As I settle into this quiet hour—fork in hand, meal untouched—I turn my mind not to sustenance, but to Biothaumatics. The game's arcane science unfurls like a phantom blueprint behind my eyelids. I retrace battles fought: the shriek of the Obsidian Shard-beast now Silicons based, the glacial breath of the Frost Weeper now founded by Ammonia.
At last, I grasp the elemental threads stitching their existence together. Air. Crystal. Decay. What once felt like disjointed lore fragments now pulse with intricate logic.
A chill pricks my skin. This digital bestiary—so vivid, so alive—should be impossible. Earth's laws shatter against its shimmering hide. Yet here, in this coded wilderness, entropy dances to different rules. What if nature itself is malleable? The thought haunts me. Not as fantasy, but as revelation: reality is not absolute. Only contextual.
And that terrifies me.
This divergence—this sublime fracture in the fabric of what should be—is my only anchor. In dissecting the science, I become both scholar and ghost. My hands remember controller vibrations, my ears echo with pixelated roars… yet my bones know. These truths I uncover are beautiful lies. Elegant fictions. I walk valleys sculpted from someone else's dreams, hunting monsters spun from borrowed nightmares.
That is the paradox. Understanding deepens the isolation. The more I unravel Biothaumatics' secrets—the crystalline lattice of a golem's heart, the mix of carbon and sulphur of a phoenix's rebirth—the more profoundly alone I feel. An archaeologist in a ruin that never was. A physicist in a universe that winks out when the server sleeps.
Yet my purpose remains. This story, tangled in its code—demands witness. To abandon it now would be a betrayal of every creature dissected, every law defied, every truth half-glimpsed in the glow of this screen. So I cling to that flicker of unreality. It reminds me:
I am not here to live. I am here to see—
to dissect the illusion, to peel back the gilded lies of 'magic' and expose the clockwork beneath for myself.
This world will end. And before it does, I will force it to confess its truths. No spells. No miracles. Just science—cold, relentless, and mine to claim.
If only I were smart enough back then to grasp it.
I can only hope Kael's mental state fares better.
We're in Act I's second arc now—and I know the first major event is coiled to strike. A scripted catastrophe, no doubt. A 'mini boss fight' draped in lore. But I've parsed the patterns. Studied the variables. If magic is so scientific, if it obeys rules, then even calamity can be reverse-engineered.
If Kael doesn't break first.
He's too prone to wander. Too eager to mistake the developers' elegant code for providence. I've watched him through his endings. When the event hits, he'll call it fate. I'll call it physics.
Arc II of Act I: The Interest of Magister Silas Ren
Kael. I do hope you find the strength in your morales to resist his temptations.
I finish my lunch quickly and efficiently, savoring the dish's taste. Then, a glance at the clock.
38 minutes until history.
Plenty of time.
Aside from the main cast. I need to monitor the neglect. The characters are irrelevant to EAA. I need to make sure that they are rigorous and studious in their work.
Why? The academy's survival depends on whether its students have the combined power to face the future. I cannot neglect everyone else in favour of the main cast and place my hopes in them to carry through. No, I must make sure that every element in this wretched equation is factorable.
I slip out of the dining hall, blending into the stream of uniforms. No one notices me. Good.
"Temporal Anchor V2: Activate," I command.
Ah - that familiar static green washes over reality again. By fracturing another sliver of my sanity, I steal five extra minutes of perception time. 38 becomes 43 minutes just for me. And with Temporal Anchor's eidetic memory, I'll dissect every student's weakness with surgical precision.
Approaching the House of Sylvas, I spot two students duel, their spells flashing in controlled bursts. One overextends—predictable. The other hesitates before countering. Too slow.
Opposite them, a Spirit Tamer and a Mana Swordsman clash—one commanding the unseen, the other honing the arcane into steel.
Huh… Wait a sec, isn't that swordsman kinda familiar, Isaac?"
Ohhh, shit—I know him! Oh my~ Seeing those muscles up close hits different. Total ladies' man in the game's fanbase, too. That's Fabian Walsh. I didn't spot him in Biothaumatics earlier, though. Bet he skipped class.
Nevermind… I now relate to him a fair bit more. He too, is stuck with a curse like me—maybe even worse. Dude's got a faulty mana core that can't push mana outward. No fancy spells, no flashy techniques. Just raw, mana-fueled muscles and fury. What's worse? Unlike my 'Hollow Frame', his attribute is permanent. Brutal way to live, if you ask me.
But, he sure is making do with it.
On paper, the Tamer should dominate. Distance is power, and spirits care little for flesh and bone. But he moves with purpose, blade humming with a technique designed to cheat distance. Phantom Step. A single, shimmering lunge that folds the space between them—close enough for the kill.
In EAA, there were 3 forms of swordsmanship studied kingdom wide:
Form I: Gibon, The oldest form. Efficiency over flair. Gibon emphasises structural purity. Straight cuts along the body's tilt, minimal wrist torque, and disarmament via leverage.
Form II: Wiban, A lethal single-target offense, prioritizing blade retention and micro-adjustments. Strikes resemble a sewing needle's motion, penetrations to sever arteries or nerve clusters.
Finally, Form III: Fang Yu, Reactive defence built on conservation of momentum. Narrow, elliptical parries to deflect projectiles with footwork mimics a spinning top—constant recentering to avoid overextension.
Range means nothing when distance itself obeys the sword, proved by the training blade against the Tamer's neck. What a wonderful display of Form II swordsmanship. I'd love an in-world explanation on how to perform Phantom Step. Maybe one day I'll ask him if we grow close enough.
I commit their mistakes to memory. Anonymously motivate or incentivise practical combat instructors to drill on feints for the mages and distancing techniques for the Tamers. Maybe publish some swordplay theory to improve their primitive form of Kendo? I'll decide later.
Next, the Library. A debate erupts over a tome. A first-year—small, ink-stained fingers—corrects a senior's errors on spell casting from what I can hear. The older student scowls but doesn't argue. Progress.
It seems my cohort will be the ones to drag magic—kicking and screaming—into the cold light of reason; and yes, in the future Kael will change magic.
Final stop: The Gym. The humid air hits me like a wall—stale sweat and ozone. A girl slams a dumbbell onto the floor, veins outline by sweat. Her form is flawless, controlled, but—
"Miss, you're… a bit too distracting for the other guys."
"A-ah, sorry!"
I can already feel the collective facepalm ripple through the gym before it even happens. The guys nearby turn varying shades of crimson. One poor soul even fumbles his barbell—OWWW—right onto his foot.
Jeez, this is painful to watch. But, that's the end of my checklist. Most students are performing well while keeping themselves diligent. 5 minutes left to walk to History Class? No problem.
EIMA isn't just an institute. It's a weapon.
And I'll make sure it's sharp before the storm hits.
As I turn toward history class, I catch a familiar glint watching me.
Seraphyne Valmont.
She leans against a pillar, arms crossed, gaze sharp. Not just observing the students—observing me observing them.
Our eyes lock.
A beat. A silent question.
I'll entertain her.
"Your highness?"
"Isaac Mun…"