I should have been grading papers. Instead, I was bleeding out on Hancock Street.

The irony wasn't lost on me. A historian dying before making any history of his own. My Alfa Romeo was thirty feet away, crumpled against a telephone pole. The truck that had run the red light was already gone, the driver probably panicking, probably drunk. My phone was somewhere in the wreckage, and the streetlight above me flickered like it couldn't decide whether to witness my death or not.

Everything hurt. Then everything went numb. Then everything went dark.

---

I opened my eyes to sunlight that felt wrong.

Not wrong like "different latitude" wrong, but wrong like "different physics" wrong. The light had weight to it, substance, as if photons had learned to press down on skin. I sat up, too easily considering I'd just been turned into a human accordion by several tons of steel.

No pain. No blood. No cracked ribs that should have been puncturing my lungs.

I looked down at my hands. Same hands. Same slight calluses from years of turning archive pages and tinkering with carburetors. I was wearing the same clothes I'd died in: khakis, a button-down shirt with a coffee stain on the collar, and the leather jacket my father had given me for my thirtieth birthday.

But the ground beneath me wasn't asphalt. It was cobblestone, old enough to have that worn-smooth quality that spoke of centuries of foot traffic. Around me stretched a city that looked like someone had taken Art Deco, Gothic Revival, and Brutalism, thrown them in a blender, and poured the result into a skyline that clawed at clouds I couldn't quite focus on.

The architecture made my historian's brain itch. Nothing matched, yet everything worked together in a way that suggested either brilliant urban planning or cosmic accident. A building to my left had flying buttresses supporting what appeared to be a chrome and glass penthouse. To my right, a structure that could have been a 1920s bank had holographic advertisements floating in front of it, words in a language I didn't recognize but somehow understood: LEXCORP FINANCIAL SERVICES.

I stood up. My legs worked fine. Better than fine, actually. I felt like I could run a marathon or climb a mountain or teach a full day of classes without needing three cups of coffee.

"Okay, Ben," I said aloud, because talking to yourself in a strange city after dying seemed reasonable. "Think. You died. You're clearly not dead now. Therefore..."

I trailed off because a figure was flying overhead.

Flying. Not in a plane. Not with a jetpack. Just flying, like gravity was optional and they'd opted out.

The figure banked left, and the sun caught their form. Green. Bright, glowing, emerald green. A man in what looked like a skintight uniform, with a symbol on his chest that my brain supplied a name for before my rational mind could catch up: Green Lantern.

"No," I said. "No, that's not possible."

The Green Lantern, because apparently that's what we were calling reality now, flew between buildings with the casual confidence of someone who did this every morning before breakfast. A streak of green light trailed behind him like a comet's tail, and then he was gone, disappeared into the vertical maze of the city.

My heart was pounding. Not from fear, exactly, but from the sudden, crushing weight of implication.

I'd spent the last three months in a weird place mentally. The school year had been brutal. Budget cuts meant larger class sizes, which meant more papers to grade, which meant less time for anything resembling a personal life. I'd been stress-eating takeout and staying up too late, and I'd fallen down an internet rabbit hole that started with YouTube history documentaries and ended with... what had it ended with?

The CYOA.

Choose Your Own Adventure. Except it wasn't an adventure, not really. It was one of those absurdly detailed power fantasy questionnaires that people made for fun. This one had been tailored to fictional universes. You picked a world, you picked your powers, you built your character like you were creating a tabletop RPG protagonist.

I'd filled it out as a joke. A way to turn off my brain after grading thirty-five essays on the fall of the Ottoman Empire, half of which had clearly been written by what felt like 6th graders.

I'd picked the DC Universe because I'd grown up reading my uncle's old comic books. I'd picked powers that appealed to the part of me that loved systems and teaching and the idea of magic as something that could be studied, not just wielded.

[Archmage]: Mastery over all forms of magic, from the fundamental to the esoteric. Reality was just another system to be understood and manipulated.

[Magic Bestowal]: The ability to grant magical power to others. The gift was permanent unless I chose to revoke it, and the strength of the magic scaled with the importance of the recipient. A nobody got parlor tricks. A king got world-shaking power.

[Traverse]: The ability to visit different dimensions, but only after completing quests in my current one. A reward system baked into reality itself.

I'd submitted the form at two in the morning, laughed at myself for wasting an hour on internet nonsense, and gone to bed.

Then I'd been hit by a truck.

"Okay," I said, louder this time. "Okay, if this is real, if I'm actually in the DC Universe with the powers I picked, then there should be..."

I held out my hand, not entirely sure what I was doing, and thought about fire.

A ball of flame appeared in my palm.

Not metaphorically. Not "I feel warm" or "I'm imagining things." An actual, honest-to-god fireball, hovering above my skin like I'd just broken every law of thermodynamics and several laws of common sense. The fire didn't burn me. It sat there, patient, waiting for instruction.

I closed my fist and the fire vanished.

My breath came faster. I tried again, this time thinking about water. A sphere of liquid formed in the air in front of me, perfectly contained despite lacking any container. I waved my hand and it splashed against the cobblestones, real and wet and impossible.

"Holy hell," I whispered. "It's all real."

I needed information. I needed to understand where I was, when I was, and what counted as a "quest" in a universe where people regularly punched gods in the face.

The street I was on appeared relatively empty, which was a small mercy. A few pedestrians walked by on the opposite side, too absorbed in their phones or their conversations to notice a man conjuring fire from nothing. In the distance, I could hear the ambient noise of a major city: traffic, construction, the occasional siren.

---

A/N had a muse of this and decided to explore it.
Tell me what you think?
Should I bold [Archmage]? Or skills in general.

I started walking, trying to look like I belonged. The buildings around me had that strange mixture of familiar and alien. A coffee shop with a logo I didn't recognize. A newsstand with headlines that made my pulse quicken: "SUPERMAN STOPS METEOR OVER METROPOLIS" and "BATMAN: VIGILANTE OR HERO?" and "LEX LUTHOR ANNOUNCES NEW INITIATIVE FOR METAHUMAN INTEGRATION".

But it was the smaller headline at the bottom that caught my eye: "Coast City Celebrates Green Lantern Day".

Coast City. Not Boston. Not Metropolis. Coast City, home to Hal Jordan, the most famous Green Lantern of them all. A city that existed somewhere on the California coast in the DC Universe, a place that had been destroyed and rebuilt in the comics more times than I could count.

I picked up a newspaper, more out of habit than anything else. The date at the top read March 13, 2010.

Sixteen years. I'd gone back sixteen years, or forward into a universe that was sixteen years behind mine, or sideways into a reality where time just happened to align differently. The metaphysics made my head hurt.

The newspaper vendor, an older woman with grey hair and a Ferris Aircraft windbreaker, glanced at me. "You gonna pay for that, honey?"

"Right. Sorry." I patted my pockets and found my wallet, miraculously intact. I pulled it open and looked at the bills. All dated 2024, 2025, 2026. Useless. But the coins...

I dug through the change pocket and found what I needed. Quarters, dimes, nickels, all dated before 2010. A handful of change that was legal tender in this timeline because metal was metal and the mint marks matched.

"How much?" I asked.

"Dollar fifty."

I counted out the exact change, pennies and nickels and dimes from 2008, 2009, coins I'd been carrying around for years without thinking about it. The vendor took them without comment, dropped them in her cash box, and went back to her crossword puzzle.

I folded the newspaper under my arm and kept walking, trying to process the implications. 2010 meant the Justice League was probably still forming, if it existed at all yet. Superman was established, Batman was active, but the team dynamics would be different. Younger and less experienced.

More chaotic.

I found myself in a plaza dominated by a statue, and when I saw it, I had to stop and stare.

Three figures in bronze, larger than life, posed in dynamic action stances. Green Lanterns, all of them. The plaques at the base identified them in the order they first appeared, Three statues with lantern uniforms. Did they even have secret identities? The domino mask didn't cover much but this was dc, they might all have face blindness.

I knew Hal and John from the comics, though seeing them immortalized in bronze made them feel more real, more present. Kyle Rayner I recognized vaguely, another Green Lantern from the comics, though I couldn't remember his specific storyline. The fact that all three were honored here suggested they were active, known, celebrated.

Coast City loved its Green Lanterns. That much was clear from the statue, the festival banners I could see hanging from streetlights, the shop windows decorated with green and black.

I sat on a bench near the statue and tried to organize my thoughts like I was preparing a lecture.

Fact one: I had died in 2026 in my original world.

Fact two: I had woken up in the DC Universe in 2010 with the powers I'd selected in a joke internet questionnaire.

Fact three: One of those powers required me to complete a quest before I could access dimensional travel.

I closed my eyes and focused inward, trying to feel for the powers I supposedly had. It was like flexing a muscle I didn't know existed. Information bloomed in my mind, not words exactly, but knowing. And then something appeared in front of me.

I opened my eyes and nearly jumped off the bench. Floating in the air, visible only to me based on the complete lack of reaction from people walking past, was a translucent screen. It looked like something out of a video game, glowing softly with text that seemed to be written in light itself.




The screen hung there, patient, waiting for me to acknowledge it. I reached out and touched it. My hand passed through, but I felt a tingle, like static electricity. When I focused on specific elements, more information appeared. The location requirement could be met through purchase, lease, or magical claim, but it had to be secure and suitable for teaching. The students had to be genuine learners, not hostages or victims of coercion. The recognition could come from heroes, but also from government agencies or established magical practitioners.

The quest was serious. Someone or something wanted me to build this academy, wanted me to succeed. The screen faded when I stopped focusing on it, but I could feel it hovering at the edge of my perception, ready to reappear whenever I needed it.

I pulled out my phone, an iPhone that had been in my pocket when I died. The screen was cracked from the accident but still functional. I tried to unlock it, swiped through to my apps, and opened the browser.

No connection. Of course not. Whatever network I'd been connected to in 2026 Boston didn't exist here, and I didn't have a SIM card that would work with 2010 cellular technology anyway.

But I had magic. And magic, I was learning, was just another way of solving problems.

I held the phone in both hands and thought about networks, about data flowing through the air in invisible streams of currents in the air. In 2010, WiFi was common enough. There had to be networks around me, coffee shops and businesses broadcasting their signals. I just needed to connect.

The knowledge came from [Archmage] bidden, flowing from it like power from water from a tap. [Technopathy] it suggested. Not strictly magic in the traditional sense, but a bridge between the mystical and technological. The ability to interface with technology, to speak the language of machines in a way they understood. I was directly hacking, interfacing without asking permission, offering a small pulse of energy in exchange for access.

The local Starbucks WiFi network responded like a friendly dog wagging its tail. The connection established itself, bypassing passwords because I was speaking directly to the router's firmware, fooling it that I belonged.

I thought about it and used [Repair] as well and my phone screen flickered, the WiFi icon appeared, and suddenly I was connected to the internet of 2010. Slower than I was used to, clunkier, with websites that looked ancient by my standards, but functional.

I searched for "Coast City real estate" and started scrolling through listings.

What I needed was specific. A location large enough to house classrooms, living quarters for students if necessary, and space for magical experimentation without neighbors complaining about strange lights and sounds. It needed to be affordable, or at least acquirable, given that I had exactly zero dollars in legal tender and a handful of pre-2010 coins.

It also needed to be isolated enough that I could establish wards and protections without immediately attracting attention from every supernatural being in the DC Universe.

The search results were depressing. Everything in the city proper was expensive, crowded, or both. Apartments, offices, warehouses, all with price tags that made my teacher's salary from Boston look like pocket change.

I expanded my search to include "Coast City outskirts" and "Coast City historic properties." The results improved slightly, showing older buildings and properties farther from the city center. Industrial spaces near the docks. Converted churches. A former military installation that had been decommissioned in the 1990s.

Then I saw it.

Historic Estate - Cliffside Location - As-Is Sale

The listing had two photos. The first showed a massive mansion, three stories of Gothic Revival architecture with towers and turrets that belonged in a Victorian novel. The second showed the cliff it perched on, a dramatic promontory overlooking the Pacific Ocean with waves crashing against rocks a hundred feet below.

The description was sparse but telling:

Former residence of the Hightower family. Built 1889. 18,000 sq ft. 14 bedrooms, 9 bathrooms, library, conservatory, ballroom, extensive grounds including gardens and carriage house. Property has been vacant for 12 years following estate settlement disputes. Significant renovation required. Zoned for institutional/educational use. $650,000 OBO. Estate sale, motivated seller, cash offers preferred.

$650,000 was still a fortune, but the "OBO" (or best offer), "estate sale," and "cash offers preferred" suggested desperation. Someone wanted this property off their hands, probably the executors of the Hightower estate who'd been dealing with it for over a decade.

---

A/N Tell me what you think
Trying out tables?

I needed money. More specifically, I needed legitimate money that wouldn't trigger investigations from federal agencies or attract attention from people who could see through walls and hear heartbeats from orbit. I did not need the DC IRS on my back.

The Hightower estate listing was still open on my phone, mocking me with its $650,000 price tag. I had powers that could reshape reality, but none of them helped with the fundamentally mundane problem of acquiring property in a society built on contracts and currency and would leave unnecessary traces to follow.

I stood up from the bench and started walking again, letting my feet carry me while my mind worked through the problem. The [Archmage] power gave me access to knowledge spanning millennia of magical tradition, but it also gave me something more practical: an understanding of systems. Magic was just another system, after all. Rules, patterns, cause and effect.

And every system had exploits.

Technopathy wasn't my strongest ability, but it was versatile. The connection I'd established with the local WiFi was proof of that. If I could speak to a simple router, convince it to grant me access, then theoretically I could speak to more complex systems. Banking networks. Government databases. Medical records.

The thought made me pause mid-step. Medical records.

I'd taught enough history to know that desperate people made desperate deals. Kings traded kingdoms for cures. Merchants sold fortunes for a few more years of life. And in a world with superheroes and magic, the truly wealthy would still face problems that money alone couldn't solve.

Like disease. Like death.

I pulled out my phone and started searching. "Coast City hospital" brought up several results, but the largest was Coast City General, a massive complex near the waterfront that handled everything from emergency care to long-term treatment. I refined my search: "Coast City wealthy patients terminal illness."

The results were mostly news articles about charity events and hospital expansions funded by generous donors. But one headline caught my eye: "Tech Mogul Richard Vance Steps Back from Vance Industries Amid Health Concerns".

I clicked through and read the article. Richard Vance, founder and CEO of Vance Industries, a tech company specializing in medical devices and diagnostics, had taken a leave of absence three months ago. The official statement cited "personal health matters" but speculation ranged from cancer to a neurological condition. Vance was sixty-two, notoriously private, and according to Forbes, worth approximately $800 million and probably more in other assets squirred away.

The article was dated February 2010. Recent enough that whatever was wrong with him was likely still progressing.

I sat down on another bench and focused inward, letting the [Technopathy] knowledge surface. What I was about to do was illegal. Not illegal like "jaywalking," but illegal like "federal crime with serious prison time." But I was also in a universe where people could fly, where gods fought in the streets, where morality was often decided by whoever wore a cape. Justice by the fists. ha!

And I needed this. Not just for the money, but because if I was going to build a magical academy in a world full of heroes and villains, I needed to understand how far my powers could reach.

I held my phone and thought about networks. Not only the local WiFi, but the vast interconnected web of systems that made modern society function that even in 2010 very much interconnected.

The knowledge flowed. I could see it now, not with my eyes but with something deeper. Data streams moving through fiber optic cables and servers communicating in binary. Firewalls and security protocols that were designed to keep out human hackers, but had no defense against someone who could speak directly to them and manually do the handshake protocols.

Coast City General's patient database was surprisingly well-protected for 2010. Multiple layers of security, encryption that would take a normal hacker weeks to crack. But I wasn't cracking anything. I was asking politely, giving energy in exchange for access, convincing the system that I belonged.

The database opened like a flower in sunlight.

I searched for "Richard Vance" and found his records immediately. Patient ID CCG47829. Multiple hospital stays over the past three months. The diagnosis made my breath catch: Rabies, Stage 4 Progression.

Rabies. One of the deadliest diseases known to humanity. Once symptoms appeared, it was almost universally fatal. The fact that Vance had lasted three months suggested either experimental treatment which I could probably image in dc is fantastical or sheer stubborn will.

I dug deeper into his records. The initial infection had occurred three months ago, a bite from a stray dog while Vance was visiting one of his manufacturing facilities in Mexico. He'd refused immediate treatment, claiming he was "too busy" for hospital visits, that the bite "wasn't that serious." By the time symptoms appeared, the virus had already spread to his central nervous system.

Current prognosis: three to seven days. Palliative care only. No cure available.

I closed the connection and sat back, processing what I'd found. Richard Vance was dying from rabies because of his own arrogance, and no amount of money or medical technology could save him.

But magic could.

I knew this with the same certainty I knew fire was hot and water was wet. The [Archmage] power included healing magic, not just surface-level first aid, but true restoration. I could reach into Vance's body, find the virus ravaging his nervous system, and convince it to leave. Rewrite the damage it had caused. Return him to health as if the infection had never occurred.

The question was: what would a desperate, dying Multi multimillionaire pay for that service?

I pulled up Vance's business information. Vance Industries was headquartered in Coast City's financial district, but according to recent articles, Vance himself was staying at a private care facility: Oceanview Medical Retreat, a high-end hospice for the terminally wealthy. The kind of place where rooms cost $10,000 a day and the staff signed NDAs.

I stood up and cast [Teleport] toward the financial district already have brought up pictures to visualized the location and already formulating my approach. I needed to get to Vance, convince him I could help, and negotiate terms before his condition deteriorated further. That meant bypassing security, both physical and digital, and presenting myself as someone trustworthy rather than some random stranger claiming to work miracles.

The walk took thirty minutes. Oceanview Medical Retreat was exactly what I expected: a beautiful building designed to look more like a luxury hotel than a hospice. White stone, large windows, landscaped gardens that probably cost more to maintain than my annual salary had been.

I stopped across the street and studied the building. Security cameras covered every entrance. A guard station at the main door. Probably more security inside, along with medical staff trained to spot anything unusual.

I couldn't just walk in and ask to see Richard Vance. I needed an identity, credentials, some reason for being there that wouldn't immediately trigger alarms.

I pulled out my phone and dove back into the networks. Oceanview's security system was connected to the internet, which meant it was vulnerable to someone who could speak directly to the code. I found the visitor log system and created an entry using [Technoathy]: Dr. Benjamin Al Kamin, Medical Consultant, scheduled meeting with R. Vance, 2:00 PM.

It was currently 1:45 PM according to my phone. Perfect timing.

I crossed the street and walked through the main entrance like I owned the place. The guard at the desk glanced up, saw someone in business casual with a phone in hand, and gestured me toward the sign-in tablet.

"Name and who you're here to see?"

"Dr. Benjamin Al Kamin," I said, keeping my voice confident. "I have a two o'clock with Mr. Vance."

The guard checked his computer, found my manufactured entry, and nodded. "Third floor, room 312. Elevators are to your right."

Just like that, I was in.

The elevator ride gave me time to prepare. I needed to convince Vance quickly, establish terms, and perform the healing before anyone questioned why a "medical consultant" they'd never heard of was visiting their most prominent patient.

Room 312 was at the end of a quiet hallway. No guards outside, but I could sense security cameras tracking my movement. I knocked once, waited, then opened the door.

Richard Vance looked worse than his photos suggested. He was sitting in a hospital bed by the window, gaunt and grey, with an IV drip attached to his arm and monitoring equipment beeping softly beside him. His eyes were sunken, but they tracked me with sharp intelligence despite his condition.

"Who the hell are you?" His voice was rough, strained.

"Someone who can help you," I said, closing the door behind me. "My name is Benjamin Al Kamin, and I'm going to be direct because you don't have time for anything else. You're dying of rabies because you were too stubborn to get treatment when it mattered. The doctors have given you less than a week. I can cure you completely, but it will cost you."

Vance stared at me for a long moment, then laughed. The sound was bitter, painful. "A con artist. Of course. I'm dying, so the vultures come circling. Let me guess, you have some miracle treatment, some experimental procedure, and all I need to do is wire you my fortune?"

"Not a con," I said. I held out my hand and thought about healing energy. A soft ring of golden light formed in my palm, warm and gentle, pulsing like a heartbeat. "Magic. Real magic. I can remove the virus from your system, repair the damage it's caused, and restore you to perfect health. In exchange, I want ten million dollars cash," I could get documentation for an ID with my abilities easily.



The light faded. Vance was no longer laughing. His eyes were wide, locked on my hand.

"That's not possible," he whispered.

"You live in a world where a man can fly and carry a city," I said. "Where a woman can command truth with a golden lasso. Where a man wears a ring that can create anything he imagines. Magic is just another form of power, and I'm offering to use it to save your life."

Vance's breathing was shallow. I could see him calculating, weighing the impossibility of what I was claiming against the very real certainty of his approaching death.


"Prove it," he said finally. "Heal something. Show me this is real."

---

support me over on patreon! - Chapter 4 is already up!
Update for Han Wei ' CJUL should be this Thursday - it is ahead 1 chapter
Feedback is welcome!

I needed to prove magic was real to a man who'd built his fortune on technology and empirical evidence. The golden light in my palm had gotten his attention, sure, but light tricks could be faked with the right equipment. Holograms, LEDs, sleight of hand. I needed something undeniable, immediate, and impossible to fake.

"Give me your hand," I said.

Vance hesitated. "Why?"

"Because I'm going to cut your finger and then heal it. Something you can feel, something that leaves no doubt."

"You want to cut me?" Vance's voice carried an edge of alarm.

"A small cut. Barely more than a paper cut. You'll feel the pain, see the blood, and then watch it disappear like it never happened. That's proof you can't dismiss."

Vance looked at me for a long moment, weighing the insanity of letting a stranger cut him against the very real certainty that he was dying anyway. Finally, he held out his right hand.

I pulled a small pocketknife from my jacket. The blade was clean, sharp, barely two inches long. I'd carried it for years, useful for opening packages and cutting through archive tape. Now it would serve a different purpose.

"Ready?" I asked.

"Just do it."

I pressed the blade against the pad of Vance's index finger and made a quick, shallow cut. Not deep, maybe a quarter inch long, just enough to break the skin. Blood welled up immediately, a bright red line against his pale skin.

Vance hissed. "Christ."

"Feel that?" I asked. "Real pain. Real blood. No tricks, no illusions."

"I feel it," Vance said through gritted teeth.

I set the knife down on the bedside table and held my hand over his finger. The [Archmage] power supplied the knowledge I needed. Healing magic. Cellular regeneration. Convincing the body to accelerate its natural repair process, to close the wound and restore the tissue to its original state.

[Heal]

Golden light flowed from my palm, warm and gentle. It wrapped around Vance's finger like liquid sunlight, sinking into the cut. The blood stopped flowing first, then began to recede. The edges of the wound pulled together. New skin formed, pink and fresh, knitting itself closed in seconds.

The light faded. I pulled my hand back.

Vance stared at his finger. The cut was gone. Completely gone. No scar, no mark, nothing to indicate it had ever existed except for the small smear of blood on his skin. He wiped it away with his thumb, revealing perfect, unblemished flesh underneath.

"That's not possible," he whispered.

"You felt the cut," I said. "You saw the blood. Now look at your finger. That's magic. Real, verifiable magic. And what I just did to that cut, I can do to the rabies destroying your nervous system."

Vance kept staring at his finger, turning it over, pressing on the spot where the cut had been. Testing if it hurt. It didn't. He looked up at me, and I could see the exact moment belief replaced skepticism in his eyes.

"You can cure me," he said. It wasn't a question.

"I can remove the virus completely. I can repair the neurological damage it's caused. I can restore you to the health you had before the infection. You'll feel like you did twenty years ago."

"And you want ten million dollars for this."

"I want ten million dollars to save your life," I corrected. "That seems fair for what I'm offering."

Vance laughed, the sound still rough but less bitter than before. "Fair. God, when you put it like that, ten million seems cheap." He shifted in the bed, his movements careful. "All right. Do it. Cure me."

"I need your consent," I said. "Verbal and clear. I'm not doing this if there's any doubt."

"You have my consent," Vance said immediately. "Benjamin Al Kamin, you have my full and complete consent to use your magic to cure my rabies. Is that clear enough?"

"Perfect. One more thing. This is going to feel strange. Your body is going to remember what healthy felt like, and that memory is going to happen very quickly. You might feel disoriented. You might feel euphoric. But it won't hurt."

"Will I pass out?"

"Maybe. If you do, it means the healing is working."

I moved closer to the bed and placed my hand on Vance's forehead. His skin was warm, feverish. I could feel the virus in his system, could sense it attacking his nervous system like a swarm of microscopic predators. Rabies was vicious. It caused inflammation, destroyed neurons, drove its victims to madness before killing them.

But I wasn't treating it. I was erasing it.

I focused my will and let the [Archmage] power flow through me. This was more complex than healing a finger, more delicate. I had to find every viral particle in Vance's body, identify the damage they'd caused, and repair it all simultaneously without disrupting the healthy systems around them.

The knowledge came unbidden. I could see the virus now, not with my eyes but with something deeper. Millions of tiny particles replicating in nerve cells, spreading through his central nervous system. I reached out with my magic and spoke to them in a language older than words.

[Greater Heal]


The virus didn't have a choice. One moment it existed, and the next it was gone. Not killed, not dormant, just removed from reality like it had never been there in the first place.

The damage took longer. Neurons had to be regrown. Inflammation had to be reduced. The fever had to break. I worked methodically, rebuilding Vance's nervous system piece by piece, convincing his body to remember what healthy felt like.

Golden light filled the room, bright enough that I had to squint against it. Vance gasped, his back arching off the bed. The monitors beside him started beeping frantically. Heart rate spiking, then stabilizing. Blood pressure dropping, then normalizing. Brain activity showing patterns that probably looked alarming to anyone watching but were actually signs of rapid healing.

Then everything settled.

The light faded. I stepped back, breathing hard. Healing magic was exhausting in a way that other spells weren't. It required precision, attention, care. I'd just performed the equivalent of brain surgery and full-body viral eradication without cutting him open.

Vance sat up. Not slowly, not with the careful movements of a dying man, but quickly. Easily. Like he'd just woken from a good night's sleep after a decade of insomnia.

He looked at his hands. Turned them over. Flexed his fingers. The grey pallor was gone from his skin. The sunken quality around his eyes had vanished. His cheeks had color again. He looked like he'd aged backward fifteen years.

"I feel," he paused, searching for words. "I feel incredible. No, better than incredible. I feel like I could run a marathon."

"The virus is gone," I said. "All of it. The damage is repaired. Your nervous system is functioning at optimal capacity. You're cured."

Vance swung his legs off the bed and stood up. The IV line pulled taut, still attached to his arm. He stared at it like he'd forgotten it existed, then reached over and pulled the needle out himself. A small drop of blood formed at the insertion site. He touched it with his finger, watched it smear, then wiped it away.

"This is real," he whispered. "This is actually real. I'm not dying."

Vance walked to the window and looked out at the city. His movements were smooth, controlled, confident. No weakness. No signs of the neurological damage that should have killed him within days. He pressed both hands against the glass like he was trying to feel the world outside.

"I was dying," he said quietly. " Days ago, the doctors told me I had a week at most. They said there was nothing they could do except make me comfortable. They were already discussing palliative care. And now I'm standing here like nothing was ever wrong."

He turned to face me. His eyes were wet with tears he wasn't bothering to hide.

"Thank you," he said. "I don't know who you are or where you came from or how any of this is possible, but thank you. You've given me my life back."

I nodded. "The payment."

"Right. Yes." Vance wiped his eyes and grabbed his phone from the bedside table. His fingers moved across the screen with practiced ease, no hesitation, no tremors. He pulled up his banking app and started navigating through menus. "Ten million. I'm wiring it now. What's your account information?"

I rattled off a series of numbers I'd created using [Technopathy] during the walk to the facility. The account existed in the digital infrastructure of Coast City's banking system, created through careful manipulation of database entries and security protocols. It would appear completely legitimate to any auditor.

Vance entered the information, confirmed the amount, and hit send. "Done. You should see it in your account within the hour."

"Good."

Vance set his phone down and looked at me. Really looked, like he was trying to memorize every detail of my face. "Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask. I might not answer."

"This magic," he said slowly. "The power you have. Can it be learned?"

There it was. The question I'd been expecting since the moment I'd healed his finger. Richard Vance was a man who'd built an empire through innovation and acquisition. Of course he'd want to understand how magic worked. Of course he'd want it for himself.

I could tell him the truth. I had the [Magic Bestowal] power. I could give him magic right now, permanent and powerful, scaled to his importance as a CEO worth hundreds of millions. He'd be able to do things that would reshape his industry, his life, everything he touched.

But if I did that, I'd be giving away leverage. Vance would owe me nothing beyond the ten million he'd already paid. He'd have power and no reason to keep our interaction quiet. He might go public. He might tell the world about the man who could work miracles. And I didn't need that kind of attention, not when I was trying to build an academy under the radar.

I needed him grateful, indebted, but not powerful. I needed him to think magic was beyond his reach.

"No," I lied smoothly. "Magic isn't something you can learn like a skill or a trade. It's genetic. You're either born with the capacity or you're not. I can sense it in people, the potential for magic. You don't have it."

The disappointment on Vance's face was immediate. He'd gone from dying to healthy in minutes, and now he was mourning a gift he'd never have. The look reminded me of students who'd discovered they didn't have the aptitude for advanced mathematics or foreign languages.

"I see," he said quietly. "That's... unfortunate."

"Is it?" I asked. "You're alive. You're healthy. You have your life back, your company, your family. That seems like more than enough."

"It is," Vance said quickly. "Don't misunderstand. I'm grateful. More grateful than I can express. It's just... seeing what's possible, knowing I can never do it myself. That's hard to accept."

"Most people go their entire lives without knowing magic exists at all," I said. "You're one of maybe a handful of people on the planet who've experienced it directly. That's something."

Vance nodded slowly. He walked back to the bed and sat down, testing his strength. Then he stood up again, did a few deep knee bends, stretched his arms above his head. Each movement seemed to delight him, like he was rediscovering what his body could do.

"I need to call my daughter," he said suddenly. "And my son. They need to know I'm not dying. And the board. God, the board is going to lose their minds when I walk back into the office."

"I'd suggest you invent a cover story," I said. "Misdiagnosis. Experimental treatment. Something that doesn't involve magic. The world isn't ready to know magic exists, and you don't want the attention it would bring. Trust me."

"You're right," Vance said. "Of course you're right. I'll say it was a misdiagnosis. That the doctors were being overly cautious, that I got a second opinion from specialists who found the initial tests were flawed. I'll make it boring and medical and completely believable."

Vance looked at me again, his expression thoughtful. "Will I see you again?"

"Probably not," I said. "Unless you need something else cured, which I hope you don't."

"No, I mean... if I ever needed to reach you. If I wanted to help with whatever you're planning. You said you wanted the money for a project. If you ever need resources, connections, anything I can provide, I owe you that much."

I considered the question. Having a wealthy contact could be useful. But it also created connections, paper trails, reasons for people to investigate me. On the other hand, Vance owed me his life. That kind of debt could be valuable if managed carefully.

"If I need something, I'll find you," I said finally. "For now, enjoy your health. Spend time with your family. Run your company. Live the life you thought you'd lost."

"I will," Vance said. His voice was thick with emotion. "I absolutely will."

I turned to leave, then paused at the door. "One more thing. The medical staff is going to have questions when they see you walking around. Keep your story simple. You felt better, you wanted to move around, the fever broke naturally. Don't give them anything complicated to investigate."

"Simple. Got it."

I left the room and walked back down the hallway, past the security cameras that were still recording my manufactured identity. The elevator took me to the ground floor. The guard at the desk waved me through without a second glance.

Outside, the sun was starting to set. The sky was painted in oranges and purples, and the air had that perfect California warmth that made everything feel possible. I walked a few blocks until I found a quiet spot near the waterfront, then pulled out my phone.

The banking app I'd created showed the transfer. Ten million dollars, sitting in an account that existed solely because I'd convinced a network of computers it should. Real money. Legal money. Money I could use to buy the Hightower estate and start building my academy.

I pulled up the real estate listing again and dialed the contact number.

The phone rang a few times before someone answered. "Hightower Estate Sales, this is Margaret."

"Hello Margaret," I said, keeping my voice professional and confident. "My name is Benjamin Al Kamin, and I'm interested in the property at Hightower Point. Is it still available?"

"It is," Margaret said, sounding genuinely surprised. "Are you looking to schedule a viewing?"

"Actually, I'd like to make an offer. Cash. I can close within a week if the price is right."

There was a pause. "Cash? For the full property?"

"Yes. I'm prepared to offer five hundred thousand dollars, cash, as-is, no inspection required. I can have the funds wired tomorrow."

Another pause, longer this time. "Mr. Al Kamin, the listing price is six hundred fifty thousand."

"I know," I said. "But the property's been on the market for twelve years according to your listing. Your sellers want it gone. I'm offering certainty. Cash in hand, closing costs handled on my end, no contingencies, and the estate off their books by next week. That's worth the discount."

I could hear papers shuffling on the other end. Margaret was thinking, probably calculating how much commission she'd earn even on the reduced price, how much the executors would appreciate being done with a property that had been a headache for over a decade.

"I'll need to speak with the executors," she said finally. "Can I call you back at this number?"

"Absolutely. I'll be waiting."

"Give me an hour."

---

Chapter 5 is up on Patreon already! wo woo.
Link to Patreon!

The meeting with Margaret and the estate executors took less time than I'd expected. The conference room was on the third floor of a downtown office building, all glass and chrome and the kind of sterile professionalism that spoke of people who wanted this transaction finished yesterday.

Margaret was exactly what I'd pictured from her voice. Mid-fifties, grey hair pulled back in a neat bun, wearing a blazer that had seen better days but was still presentable. The two executors were older, a married couple named Donald and Patricia Hightower, distant relatives of the original family who'd been stuck managing the estate for the better part of twelve years.

"Mr. Al Kamin," Donald said, extending his hand. "Thank you for making this easy."

"Cash makes everything easy," I said, shaking his hand and then Patricia's. "I reviewed the documents Margaret sent. Everything looks straightforward."

"It is," Patricia said. She looked tired, the kind of exhaustion that came from years of dealing with bureaucracy and family drama. "The estate has been a nightmare. Legal disputes, tax complications and maintaining a property no one wanted to live in. When Margaret called and said you were offering cash with no inspection, we nearly cried."

"I'm happy to help," I said, settling into one of the conference room chairs. "And I meant what I said. As-is, no contingencies. I'm wiring the five hundred thousand today."

Margaret spread the paperwork across the table. The Title transfer and disclosure forms that listed every defect and issue with the property in painful detail. The Tax documents showing the estate owed nothing to the city or state. Keys, access codes for the front gate, contact information for the utilities that were still connected.

"The property has electricity and water," Margaret explained. "The city kept them active because of the legal disputes. You'll need to call and transfer them to your name, but they should work immediately. The hot water heater is broken, though. That's noted in the disclosures."

"Not a problem," I said. "I'm planning extensive renovations anyway."

I signed where they indicated, initialing pages and dating forms. The whole process took maybe twenty minutes. When it was done, Margaret pushed a set of keys across the table, two heavy iron things that looked like they belonged in a Gothic novel.

"These are the originals," she said. "Front door and the gate at the end of the access road. The property is yours as soon as the wire transfer clears, which should be within the hour."

I pulled out my phone and opened the banking app. A few taps, entering the routing information Margaret had provided, confirming the amount, and hitting send. The money moved from my account to the estate's holding account in seconds.

"Done," I said, showing them the confirmation screen. "You should see it any moment."

Margaret checked her laptop. Her eyes widened. "It's there. Five hundred thousand, received in full." She looked up at me with something like awe. "Mr. Al Kamin, congratulations. You're now the owner of the Hightower estate."

Patricia actually did cry. Just a little, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "Thank god. After twelve years, it's finally done."

"What are your plans for the property?" Donald asked. "If you don't mind me asking."

"I'm opening a school," I said, which was true enough. "Private education and very small classes. The location is perfect for what I have in mind."

"A school," Patricia said, smiling. "That's wonderful. The Hightower's would have liked that. They were always big on education."

We shook hands again. Margaret promised to file all the necessary paperwork with the city and county. The executors thanked me three more times before finally leaving, looking lighter than they had when they'd arrived.

I walked out of the building with the keys in my pocket, the deed to a Gothic mansion secured. Five hundred thousand dollars gone from my account, leaving me with nine and a half million for whatever came next.

I needed a car. The Alfa Romeo I'd died next to was gone, probably crushed in a junkyard in a different universe. Walking everywhere was fine for a day, but Coast City was sprawling, and I'd need reliable transportation if I was going to run an academy and recruit students.

I pulled out my phone and searched for "Coast City luxury car dealerships." Several results appeared, but one stood out: Premier Automotive, located near the financial district, specializing in high-end European imports.

Perfect.

I found a quiet alley between two buildings and focused inward, visualizing the dealership from the photos on their website. The showroom floor, gleaming with polished cars under bright lights. I fixed the image in my mind and cast [Teleport].

The world twisted. Not painfully, just a brief sensation of being in two places at once, and then I was standing in the alley behind Premier Automotive. The transition was seamless, instantaneous. I walked around to the front entrance and pushed through the glass doors like I'd just arrived normally.

The showroom was exactly as I'd pictured it. Rows of expensive cars arranged like art installations. Porsches, BMWs, Mercedes, Audis, each one positioned to catch the light and make prospective buyers salivate.

A salesman approached immediately, young guy in his twenties wearing a suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. His eyes did a quick assessment of me: khakis, button-down shirt, leather jacket. Not typical luxury car buyer attire, but not dismissible either.

"Good morning," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Marcus. Welcome to Premier Automotive. What brings you in today?"

"I need a car," I said, shaking his hand. "Something fast, reliable, and available today. I'm paying cash."

Marcus's smile immediately widened. "Cash. I like hearing that. Did you have a particular model in mind?"

"Show me what you have."

He led me through the showroom, pointing out features and specs. A BMW M5, silver with black leather interior. A Mercedes SLS AMG with gullwing doors. A Porsche 911 Turbo that looked like it could break the sound barrier.

Then I saw it.

Audi R8 Spyder. Bright red, convertible, sitting in the corner of the showroom like it was waiting for me specifically. The lines were aggressive, predatory.

"That one," I said, pointing.

Marcus followed my gaze and nodded appreciatively. "Excellent choice. The R8 Spyder. V10 engine, five hundred twenty-five horsepower, zero to sixty in three point six seconds. Top speed one hundred ninety-four miles per hour. This is the 2009 model, just came in last week."

"How much?"

"Two hundred thousand, even."

I didn't hesitate. "I'll take it."

Marcus blinked. "You'll... take it. Just like that?"

"Just like that. I need it today. I can have the cash wired within the hour."

"Sir, most people want to test drive, negotiate, think about it for a few days."

"I'm not most people," I said. "And I don't have a few days. Can you process the sale today or not?"

Marcus recovered quickly. "Absolutely. Yes. Let me get the manager and we'll start the paperwork."

Twenty minutes later I was sitting in a small office with Marcus and his manager, a woman named Jennifer who looked thrilled at the prospect of a same-day cash sale. More forms, more signatures, more transferring of funds from my bank account to their business account.

The R8 came with a full tank of gas, a leather-bound owner's manual, and a set of keys that felt substantial in my hand. Jennifer walked me through the controls, the infotainment system, the paddle shifters. I nodded along, already understanding most of it from the my work on my own car that I had worked on.

"Congratulations, Mr. Al Kamin," Jennifer said as we stood beside the car. "You're now the owner of one of the finest sports cars in the world." Still not as great as my alfa romeo.

I climbed into the driver's seat. The interior smelled like leather and expensive engineering. The engine started with a roar that made several other customers turn and stare. I adjusted the mirrors, tested the steering, and pulled out of the showroom into the California sunshine.

The drive to Hightower Point took forty-five minutes. The access road wound through forested hills, climbing higher until the trees gave way to scrubland and rocky outcroppings. The road itself was narrow, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, and clearly hadn't seen maintenance in years.

Then I rounded a final curve and saw the gate.

Massive iron bars, twelve feet tall, flanked by stone pillars that had weathered decades of coastal storms. The lock was rusted but still functional. I pulled out the key Margaret had given me and opened the gate manually, pushing it wide enough to drive through.

The driveway beyond was gravel, overgrown with weeds but still passable. I drove slowly, taking in the grounds. Gardens that had once been manicured were now wild, plants growing in chaotic tangles. A fountain in the center of a circular courtyard sat dry and cracked. The carriage house to the left was partially collapsed, its roof caved in.

And then, rising above it all like something out of a Gothic novel, was the mansion itself.

Three stories of dark stone and tall windows. Towers at each corner topped with peaked roofs. A grand entrance with double doors that probably weighed two hundred pounds each. The architecture was Victorian Gothic Revival, every detail meant to impress and intimidate in equal measure.

It was also falling apart.

Windows were broken. Ivy covered half the facade, creeping up toward the roof. The front steps were cracked, weeds growing through the mortar. Shutters hung loose or were missing entirely. This wasn't a mansion anymore. It was a ruin waiting to collapse.

But I could work with ruins.

I parked the R8 in the courtyard and climbed out. The air smelled like salt and pine, carried on a breeze from the ocean. I could hear waves crashing against the cliffs behind the mansion, a constant rhythmic roar.

I walked up to the front doors and tried the second key. It took some effort, the lock fighting me, but eventually it turned and the doors swung inward with a groan of old hinges.

The interior was dark. Dust hung in the air like fog, visible in the shafts of sunlight coming through the broken windows. The entrance hall was massive, with a grand staircase leading to the second floor and hallways branching off in multiple directions. Furniture sat under dusty sheets, abandoned when the family had left over a decade ago.

I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight, sweeping it across the space. Hardwood floors, though many of the boards were warped or missing. Crown molding covered in cobwebs. A chandelier hanging from the ceiling with half its crystals gone.

This was going to take serious work.

I walked through the ground floor, cataloging what I found. A library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, most of the books still present but water-damaged. A conservatory with glass walls, several panes broken, plants dead or dying. A ballroom that could easily fit fifty people. A kitchen that belonged in a museum, all cast iron and ceramic.

The second floor had bedrooms, fourteen of them according to the listing. Most had old furniture under sheets. The bathrooms had Victorian fixtures, clawfoot tubs and pedestal sinks, many of them cracked or rusted.

The third floor was smaller, mostly attic space and servant quarters from when the house was built. The roof had leaks, evidenced by water stains on the ceilings and floors.

I returned to the entrance hall and stood in the center, looking up at the vaulted ceiling. This place was enormous. Far bigger than I needed for an academy, at least initially. But it had potential. With restoration and proper wards, it could be exactly what I needed.

I took a deep breath and focused inward, calling on the [Archmage] power. Two spells, cast simultaneously across the entire property.

[Clean]

[Restoration]

Golden light exploded from my body, spreading outward like a shockwave. It flowed through every room, every hallway, every corner of the mansion. Dust vanished. Cobwebs dissolved. Grime that had built up over years of abandonment simply ceased to exist.

The restoration took longer. Wood that had warped straightened itself. Cracked plaster mended. Broken windows reformed, glass shards flying back together like a film played in reverse. The chandelier's missing crystals reappeared, hanging perfectly. The roof sealed itself, tiles shifting back into place.

Outside, the grounds transformed. Gardens rearranged themselves into ordered rows. The fountain began flowing, clear water bubbling up from pipes that had been dry for years. The gravel driveway smoothed out. Even the carriage house rebuilt itself, the collapsed roof rising back into position with a sound like thunder.

The magic took half of everything I had. I felt it draining from me like water from a bathtub, leaving me exhausted and shaking. I dropped to one knee, breathing hard, waiting for my strength to return not used to channeling anything let alone how much was used for the whole place..

Slowly, I stood up and looked around.




The entrance hall was pristine. The Marble floors gleamed like they'd been freshly polished. The walls were clean, the crown molding perfect. The chandelier sparkled above me, every crystal in place. I walked to a window and looked out at the grounds. The gardens were beautiful, organized, thriving. The fountain sparkled in the sunlight.

I'd just transformed a ruin into a showpiece in seconds.

I spent the next hour exploring the restored mansion. Every room was perfect. The furniture that had been left behind was now in mint condition, Victorian pieces that would have sold for thousands at auction. The beds had mattresses that felt brand new. The kitchen had appliances that worked, despite being over a century old in design.

The library was my favorite. Thousands of books lined the shelves, all restored. I pulled one down at random, a leather-bound tome on naval history from 1897. The pages were crisp, the binding tight. I could smell the faint scent of old paper and ink.

I checked the utilities next. Power worked, lights turning on with a flick of a switch. Water flowed from the taps, clear and cold. I tried the hot water in one of the second-floor bathrooms and got nothing. The water heater must have been beyond even restoration magic's ability to revive.

Finding the basement took a few minutes. The door was tucked under the main staircase, easy to miss. I descended stone steps into a large underground space that housed the mansion's mechanical systems. Furnace, water heater, electrical panel, all of it old but functional.

The water heater was a massive tank, probably installed in the 1960s and never replaced. Rust covered the bottom half. I could see where connections had corroded through completely.

I placed my hand on the tank and focused. I was upgrading, replacing and I needed to convince the water heater to become what a modern one would be.

[Transmutation]

The metal shifted under my hand. Rust flaked away. The tank reshaped itself, becoming newer, more efficient. Internal components rearranged. Connections sealed themselves. When I stepped back, the water heater looked like it had been installed yesterday instead of decades ago.

I went back upstairs and tried the hot water again. After a minute, steam rose from the tap. Perfect.

I walked out onto the front steps and looked at my new property. The mansion stood proud against the afternoon sky, every window intact, every surface clean. The grounds stretched out around it, gardens and fountains and paths all perfectly maintained. The ocean crashed against the cliffs behind the building, a constant reminder that I was standing at the edge of the world.

This was mine now. My academy. My base. The place where I'd train students in magic and work toward unlocking dimensional travel.

I pulled out my phone and took a photo. The mansion framed perfectly against the sky, looking like something out of a fairy tale. I sent it to no one, just saved it. Documentation. Proof that I'd taken the first real step toward completing the quest.

The sun was starting to set, painting the sky in oranges and reds. I walked back inside and closed the massive front doors behind me. The sound echoed through the entrance hall.



Location secured so that 1/1 of the quest was done now I just needed to find students.

---

My patreon is 1 chapter ahead!
Thank you to my 2 latest patreons! cjfry2000 and Leon E!
and Jlopez!
I appreciate you guys immensely!!
Support me on there!

I woke up in a mansion that belonged in a Gothic novel, lying in a four-poster bed that had probably cost more than my old car. The morning light filtered through restored windows, painting the bedroom in shades of gold and amber. For a moment, I just lay there, processing the fact that this was real. I owned this place. I had magic. I had a quest.

I had work to do.

After a quick shower in a bathroom that featured a clawfoot tub the size of a small boat, I dressed in the same clothes I'd been wearing since I arrived. That was going to be a problem soon, although magic made it easy to clean. I needed clothes, supplies, furniture beyond what the previous owners had left behind. But more importantly, I needed students.

Ten students. That was the requirement. Ten people willing to learn magic, capable of handling it, trustworthy enough that giving them power wouldn't result in catastrophe.

I sat at the desk in what had once been the master study and pulled out my phone. The quest screen hovered at the edge of my vision, patient, waiting. I dismissed it and started thinking through my options.

The obvious choice would be someone already established in the hero community. Batman, for instance. Give Bruce Wayne magic and he'd become unstoppable. The world's greatest detective with the ability to reshape reality? That would be something.

Except it wouldn't work.

The [Magic Bestowal] power scaled with importance. Batman was crucial to this world, a linchpin that held Gotham together. Giving him magic would grant him incredible power, sure. But it would also drain me completely, probably for weeks. And more importantly, it was comic-accurate that Batman didn't handle power well. Every story where Bruce got superpowers ended with him going too far, becoming too controlling, losing the humanity that made him effective.

I needed students who would benefit from magic without being consumed by it. People who had potential but weren't already carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.

I made a mental list of possibilities. Civilians with latent magical talent that I could awaken. Young heroes who were just starting out and could use guidance. People in positions where magic would make them more effective without making them dangerous.

But before I could recruit anyone, I needed to establish myself properly in this world. Vance's identity documents were excellent, but they were purely digital. I needed physical records, physical ID, a paper trail that would hold up to scrutiny from more than just computer systems.

I checked my phone. The nearest Social Security office was in downtown Coast City, about twenty miles south. The nearest branch of Pacific Federal Bank was closer, maybe ten miles. Both were necessary stops.

I grabbed my wallet, which now contained a driver's license that looked twenty years old despite being printed three days ago, and headed downstairs. The mansion was quiet, empty, full of potential. I'd need to furnish it properly, set up classrooms, create living spaces for students who might need them. But that could wait.

I walked out to where I'd parked my rental car, a basic sedan I'd picked up after the estate closed. It wasn't my beautiful Alfa Romeo I'd lost, but it almost as good. That was enough for now.

The drive into Coast City took thirty minutes through winding coastal roads. The city grew larger as I approached, the downtown skyline rising against the morning sky. I could see the Ferris Aircraft building in the distance, its distinctive tower marked with the company logo. Somewhere up there, Hal Jordan was probably doing something heroic. Saving someone. Fighting an alien threat. Just another Tuesday in the DC Universe.

I found parking near the federal building and made my way inside. The Social Security office was on the third floor, a maze of bureaucracy and waiting areas filled with people holding numbered tickets. I took my place in line and waited.

An hour later, I was sitting across from a clerk named Margaret who looked like she'd been doing this job for forty years and had seen everything.

"You need a replacement social security card," she said, reading from her screen. "Says here your original was lost in a house fire?"

"That's correct," I said, keeping my story simple. Vance's people had been thorough. There was a police report on file, a documented fire at an apartment complex in Seattle that had never actually happened but existed in all the right databases.

"I'll need to see your driver's license and one other form of ID," Margaret said.

I handed over the license. For the second form, I pulled out a university ID that claimed I'd graduated from Boston University in 2008 with a PhD in History. It was entirely fabricated, but the university's records had been updated to reflect my existence. I'd checked.

Margaret examined both, typed something into her computer, and nodded. "Everything looks in order. The replacement card will be mailed to the address on file within seven to ten business days."

"Actually, I need a passport reissued as well," I said. "Lost in the same fire. Is there somewhere I can handle that?"

"Passport services are on the fifth floor," Margaret said, handing back my IDs. "You'll need to fill out Form DS-11 and provide a passport photo. There's a photo service in the building lobby."

Twenty minutes and one terrible passport photo later, I was sitting in another waiting area, this time surrounded by people who looked like they were preparing for international travel. Families with children. Business travelers. An elderly couple planning what looked like a retirement cruise based on the brochures they were reading.

The passport processing took another hour. By the time I walked out of the federal building, I had confirmation that my replacement passport would arrive at the Hightower estate within two weeks and a temporary paper document that would serve until then.

Physical presence in the system: established.

Next stop: the bank.

Pacific Federal Bank was a modern building, all glass and steel, designed to project stability and trust. I walked through the automatic doors into a lobby that featured marble floors and a fountain that probably cost more than my entire teacher's salary used to be.

A woman at the information desk directed me to new accounts. I sat down with a banker named Susan who had the practiced smile of someone who opened accounts all day, every day.

"What kind of account are you looking to open, Mr. Al Kamin?" she asked.

"Checking and savings," I said. "I recently came into some money and I'd like to have it somewhere accessible."

"Of course. May I ask the source of the funds? For our records."

"Consulting work," I said, which was technically true. Magical healing was a form of consulting. "I worked with a private client on a specialized project."

Susan nodded and began typing. "And how much are we talking about for the initial deposit?"

"Ten million dollars," I said casually.

Susan's fingers froze on the keyboard. She looked up at me, the professional smile faltering slightly. "I'm sorry, did you say ten million?"

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

"No, no problem at all," Susan said, though her voice had climbed half an octave. "That's just... that's quite a substantial deposit. I'll need to verify the source of funds with our compliance department. It's standard procedure for large deposits."

"The funds are coming from Vance Industries," I said. "They should be able to confirm the transaction. It was payment for services rendered."

Susan typed furiously, probably sending messages to supervisors and compliance officers. "If you'll excuse me for just a moment, I need to speak with my manager."

She disappeared into a back office. I sat in the chair and waited, watching other customers conduct their banking. A young couple opening a joint account, probably newlyweds. An older man depositing a check. A woman arguing with a teller about fees.

Susan returned five minutes later, followed by a man in an expensive suit who introduced himself as branch manager David Chen.

"Mr. Al Kamin," Chen said, shaking my hand with enthusiasm. "Welcome to Pacific Federal. We'd be delighted to handle your account. I've confirmed the funds with Vance Industries and everything is in order. Let's get you set up properly."

What followed was an hour of paperwork, signatures, and explanations of various banking services I didn't need. By the end of it, I had a checking account, a savings account, a debit card that would arrive by mail in a week, and ten thousand dollars in cash that Chen personally counted out in the bank's private office.

"Is there anything else we can help you with today?" Chen asked as he walked me back to the lobby.

"Not today," I said, pocketing the cash. "Though I may need business accounts in the future. I'm planning to open an educational facility."

"Wonderful," Chen said. "Please don't hesitate to reach out when you're ready. We have excellent business banking services."

I shook his hand and turned to leave, already thinking about the next steps. I had cash now, physical money I could use for immediate purchases. I had legal identity. I had a mansion. What I needed were students.

I was so focused on my thoughts that I almost didn't notice the man I'd ended up standing behind in the line that had formed near the front entrance. He was shorter than me, stocky, with dark hair and an honest face. He was wearing a Ferris Aircraft jacket and carrying what looked like engineering documents.

"Excuse me," I said, because I'd accidentally bumped into him while checking my phone.

"No problem," the man said, stepping aside. He glanced at me, did a double-take at the stack of paperwork I was carrying, and smiled. "First day banking in Coast City?"

"Something like that," I said. "Just moved here, getting everything set up."

"Welcome to the city," the man said, extending his hand. "Tom Kalmaku. I work at Ferris Aircraft."

I shook his hand. "Ben. Benjamin Al Kamin. I'm opening a school out on Hightower Point."

"No kidding? That old estate? That place has been empty for years. Beautiful property, though. I used to take my kids out that way sometimes to look at the ocean from the cliffs."

"It needs work, but it has potential," I said. "What about you? What do you do at Ferris?"

"Mechanical engineer," Tom said. "Mostly work on testing new aircraft designs. It's good work, steady. My friend actually works there too, though he's more of a test pilot. Crazy guy, always pushing the boundaries."

Before I could ask anything else, the bank's atmosphere changed.

It was subtle at first. A shift in the ambient noise, a tension that rippled through the crowd. Then someone near the front entrance screamed.


Three people in masks burst through the doors, carrying what looked like modified assault rifles. The weapons had an odd quality to them, something that made my magical senses itch. Tech that was more advanced than it should be for 2010.

"EVERYBODY DOWN!" one of the masked figures shouted. "THIS IS A ROBBERY! GET ON THE FLOOR NOW!"

People screamed. Dropped. The bank erupted into chaos as customers and staff hit the ground. Security guards reached for their weapons and were immediately targeted by the robbers, green energy bolts from the modified rifles forcing them to retreat behind cover.

Tom grabbed my arm and pulled me down. "Stay low," he hissed. "Don't be a hero. Let them take what they want."

I crouched beside him, my mind racing. This was not how I'd planned to spend my morning. I had cash in my pocket, magical power at my fingertips, and absolutely no desire to reveal either to a bank full of witnesses and security cameras.

But the robbers were spreading out, corralling people, moving with practiced efficiency that suggested this wasn't their first job.

One of them was walking toward Tom and me, weapon raised, eyes hidden behind a black mask.

"YOU TWO! ON THE GROUND! NOW!"

---

I might update Han Wei' CUJ tomorrow.
My Patreon is 1 chapter ahead! Support me there!

One of them was walking toward Tom and me, weapon raised, eyes hidden behind a black mask.

"YOU TWO! ON THE GROUND! NOW!"

Tom dropped immediately, hands spread wide, face pressed against the marble floor. I followed his lead, keeping my movements slow and non-threatening. The robber stepped closer, the modified rifle sweeping across the people around us. The weapon hummed with energy that made my teeth itch. Definitely not standard issue.

I kept my head down and waited. This was Coast City, home to one of the most famous superheroes in the world. Someone would respond. The question was who would get here first.

The robbers were moving with purpose now, two of them forcing bank employees toward the vault while the third kept watch over the crowd. The man standing over Tom and me shifted his weight, the rifle barrel drifting away as he scanned for threats.

A side door near the teller stations opened, just a crack. Most people wouldn't have noticed it, too focused on the armed men in masks. But I caught the movement, saw a figure slip through the gap.

Blonde hair. Black leather jacket. Fishnet stockings that seemed wildly impractical for heroics but somehow worked anyway.

The woman moved like a trained fighter, moving every step to avoid drawing attention. She stayed low, used the teller stations for cover, positioned herself between the robbers and the civilians. Her eyes swept the room, taking in positions, calculating angles.

She was young, mid-twenties maybe, with the kind of intensity that spoke to someone still proving themselves, looks like it was a youngish black canary. She reached the edge of the teller stations and paused, crouched low, hands positioned to her side to stabilize her footing. She took a breath, centered herself, and moved.

She stepped into the open and opened her mouth.

The sound that came out wasn't a scream in any normal sense. It was a weapon, a focused sonic attack that hit the robbers like a physical force. The windows along the front of the bank shattered, glass exploding outward in a spray of glittering shards. The fountain in the lobby cracked, water spraying everywhere. People on the ground covered their ears and screamed, though their voices were lost in the overwhelming noise.

The three robbers dropped their weapons and clutched at their heads, the masks doing nothing to protect them from the sonic assault. One of them fell to his knees, blood trickling from his ears. Another staggered backward, trying to reach for his rifle but unable to coordinate his movements.

The scream cut off. Black canary moved fast and fluid, closing the distance before the robbers could recover. She hit the nearest one with a spinning kick to the face, that sent him sprawling across the marble floor. The second tried to raise his hands to defend himself, but she was already inside his guard, a quick combination of one-two strikes to the solar plexus and jaw that left him gasping on the ground and a kick to the face to knock him unconscious.

The third robber, the one who'd been standing over Tom and me, recovered faster than the others. He shook his head, blinked hard, and grabbed for his rifle where it had fallen a few feet away.

The Black canary was dealing with the second robber, her back to the third. She didn't see him raise the weapon, didn't see his finger tighten on the trigger, didn't see the green energy beginning to build at the barrel's tip.

I reacted without thinking.

[Mage Hand]


The spell was one of the most basic in the arcane repertoire, something apprentices learned in their first week of training. It created a small force construct, invisible to normal sight, that could manipulate objects at a distance. Simple.

The invisible hand wrapped around the rifle barrel and jerked it to the side, just as the robber fired. The energy bolt went wide, hitting the ceiling and blowing a hole in an ornamental tile. Black canary spun at the sound, saw the robber with his weapon, and closed the distance in three quick steps.

She hit him with a punch that had her full body weight behind it. The robber's head snapped back and he dropped like a sack of wet cement, unconscious before he hit the ground.

The bank went silent except for the sound of running water from the broken fountain and the quiet sobbing of a few customers still pressed flat against the floor.

Black canary stood in the center of the lobby, breathing hard, surveying the three unconscious robbers. She reached into her jacket and pulled out zip ties, quickly securing each man's wrists behind his back. Then she grabbed their rifles, ejected whatever power source they were using, and stacked the weapons behind the teller counter where they couldn't be easily reached.

"Everyone okay?" she called out, her voice carrying authority despite her age. "Anyone hurt?"

A few people started to sit up, checking themselves and their neighbors. Tom pushed himself to his knees beside me, his face pale but determined.

"I'm good," he said quietly. "You?"

"Fine," I said, scanning the room for any sign that someone had noticed the rifle's trajectory change. The shot had gone wild, could have been the result of the robber's aim being off from the sonic attack. Nothing that screamed "magic interference."

Black canary walked through the crowd, checking on people, offering reassurance. She was calm and professional despite having just taken down three armed robbers in front of fifty witnesses.

"Police are on their way," she said to the room at large. "Stay where you are until they arrive. If anyone needs medical attention, let me know now."

No one spoke up. Shocked, maybe, but uninjured.

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. The police response in Coast City was apparently excellent. Probably had something to do with having a Green Lantern based here. When your local hero could be anywhere in the sector at any time, you probably developed good emergency response protocols to handle the threats he couldn't reach immediately.

Black canary positioned herself near the entrance, arms crossed, waiting for the authorities. She looked younger up close, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five. There were shadows under her eyes that spoke to long nights and hard fights. Her knuckles were bruised, the kind of damage that came from hitting things without gloves.

The police arrived in a flood of uniforms and barked orders. Black canary spoke with the first officer through the door, gesturing to the unconscious robbers, explaining the situation. The officer nodded, called for backup, and started coordinating the scene.

More police filtered in. Paramedics. Crime scene technicians. The bank transformed from a hostage situation to a controlled response.

"Sir, I need you to give a statement."

I looked up to find a young officer standing over me, notepad in hand, expression professionally neutral.

"Of course," I said, standing up and brushing glass fragments from my pants. "What do you need to know?"

The next twenty minutes were tedious. Name, address, what I'd been doing in the bank, what I'd seen during the robbery. ,Tom gave his statement just as calmly, as expected of someone who was friends with a green lantern. It only just occurred to me that he was the tom kalmaku engineer at Ferris Aircraft, hals best friend. Just here to deposit a check. No, didn't see much, was face down on the floor the whole time.

When the officer finished with Tom and moved to the next witness, I found myself standing near the broken fountain with nothing to do but wait for the police to finish processing the scene and let everyone leave.

Black canary was still near the entrance, speaking with what looked like a detective. The conversation seemed more informal than professional, almost friendly. She laughed at something the detective said, the sound bright and genuine despite the circumstances.

Tom appeared at my elbow, looking exhausted. "They said we can leave. You need a ride anywhere?"

"I've got a car," I said, gesturing toward the parking lot. "Thanks though."

"Yeah, me too." Tom glanced at the woman by the entrance, then back at me. "Hell of a first day in Coast City, huh?"

"Not exactly what I had planned," I admitted. I nodded toward Black canary. "Who is she? She handled those guys like it was routine."

"Black Canary," Tom said, keeping his voice low. "Hero out of Star City, usually. Guess she's working with the Coast City PD on something. Hal mentioned her a few times. Said she's good people, really knows her stuff when it comes to street-level crime."

I'd heard of her in the comics, though I couldn't remember the specifics of her story. Street-level hero, martial artist, the scream was some kind of metahuman ability although she seemed a bit younger.

"What's she doing in Coast City?" I asked.

Tom shrugged. "No idea. Maybe consulting on a case? Star City and Coast City aren't that far apart. We get heroes passing through sometimes, especially if there's something that needs multiple jurisdictions." He pulled out his keys and jangled them absently. "Hey, you want to grab a drink? I don't know about you, but I could use something stronger than coffee after all that."

I considered the offer. Tom seemed like a decent guy, and I could use the connection to someone local, someone who knew the city and apparently knew Hal Jordan personally. Plus, after using magic in a bank full of witnesses and security cameras, even subtle magic, I could use something to settle my nerves.

"Sure," I said. "I could use a drink. You know a place?"

"There's a bar about two blocks from here. McGregor's. Nothing fancy, but they pour heavy and don't ask too many questions. Good place to decompress."

"Sounds perfect."

We walked out of the bank together, past the police barriers and the crowd of onlookers who'd gathered to watch the aftermath. The afternoon sun was bright, almost offensively cheerful given what had just happened.

Tom stopped at his car, a practical sedan that fit his engineering personality. "Follow me. It's not far."

I got in my rental car and followed Tom through downtown Coast City, keeping his sedan in sight as we navigated surface streets. The city was busy with late afternoon traffic, people heading home from work or out for early dinner.

McGregor's turned out to be exactly what Tom had described. A neighborhood bar with a weathered sign, dim interior, and worn-in atmosphere that spoke to decades of service. We found parking on the street and walked in together.

The bartender, a woman in her fifties with grey-streaked hair and a no-nonsense expression, nodded at Tom. "Tom. Usual?"

"Yeah, and whatever my friend here is having." Tom gestured to an empty booth in the back corner.

"Espresso martini please," I said to the bartender. "And whatever else you recommend."

She nodded and started pouring while Tom and I settled into the booth. The leather seats were cracked but comfortable, and the lighting was low enough that I could almost forget about the robbery, the magic use, and the quest hanging over my head.

The bartender brought our drinks over. Tom had what looked like a local beer, something with a label I didn't recognize. My Espresso martini was dark amber and smelled earthy.

"To surviving bank robberies," Tom said, raising his glass.

I clinked my glass against his. "To surviving."

We both drank. The Vodka burned in the best way, smooth and warming. I set the glass down and leaned back against the booth, feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders.

"So," Tom said after a moment. "You really just moved to Coast City?"

"Last week," I said, which was technically true from a certain point of view. "Bought the Hightower estate, getting it set up as a school."

"That's ambitious," Tom said. "What kind of school?"

"Private academy and small classes, intensive curriculum. Focus on students who need a different approach than traditional education offers." I took another sip of whiskey. "I taught in Boston for a while and saw how the public system was failing certain kids. Figured I'd try something different."

Tom nodded slowly. "My kids go to public school here. It's not bad, but it's not great either. Always feels like the teachers are stretched too thin, the classes are too big. If you can actually make a difference with smaller classes and more attention, that'd be something."

"That's the plan," I said. "Though I'm still in the setup phase. Getting the building ready, developing curriculum, all the administrative stuff that comes before actually teaching."

"You need any help with that?" Tom asked. "I mean, I'm an engineer, so I'm probably not much use with curriculum. But if you need mechanical work done on the building, or if you need someone who knows the local contractors, I've got connections."

The offer was genuine, I could tell. Tom was the kind of person who helped because that's what you did when someone needed it, not because he expected anything in return.

"I might take you up on that," I said. "The building's in better shape than I expected, but there's always something that needs fixing in a place that old."

We talked for another hour, the conversation drifting from the school to Tom's work at Ferris Aircraft to the general state of Coast City. Tom was easy to talk to, the kind of person who listened as much as he spoke. He told me about his kids, his wife, the house they'd bought ten years ago that still needed renovation work they kept putting off.

Normal life. Normal concerns. It was grounding in a way I hadn't expected.

"You married?" Tom asked eventually.

"No," I said. "Was engaged once, back in college. Didn't work out. Been focused on work mostly since then."

"Teaching keeps you busy I can imagine," Tom agreed. "My wife's a teacher. Elementary school. She comes home exhausted most days, says if one more parent emails her about their kid's grade she's going to lose it."

I laughed, the sound genuine. "Yeah, I remember that feeling."

We finished our drinks and Tom ordered another round. The bar was filling up with the after-work crowd, people in business casual crowding around the bar or claiming tables. The noise level rose, conversations blending into a comfortable background hum.

"So what do you think of Coast City so far?" Tom asked. "Besides the bank robberies and the property acquisition."

"It's different from Boston," I said. "More spread out. Better weather. The ocean's nice."

"Wait until summer," Tom said. "Temperature doesn't change much, but the tourists show up in force. Beach traffic gets insane."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Tom's phone buzzed. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and grimaced. "Its the Wife. I told her I'd be home an hour ago." He typed out a quick response and pocketed the phone. "I should probably get going. But hey, if you need anything, getting settled in the city or whatever, here's my number."

He pulled out a business card, Ferris Aircraft logo prominent at the top, and slid it across the table. I took it and pulled out my own phone, saving the contact information.

"Thanks," I said. "I appreciate it."

"No problem." Tom stood up and dropped some bills on the table, enough to cover both our drinks and a generous tip. "Welcome to Coast City, Ben. Try not to get caught in any more bank robberies."

---

A/N
also sorry for the latness.
will try to update at least twice a week.
Also thank you to my patreons! cjfry2000 and Leon E!
and Jlopez!

The morning air was cool and sharp with salt when I stepped out onto the mansion's front steps. The sun hadn't fully risen yet, just a pale glow on the eastern horizon that painted the ocean in shades of grey and silver. Perfect time for ward work. The boundary between night and day, when magic flowed more easily and the world was quiet enough to listen.

I'd spent half the night researching ward structures, pulling knowledge from the [Archmage] power like water from a well. The basic perimeter wards I'd laid yesterday were functional, sure. They kept out hostile magic and unwanted scrying. But they were simple, obvious, the kind of thing any competent mage would recognize and potentially bypass given enough time and effort.

If I was going to establish a magical academy in a world full of heroes, villains, and entities that treated reality like a suggestion, I needed better protection. Layered defenses. The kind of ward structure that would make breaking in more trouble than it was worth.

I walked the property line again, this time moving slower, feeling for the anchors I'd established yesterday. They were still there, solid points of power driven deep into the earth. Good foundations. Now I just needed to build on them.

The first layer would be detection wards. Sensors. Magical tripwires that would alert me to specific conditions without actually preventing entry.

I stopped at the first anchor point, a spot near the main gate where the gravel driveway met the property boundary. I knelt and pressed my palm against the ground, feeling the residual energy from yesterday's work.

[Ward: Detection - Hostile Intent]

The spell flowed out of me like ink spreading through water. I wasn't creating a barrier, just establishing a condition. If someone crossed this boundary with intent to harm me, my students, or the academy itself, I would know immediately. The ward would ping my consciousness like a fire alarm, giving me advance warning.

I moved to the next anchor point, twenty feet along the property line. This time I layered a different detection.

[Ward: Detection - Magical Presence]

Anyone carrying active magic, whether through artifacts, enchantments, or their own power, would register when they crossed the boundary. Not hostile, not necessarily threatening, just present. I needed to know if Constantine showed up drunk at three in the morning looking for a favor, or if some demon decided the mansion looked like a good place to set up shop.

The work was methodical, repetitive. Walk to an anchor point, kneel, cast the detection ward, move to the next point. Each ward was slightly different, tuned to detect specific conditions. Hostile intent. Magical presence. Technological surveillance. Dimensional rifts. Anything that might pose a threat or require my attention.

It took two hours to complete the full circle. By the time I returned to the front steps, the sun had fully risen, painting the mansion's stone walls in golden light. I could feel the detection layer now, a subtle presence at the edge of my awareness.

But detection wasn't enough. I needed actual barriers, something that would stop threats rather than just alerting me to them.

This was where it got complicated.

I couldn't just throw up a wall of force and call it done. That would work against brute force attacks, sure, but it would also scream "magical fortress" to anyone with senses sharp enough to detect it. Heroes would investigate. Villains would be intrigued. Every practitioner within five hundred miles would want to know who had claimed this much territory and why.

I needed subtlety. Layers that looked easier to break than they actually were. Traps disguised as vulnerabilities.

I started with the obvious barrier, the one any competent mage would recognize and attempt to bypass. A protective ward, woven into the detection layer, designed to repel hostile magic and physical attacks. Strong enough to stop most threats, but not impenetrable. The kind of defense that said "I know what I'm doing" rather than "I'm hiding something."

[Ward: Barrier - Protection]

The magic settled into place around the property, a translucent dome that existed more in concept than reality. It would stop bullets, deflect hostile spells, turn away anyone trying to force their way through with ill intent. Good enough for casual threats, mundane dangers, the everyday violence that came with living in a superhero universe.

But I knew it wouldn't stop a determined hero. Green Lantern could probably punch through it with a construct. Superman could fly right through it if he wanted. Batman would find the weak points and exploit them systematically.

Which was fine. Because the a standard barrier wasn't meant to stop them.

I walked back to the first anchor point and started the second layer. This one was harder, more complex, woven directly into the standard barrier so that breaking one would seem to break both.

[Ward: Barrier - Lethal Response]

The spell made my teeth ache as I cast it. Lethal magic always felt wrong, like touching something that should be left alone. But I wasn't building this academy to be defenseless. If someone came at me with killing intent, if they tried to murder my students or destroy what I was building, they would find out exactly how dangerous a prepared mage could be.

The lethal ward was keyed to intent. Not just hostile, but specifically murderous. Someone trying to rob the place would hit the standard barrier and get turned away. Someone trying to kill? The ward would respond with overwhelming force. Fire, lightning, force trauma, whatever the threat required to stop it permanently.

I didn't like it. Didn't like the weight of it, the knowledge that I'd just created something that could kill. But I was in a world where villains leveled cities and monsters ate people for breakfast. Squeamishness would get me and my future students killed.

The second layer took another hour to complete. By the time I finished, I was sweating despite the cool morning air. Lethal magic took a toll, demanded more focus, more will, more certainty that what you were doing was necessary.

[Ward: Protection from Evil and Good]

This ward is a filter. To a human, a dwarf, or a halfling, or a normal being, it's nothing more than a faint shimmer in the air, a slight warmth on the breeze. But to the others: the things from the Realms, the pits of the Abyss, or the shifting wilds of the fey, it is an iron wall.

It senses the "elsewhere" in them. If an Aberration tries to lash out, the ward twists the angle of the strike, making it slide off into nothingness. If a ghost tries to slip into a student's chest to take the wheel, the anchor holds the soul in place with the grip of a dying star. It tells the universe one simple thing: This space belongs to us. You are not invited.

I sat on the front steps and drank from a water bottle I'd brought out, letting my breathing settle. The wards hummed around me, invisible but present. Detection layer on the outside, a normal barrier in the middle, lethal response hidden beneath. Anyone studying the property would see two layers and think they understood the defences. The third layer would remain hidden until triggered.

But I wasn't done yet.

The final layer was the most subtle, the hardest to detect, and the most important. Intent wards woven so deeply into the structure that breaking them would require dismantling the entire ward network.

[Ward: Analysis - True Intent]

This was about understanding why someone was here. The ward would read deeper than surface thoughts, would sense the fundamental purpose driving someone to cross the boundary. Were they here to learn? To investigate? To threaten? To steal? The intent ward would know, would categorize, would give me information I could use to respond appropriately.

It was invasive, sure. Probably violated a dozen ethics guidelines. But I was building an academy in a world where people could read minds, see through walls, and travel through time. Privacy was a luxury I couldn't afford.

The intent wards took the longest to place. They had to be woven into every layer, hidden in the spaces between detection and barrier, subtle enough that even a dedicated analysis would miss them. By the time I finished, the sun was high overhead and my shirt was soaked with sweat.

I stood on the front steps and looked out at the property. The wards were complete, layered, redundant. Anyone trying to breach them would have to work through multiple defences, each one seemingly straightforward but hiding complexities beneath. And if someone did manage to break through with lethal intent, they'd find out too late that the real defence wasn't the obvious barriers.

The quest screen flickered into existence before me.

QUEST UPDATE: ESTABLISHMENT

Progress: 0/10 students enrolled, 1/1 location secured

Note: Your ward structure has been registered by this world's magical field. Defensive capability: High. Subtlety: Moderate. Practitioners within 300 miles will sense a significant power claiming territory.

Warning: Expect attention from established magical communities within 72 hours.

Great. So I had three days before every mage on the West Coast knew I was here.

I dismissed the screen and walked back inside. The entrance hall was cool and quiet, dust-free thanks to yesterday's cleaning magic. I made my way to the library, a massive room on the second floor with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and large windows overlooking the ocean.

I'd set up a makeshift desk here, an old writing table I'd found in one of the bedrooms. My laptop sat on it, plugged into an extension cord running to the nearest outlet. No WiFi yet, but I'd fix that later with technopathy. For now, I had other priorities.

I pulled out a notebook, one of those cheap composition books I'd bought at a drugstore during yesterday's errands. Pen and paper. Sometimes the old ways worked best for thinking through problems.

At the top of the first page, I wrote: POTENTIAL STUDENTS.

---

Extra chapter on patreon!
Will add chapter 10 hopefully later on tonight or tomorrow on patreon
support me on there!
Thank you to my current 2 patreon! Leon E cjfry2000