The weather was clear, with a steady northwest wind and a smooth sailing speed. Everything seemed to be in order.
Amora opened her eyes, the swaying chandelier casting dizzying, orange-hued light across the cabin. The rhythmic rocking of the ship left her feeling nauseous.
Slowly, she regained clarity from the fog of her dreams. The events of the previous night had been a whirlwind of unexpected twists, culminating in her boarding this enigmatic black ship. For now, at least, she had evaded the twin pursuers of the Emerald Lance and the Nightmare Corps.
This vessel, however, didn't appear to be used for smuggling slaves but rather for ferrying stowaways.
People who had committed crimes, fallen into crushing debt, or incurred the wrath of nobles often found themselves with no options but to escape through underground channels, reinventing their identities. Without official permits or proper documentation, these desperate souls paid dearly for safe passage aboard such illicit ships.
While many smuggling operations boasted reliable underground networks capable of bypassing customs and providing forged identities, others were ruthlessly opportunistic. The most unscrupulous operators pocketed their clients' payments only to sell them into slavery, skipping even the pretense of documentation.
It was a gamble, and Amora seemed to have chosen well.
From the organization of passengers to the seamless launch, there was a clear structure to this operation. Uniformed clothing and numbered badges for identification suggested an experienced crew.
The sailors' casual remarks confirmed her suspicion: "Every year, there's always a latecomer or two." This ship had clearly operated as a stowaway vessel for a long time. Fly-by-night operations seeking quick profits wouldn't have lasted this long.
Still, Amora felt utterly drained. Her head throbbed, her eyes ached, and her stomach churned with every wave.
Perhaps she had overexerted herself during her escape. At not yet fifteen, her cognitive capacity was still in its formative stages, far below that of an adult. She had lost count of how many parallel magical operations she had executed within her mind, well past the recommended threshold of 70% cognitive load.
Mages fought with their minds, their thoughts wielded like weapons. Mental combat was no less grueling than physical labor—arguably more perilous.
Unlike physical exhaustion, where the body eventually forces rest to avoid collapse, the mind can push past its limits until it spirals into brain death. It's a grim reality among mages, often joked about with dark humor: "Thinking too hard can drive you insane."
Reflecting on it now, Amora shuddered. Just one more spell, or maintaining one for a second longer, might have left her comatose—or worse.
No blade was as dangerous as the human mind, she realized.
"Starlight extinguished. Divine system operational. Cognitive space scan complete. Expansion rate: 0.80."
Amora pressed a cool hand to her eyes, the touch soothing her strained vision. The gentle voice of her divine system resonated within her consciousness, soft as falling feathers and golden notes. The residual pain from her overtaxed mind began to fade.
Her expansion rate had nearly doubled, rising from 0.41 to 0.80. She didn't yet fully grasp the significance of this metric, but the leap felt monumental.
"What's my current position?" she asked.
"The eastern seas of sunrise, where northern warmth and southern frost converge," the divine system replied, its tone tinged with unsettling emotion. "You sail toward an unknown destination, most likely a rainforest in the southern hemisphere."
Amora frowned, both at the system's personified sentimentality and its deliberately cryptic answers.
The "eastern seas of sunrise" referred to the vast Bilatamo Ocean. The intersection of warm northern currents and cold southern streams placed her roughly at 30 degrees south latitude. Beyond this lay the tropics, and if her course crossed the ocean, her destination was likely a distant continent.
"Why can't you just give me precise coordinates?" she muttered, frustration bubbling.
The system's reply was maddeningly reverent: "Because you are omniscient."
"Omniscient," Amora groaned, throwing off her blanket and sitting up abruptly.
She grabbed the coat hanging by the bed—a deep brown garment with a hood and matching pin. Though old-fashioned, it fit reasonably well. A small alloy badge fell from its folds, emblazoned with the number "24" and inscribed in several languages.
Inside the coat, a small booklet slipped free.
Amora hadn't had the chance to carefully examine the booklet the day before. Picking it up now, she flipped through its pages and realized it was some form of identification document.
The booklet's cover was brown, matching the color of her cloak. On the first page was a photograph, clearly of the girl Amora had kicked into the sea the previous night. Below the photo was a long string of numbers, the last two digits conveniently matching the "24" on Amora's door. Flipping further, she found lines of text written in tiny magical characters, possibly terms or instructions, though their purpose was unclear.
Deciding against squinting at such fine print, Amora called upon the divine translation system of the Sanctum. "It's a student handbook," came the melodious and soothing voice of the Sanctum, rich with the warmth of song. "Oh, and you may want to replace the photo."
A student handbook? Amora hadn't anticipated that. It might have been the girl's property before she boarded the ship, or perhaps these handbooks served as identification for all passengers aboard.
"…You might as well tell me the school's name," she muttered.
"A sturdy, thorn-laden black tower," the Sanctum replied in its serene, reverent tone—a description ill-suited for such a bizarre and ominous image.
What kind of school names itself 'A sturdy, thorn-laden black tower'?
Amora pressed her hands to her temples, trying to make sense of it. Then realization dawned—this was a translation, an interpretation of the school's meaning. But even as an interpretation, it felt entirely absurd.
Language barriers left her momentarily frustrated. Amora resolved to explore the ship and glean information from other passengers. But first, she subtly altered the photo in the handbook, adjusting it to better resemble herself.
The morning was bright and calm, the sea stretching out in tranquil blue serenity. Amora's cabin, marked "24," was on the third level. The doors of cabins "23" and "25" remained tightly shut—evidence that their occupants were likely still asleep.
The deck outside was sparsely populated with sailors tending to their duties. There was no sign of the passengers who had boarded the previous night, and Amora hesitated to descend just yet.
While pacing the narrow hallway, she was startled as the door to cabin "25" swung open, nearly striking her face.
Out stepped a boy of around seventeen or eighteen, his hood pulled over his head, his collar turned up to obscure his face. His deep blue eyes held a brooding intensity as he stood in the doorway and barked, "Back inside."
The command was issued in a thick southern dialect of Saint Lanskartian. Amora, once again acutely aware of the importance of language, tried to convey that she hadn't understood.
"What did you say?" she asked.
"…" The boy studied her in silence, his expression gradually darkening. Clearly, he hadn't understood her either.
For a long moment, the two stared at each other. Finally, with a growl of frustration, the boy relented. "Damn it. Next time, I'm applying for spellcasting authorization—this lack of translation magic is torture."
With that, he placed a firm hand on Amora's shoulder and steered her back into her room. "Stay inside. Don't go anywhere. All activities are conducted collectively. It's not yet time for free movement."
Amora complied, deciding it was best to avoid drawing attention. She had already reconfigured the Sanctum's language system, but without permission to cast spells openly, using magic in a public space was inadvisable.
The boy's abrupt manner revealed just how tightly organized the ship was. Amora surmised that most of the passengers were likely mages themselves.
To smuggle such a large group of mages at once… If they weren't mercenaries, they were probably terrorists.
Yet the atmosphere on board felt oddly relaxed—not what one would expect from a vessel bound for a deadly rainforest or a suicide mission. Could they really be mercenaries? Were there mercenaries as young as her aboard?
She shut the door and settled back down, turning her attention once more to the "student handbook." The contents seemed ordinary—no different from the rules of any respectable academy.
No theft. No misuse of magic. No fighting or brawling. No keeping pets. No sleeping in the library. No eating in laboratories. No cohabitation between underage students.
Encourage creativity. Maintain dormitory cleanliness. Respect professors. Actively participate in group activities. Strictly adhere to academy regulations…
It was all perfectly mundane—except for the fact that such ordinary rules were inscribed in magical script.