Reed used his time on the train wisely, despite the low hum of the engine and the occasional jolt of movement through the tracks. The sterile white room he'd awoken in was small but thoughtfully furnished—just enough to make him feel like he hadn't been kidnapped, even if a part of him still wasn't sure. The furniture, though minimal, was polished and new, including a low dresser with bronze knobs, a mirror mounted above it, and a compact writing desk pressed against the wall beneath a curtained window. The curtains were drawn tight, but a faint glow bled through the fabric—whether from daylight or arcane lighting, he couldn't say.
Inspecting the room more thoroughly, Reed spotted several neatly arranged canvas bags lined up on the dresser. He opened one and found strange tools inside—glass vials filled with glowing blue liquid, a rod that looked like it could be used for focusing mana, and a small leather-bound book embossed with silver runes. None of it looked familiar. He had no magical training, after all, and now more than ever, he was beginning to realize how far out of his depth he truly was.
Hanging on a wall-mounted rack next to the bathroom door was a freshly pressed academy uniform. The fabric looked expensive but practical, woven with fine dark threads that shimmered faintly. Embroidered over the heart was the silver crest of the Asterian Academy—a stylized tower encircled by seven stars. The sight of it sent a chill down his spine. The reality of it all was settling in. He was going to the Academy. And he wasn't going as just another student—he was going as the first "Black Mage," or whatever they wanted to call him.
Following the Bishop's advice, Reed entered the bathroom. It was just as sterile and white as the rest of the room, and he found a neatly arranged set of toiletries waiting for him: a toothbrush, minty toothpaste, soap that smelled of pine and smoke, and fresh towels folded atop a wooden bench. The shower was warm and steady, and as the water washed over him, he let the sensation soothe the lingering anxiety in his chest. For a moment, it was just him and the rhythm of falling water—no ceremony, no black light, no skulls.
But as he stepped out and wiped the fog from the mirror, something caught his attention.
At first, he was scanning his arms out of habit, expecting to find some sort of magical marking—a sigil, a rune, anything—but there was nothing. No glowing crest on his palm. No intricate design etched into his wrist. His hands looked as normal as they had the day before the Blessing. A twinge of fear shot through him. Did this mean he had no magic at all?
"Was this some kind of mistake?" he whispered aloud.
He turned, more out of anxious fidgeting than intent, and caught a glimpse of his back in the mirror.
He froze.
There, stretching across the breadth of his back like ink poured into skin, was the unmistakable image of a skull. It was so dark—so unnaturally black—it looked like a void carved into the flesh itself, absorbing light rather than reflecting it. Every edge of the skull was sharp and cruel, and its hollow eyes stared out like twin abysses. Reed felt a jolt of something primal crawl down his spine. Not fear exactly, but awe. The kind that made your breath catch in your throat.
And it was moving.
Slowly, beneath the surface, the inky blackness rippled like smoke trapped under skin. The skull's edges wavered, not dissolving, but shifting—like it was alive. Reed reached back instinctively, but when his fingers brushed the skin, there was no texture. No raised lines. Just smooth flesh.
"I want to move it," he thought, furrowing his brow. "Just to the side… just to see if I can."
And to his astonishment, the edges of the skull obeyed.
It didn't slide like a sticker or twist like a joint. Instead, the blackness pulsed, the shadows shifting just a few centimeters in the direction he imagined. It responded to his will. Reed staggered backward, heart pounding in his chest.
He had to try something.
Holding his hand out in front of him, he focused on the image of the shadow spreading. "Engulf my arm," he thought. "Wrap it in that same blackness. Cover it."
The response was immediate. From the base of the skull, tendrils of black smoke slithered outward with shocking speed. They coiled around his shoulder and streamed down his arm in thick, twisting ribbons, until his entire right arm was coated in shimmering darkness. It looked like obsidian flame, but it felt… cold. Not freezing, but void-like—numb and strangely weightless.
A faint mist bled from the surface of the shadowed skin, pooling on the floor like a lazy fog. Reed flexed his fingers. His arm responded perfectly. No delay. No pain.
Testing it, he lifted his normal hand and pressed it down hard on the porcelain sink—nothing unusual. Then, lifting the shadowed one, he brought it down with force. The impact rang out through the room. The sink cracked under the blow, spiderweb lines spreading out from the point of contact. But his hand felt no pain.
He gawked at the damage, not out of guilt, but exhilaration.
"This is… incredible," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. His lips curled into a grin he hadn't expected. "This is real power."
He felt like a character out of one of the adventure books he used to sneak from the village library. Not just someone blessed with magic—but someone different. Someone unique. Not bound by color, not shackled by tradition.
He glanced back at the mirror and stared at the skull now glowing faintly across his back.
"Black Mage?" he scoffed. "No… that's not enough."
He turned the phrase over in his mind. Black Mage sounded clinical, like something recorded in a textbook. It didn't match the sensation bubbling in his chest—the raw, humming force now etched into his spine.
Looking at the skull again, an image came to mind. The grave. The afterlife. The end.
Death.
That's what it represented. That's what the magic felt like.
A chill crawled down his neck, but this time it wasn't from fear—it was from recognition.
"I'm not a Black Mage," he said aloud, the words tasting strange but satisfying. "I'm a Death Mage."
There was a moment of silence after the declaration, the air thick with some unspoken shift. As though the train, or the world itself, had paused to acknowledge the name.
Reed turned back to the sink, watching the mist curl from his arm. He could only maintain it for a few minutes before it began to retract, the shadows sliding back toward the skull like ink draining from a brush. As they receded, he could feel a small wave of exhaustion washing over him—not overwhelming, but noticeable.
"Still has limits," he murmured. "Guess I'll have to train."
He looked toward the academy uniform hanging nearby, then down at his hand.
"I'll find out what this power really means," he said, walking to the dresser and retrieving the shirt with the embroidered crest. "No matter what it takes."
He paused again before dressing, staring out the curtained window. He still didn't know what the Academy had in store for him. Friends? Enemies? Teachers who would fear him, or try to use him? Would there be others like him?
Probably not.
But that was okay.
Because Reed wasn't looking to blend in anymore. He had a new name, a new power, and a new beginning.
He was the first Death Mage.
And he was ready.