oz took a deep breath and stepped forward, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and excitement.
[Welcome to Stellarkeep. Don't be afraid, this is just a security protocol. Please have a seat first.]
A disembodied female voice greeted Oz as he arrived.
The voice seemed to come from all directions at once, filling the air with an eerie and oddly presence.
Suddenly, from the swirling mist that enveloped the room, a wooden chair materialized before Oz.
Following the voice's instruction, he cautiously approached and took a seat.
*Whooz*
Before him, a transparent figure, shimmering with a ghostly white hue, emerged from the mist.
Its form was vaguely humanoid but insubstantial, like a wisp of smoke.
"Oh, a ghost? It looks like I've taken a wrong turn again. Spectrobanis Erectus!"
Oz exclaimed, hoping to dispel whatever spectral entity had appeared.
For someone like Oz, who had faced far more terrifying things on Earth, a ghost held little fear.
Responsibility, however, was much scarier.
[Oi, I'm not a ghost. It's a phantom projection! And you got the spell wrong! It's not Spectrobanis Erectus! It's Spectrobanis Evictus!]
The phantom's tone was a mixture of irritation and amusement, its voice crackling slightly as if struggling to maintain coherence.
"Yeah, sorry. I'm just here to register at Mistheaven. Obviously, I'm not yet proficient in magic."
[Alright, alright. Let's start from the beginning again.]
"Spectrobanis Evictus!"
This time, Oz's spell worked perfectly.
A brilliant beam of light shot forth from his hand, illuminating the room with an intense glow.
[*Kyaaaa*]
The phantom emitted a sound of distress as the bright light hit it, causing a brief flicker in its form.
"You said you're a phantom; why does it hurt?"
Oz asked, puzzled by the phantom's reaction.
[You little brat! Who wouldn't startled if their eyes were exposed to such blinding light?]
"I just wanted to be sure that you are not a ghost."
It turned out that the phantom wasn't suffering from an exorcism but from the discomfort of the intense light hitting her eyes from a close range.
[If you do that again, I'll deny your entry. Ahem, let's proceed with the interview.]
At the mention of 'interview,' Oz instinctively straightened up in his chair.
Despite his current child-like appearance, his body reacted on its own, a reflex honed by years of experience from countless interviews back on Earth.
[Eh, no need to be so formal. You're actually scaring me!]
"Oh! Sorry, it's just a habit, hahaha!"
[Ahem, now, please present your documents and identification.]
Oz promptly opened his suitcase. It was packed with various clothes and items, cluttered and disorganized.
"One moment, I forgot to tidy up my suitcase, so the documents are mixed in."
For more than 15 minutes, Oz rummaged through his suitcase, pulling out and folding clothes, trying to locate the necessary paperwork.
[...]
Even though the phantom was just a projection, its frustration was evident through its animated expressions.
Calmly, Oz continued to sort his belongings, folding shirts and pants with practiced ease.
"Ah, here are the documents."
The phantom took the documents and began to examine them.
— Oh, the technology in this world is incredibly advanced, to the point where holograms can handle physical objects. Magic truly is wondrous.
[Oliver Twist. Age 14. Born in 1983. Raised in the Fagin orphanage.]
— Yep, that's correct. Don't scrutinize too closely nor ask strange questions either. I'm just an ordinary orphan.
[Verinomus verification will now begin.]
The phantom is holding Oz's hand, then she cast a spell.
[Verinomus!]
A golden, shimmering light began to envelop Oz's body, its warmth spreading across his skin.
Magic lesson 101: What is verinomus?
Verinomus refers to a 'true name' a unique name bestowed by the world upon the birth of a living being.
Naturally, verinomus cannot be pronounced by mere human speech.
Its true form is akin to a galaxy, composed of millions of stars. Each soul carries a unique pattern that no other being possesses.
So, what about Oz?
As a being not originally born in this world, Oz's soul did not have a verinomus.
The only way to acquire a verinomus is to take it from another soul.
This practice is considered highly unethical and falls under the category of dark arts, punishable by severe consequences.
"Okay, identity confirmed. No criminal records found. Welcome to Stellarkeep!"
As long as one isn't foolish, such matters generally remain hidden.
Although master assured that the verification process would be smooth, Oz's heart continued to race with anticipation.
In the direction opposite to where he had entered, Oz noticed a corridor free of mist.
It appeared to be the exit from this place.
—Now I'm curious.
"Rapio Subtilis!"
Once again, the familiar sensation of a fishing line being pulled was felt.
With a swift motion, something tangible was in his hand.
"Eh, can a phantom be a target?"
Oz was taken aback.
He had only been playing around with the spell on the phantom.
Yet, without realizing it, his spell had affected the phantom.
— Please, not trousers again.
Oz slowly opened his eyes to find another strange object in his hand.
His wish had been granted, but the result was just as absurd.
The object he held was a cucumber.
"…"
Yep, a perectly normal-looking cucumber.
Oz quickly understood why he received a cucumber from that phantom—or rather, from the real person behind the phantom.