The next morning I woke up feeling like someone had poured crushed glass down my throat and filled my nose with lead.

  “Oh no…” I croaked.

  I got up, swaying.

  “ALPHUS!” My shout came out as a pathetic rasp. “Your curse… achoo! …spread to me!”

  Alphus peeked out from under his blanket (he already looked healthier) and laughed nastily.

  “What curse? It’s a cold, idiot! So you get sick too? The mighty monster defeated by snot?”

  “Shut up…” I sneezed again so hard I almost launched myself into the wall. It hurt.

  I raised my hand to snap my fingers. One “Body Purge” spell—and I’d be fine. But my hand froze.

  Something inside me resisted. My body—my essence—was fighting the virus.

  “Hm…” I thought. “If I heal myself with magic now, my body will never learn to handle this crap on its own. I have to get stronger. Even in this.”

  I lowered my hand.

  “Fine. I’ll suffer. Evolution demands sacrifices.”

  I walked down the corridor to class. Empty. Quiet. Only my sniffing broke the silence.

  Then—WHOOSH.

  Something colorful zipped past me at waist level.

  I turned.

  A tiny, wrinkled elf with a ridiculously long beard was flying down the hall on a real, classic magic carpet. He was giggling and glancing back at me.

  I froze.

  “That’s him!”

  I tore after him.

  “HEY! STOP! OLD MAN!”

  The old guy cackled louder and the carpet accelerated.

  “Hee-hee-hee! Catch me if you can, boy!”

  “Oh yeah?!” I sprinted. My speed was insane for a human, but this rug was turbocharged!

  “You’re the ancient elf who knows things about me?!” I yelled, vaulting over benches.

  “A-HA-HA! Greg!” his voice creaked like an old door. “I know everything about you! In my endless life I’ve seen you only three times! And all three times you were different people!”

  Three times? Different people?

  That lit a fire under me.

  “Alright, old man—you’re done!”

  I teleported right in front of him.

  Pop!

  But the carpet jerked sideways.

  Whoosh!

  The old man teleported too—while staying on the carpet.

  “You ancient—” I panted.

  We tore through the corridors at a speed that would’ve been nothing but blurry streaks to anyone watching.

  Then he stopped abruptly. The carpet hovered in midair.

  I slammed to a halt, leaving black skid marks on the floor.

  “Got you!”

  I stepped toward him—and felt danger at my back.

  I turned.

  Behind me stood Elandr, staff aimed at me.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  A trap.

  An elf sandwich.

  The old elf climbed off his carpet, groaning and stretching his back.

  “Hee-hee-hee… Greg. Amazing boy. You always surprise me.”

  “What?” I was breathing hard, wiping my runny nose. “Just tell me already! And why are you standing like that, Elandr? Put the stick away.”

  “It’s him…” Elandr was pale. “He’s the Destroyer, Magister. Be careful.”

  The old elf waved a hand.

  “Ahh, Elandr… An elf’s life is long. If an elf lives on spite or vengeance, he’ll spend eternity in misery. We live long so we can forgive.”

  He muttered something under his breath, clearly enjoying his own philosophical garbage.

  “Enough with the philosophy, old man!” I snapped. “I need answers!”

  The old elf suddenly appeared right in front of me—impossibly fast.

  His dry, wrinkled hands grabbed my face. He started turning my head like I was a doll.

  “Mmm,” he hummed. “One eye normal—black, like the Abyss. As usual. And the other…”

  He stared into my left eye.

  “Gray? Completely gray, like fog before dawn? Scary… interesting…”

  Then his hand slid higher.

  He started scratching my hair.

  Exactly like Alexia. Behind my ear, over the top of my head.

  I shuddered.

  It felt… disgustingly good. My knees went weak. I almost purred right there in the hallway.

  “Hee-hee-hee…” the old elf giggled. “Greg, as always. You can be anything—saint, monster, destroyer… but one thing never changes. You love being petted. Hee-hee-hee.”

  I jerked back, snapping out of it.

  “Okay—STOP! Stop touching my head! I need information!”

  “Not so fast, boy.” He lifted a finger. “I’m thinking…”

  He fell silent. Just stood there staring at me.

  A minute. Two. Four.

  I was about to explode.

  “Well?!”

  “I’ve got it!” he blurted. “You’ll go to the Inter-Academy Championships instead of Marla.”

  “So what?” I snorted. “I was disqualified.”

  “Pff!” He waved it off. “So you used dark magic. You didn’t know. I’ll overturn the decision. You’re strong. You win—I’ll answer five questions. Any five.”

  Five questions.

  That was a lot.

  “Alright, old man, I’m not playing your—”

  “Hee-hee-hee!” he cut me off.

  POP.

  And he was gone.

  Vanished with the carpet.

  Elandr and I were left alone. He looked at me, lowered his staff, and straightened his robe.

  “You’re late for my lectures, Cadet Greg.”

  “Uh…” I grinned, sniffing. “You too, aren’t you?”

  “I’m delayed on important Academy business,” he replied calmly. “You are late.”

  I laughed. Elandr allowed himself the faintest smirk.

  Looks like the ice cracked.

  The next day they announced it: packing up. We were flying to another country for the Championship.

  As usual, I had nothing to pack. Toothbrush, a change of underwear (which I forgot anyway), and an apple in my pocket.

  But before leaving, I did one “important” thing—infected everyone around me.

  The snot relay went great: from me to Alphus, from him to Lianelle, from her to Alexia.

  Now we were one big, happy, sneezing family.

  I stepped into the hallway, sniffling. Alphus was in bed buried under tissues, but when he saw me, he propped himself up.

  “Good luck, Greg,” he said through his nose. “Don’t disgrace—achoo!—our room.”

  I froze in the doorway. Turned back.

  “Thanks?” I said uncertainly. “And you… get better, ‘Cloud-boy.’”

  I walked out and immediately ran into a full-blown migration of nations.

  Or rather: two princesses carrying Mount Everest made of bags, trunks, and hatboxes.

  “Greg!” Lianelle wheezed from under the pile. “Help us! We’re gonna die!”

  I came over and stared at the luggage mountain.

  “Uh… ladies. Are you moving? Why do you need this much crap? The competition’s three days.”

  “You don’t understand!” Lianelle snapped, shoving a ridiculously heavy case into my arms. “Three days of events. Plus travel day—we rest and acclimate. Plus the day after—banquet and return. That’s five days. Each day needs morning, day, and evening. That’s fifteen outfits! Plus backups!”

  She inhaled to keep lecturing, but folded over instead.

  “Ckh—ckh—ckh!”

  Alexia coughed too, hiding her mouth behind an elegant handkerchief.

  “Jesus, Greg…” she groaned, wiping watery eyes. “This is all your fault.”

  “Sorry.” I spread my hands (almost dropping a suitcase). “I shared everything I had.”

  Alexia looked at me with her red, irritated—still smug—eyes.

  “You know, Greg, you’re a strategist. You turned us into walking biological weapons. If you run out of mana, just sneeze on the enemy. They’ll die in agony in two days and we’ll win by technicality.”

  “Heh.” I approved. “That’s a plan.”

  We climbed up to the tower roof—our launch platform.

  Waiting for us weren’t carriages. Not griffins.

  Carpets.

  Old, worn, with tassels.

  “Yeah…” I drawled. “Thanks, old man. Premium transport. A damn convertible.”

  We started loading.

  Lianelle put her first suitcase on the carpet. It whined and sank half a meter.

  Second suitcase—carpet flattened against the roof.

  “Greg…” Lianelle stared at me in panic. “It won’t take off. The luggage won’t fit.”

  “No way!” I faked shock. “And I told you.”

  “Fine!” Alexia declared. “We drop the extras!”

  They started ripping through their stuff.

  “This dress—no… these shoes—no… the iron can stay…”

  They ditched half the pile. The mountain shrank… but not by much.

  Their carpets were small, elegant, built for one person and a makeup pouch.

  My carpet—because the old man clearly knew who he was dealing with—was wider and looked sturdier.

  The sisters exchanged a look. Then looked at me. Then at their luggage.

  “Greg…” Alexia began sweetly. “You’re such a strong boy…”

  “No.” I cut her off immediately. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Greg, take our stuff! Pleeease!”

  “…Fine. Load it.”

  So: Alexia flew on her little carpet, sitting graceful like a queen of the sky.

  Lianelle flew beside her, proud and beautiful.

  And behind them, wheezing and sneezing, flew me.

  Or rather: a mountain of suitcases flew, with my leg and one arm sticking out, death-gripping the rug’s edge.

  My carpet barely peeled off the roof, shuddering under the overload. It flew low, clipped weather vanes, and made noises like a dying vacuum cleaner.

  “Faster, Greg!” Alexia shouted, enjoying the wind.

  “Go—achoo!—to hell!” I yelled from under a suitcase. “I’m not a mage, I’m a freight taxi!”

  And that’s how we left the Academy.