The first lesson. I was back in the classroom of that guy in the spacesuit. The sentient gas inside the helmet bubbled lazily, and his voice reached me as a quiet, whistling whisper. It seemed today we were having a lecture on legal magic.

  "A contract on paper, written in ordinary ink without the infusion of mana, is just garbage," the teacher hissed. "It can be torn up, burned, or simply ignored. But as soon as mana enters the picture... you become part of the system."

  I propped my head on my hand. Listen closely, readers, here comes a portion of "important information" for which the author forced me to wake up.

  "The most popular method is a blood contract," the gas continued. "When both parties draw blood and swear upon it. Such a bond is almost impossible to break. It requires either mutual consent to cancel or the presence of transcendent personal power capable of 'biting through' the thread of the contract. There are also substitution rituals—when you offer up another object in your place so that the contract 'eats' it instead."

  The spacesuit-teacher paused, sweeping the murky glass of his helmet over the class. "But the most important rule of defense against such contracts, children, is simple: do not sign anything in blood. At all. Ever. Read the text ten times, or better yet—eleven."

  I snorted. A golden rule.

  "Fortunately, such contracts are forbidden by the laws of the United Nations," the teacher whistled. "Except in special cases. If blood is taken by force or deceit, the contract is considered invalid. But..."

  His voice grew even quieter. "There are artifacts that strike deeper. They bind not only the body, but the soul. A soul bond is the crown jewel of magical slavery. Such a creature is easier to control than a marionette. A mistake in such a contract is instant death. Or something worse."

  I yawned. Bind a soul... "Bind the soul of someone whose soul resets every cycle?" I thought. "Good luck. That's like trying to tie a sailor's knot around a cloud of smoke."

  The teacher continued droning on about the nuances of phrasing, and I felt sleep washing over me again. Information received, box checked. The world is saved from legal illiteracy.

  The gas-teacher continued his quiet monologue, moving on to the most terrifying sections of magical law.

  "A soul bond is a dangerous thing," he hissed. "Remember this once and for all: never take power from outside through contracts. For those who get hooked on someone else's energy, the path to true greatness is closed forever. You stop being mages."

  He leaned on the podium, and his spacesuit creaked under the strain. "But there are worse things. Creatures from other worlds. Entities from beyond. You can make contracts with them too, but the price will always be beyond your imagination. They can demand anything: your feelings, your memories, your future. And you will be bound to them eternally."

  Someone in the class timidly raised a hand. "But, Teacher! This issue was recently raised in the United Nations Council. They say they want to legalize contracts with external entities for 'special defense needs'."

  The teacher merely threw his hands up in a doomed gesture. "Fools. They think they can tame the ocean. Never agree to such a thing. External entities manipulate souls the way we rearrange furniture. There was a legend about one such creature..."

  The voice of the gas turned entirely insinuating. "It created a zone around itself where any soul was automatically bound to its will. You simply walked into the room and ceased to belong to yourself. Only those whose will was harder than diamond could take even a single step against its command. How did it do it? No one knows. That is the whole point of 'external' forces—they play by rules that we cannot even comprehend."

  I scratched the back of my head under the mask. "An automatic soul-binding zone," I thought. "Sounds familiar. I think in some past cycle I actually tried to turn a thing like that off. Or was I trying to create it? Damn it, I always mix up the beginning and the end of the story."

  "And now—from theory to practice!" The teacher clapped his hands sharply, and the sound echoed like a gunshot. "Write a simple contract on your papers. Something banal: 'eat this,' 'sing that.' Nothing serious. Infuse it with a drop of your blood and mana, and then exchange it with your neighbor. Feel how the thread pulls taut."

  The class sprang to life. Everyone started bustling about, pulling out quills and paper knives. I looked at my blank sheet of paper. "A contract," I muttered.

  Sitting next to me was my roommate—the elf-dwarf-demon hybrid. He was already diligently scratching his finger, eyeing me warily.

  "Well, neighbor?" I lazily picked up my quill. "Shall we sign a non-aggression pact regarding my nerves? Or do you want me to make you tap dance?" I wrote a single line: "Whoever holds this paper must bring me the biggest pastry from the cafeteria."

  I infused a drop of mana. The paper glowed faintly gray. "Catch," I held the paper out to my neighbor.

  My neighbor looked at my "pastry ultimatum" written on the scrap of paper and tossed back dryly: "I'm not doing that. Rewrite it."

  I blinked. "Wait, you can do that?" I was surprised. "Just say 'no'?" "Until the contract is signed in blood, it's just a wish on a napkin," he grumbled.

  I sighed and started tracing a new line: "Clap your hands three times." Maximally safe and stupid. I handed him the paper, and he handed me his in return.

  I unfolded the paper and froze. Written in neat handwriting was: "Take off your mask."

  I slowly turned my head toward my neighbor. "Nope. Not signing that. Here, take your nonsense back and write something normal."

  "Not rewriting it," he squinted slyly, looking at me over his shoulder. "I'm curious. I want to see what you're hiding under there."

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  "What? You can do that?" I thought, feeling irritation boiling up inside. I simply pushed his paper aside. Signing something like that was like voluntarily jumping into a dragon's maw.

  Practice was in full swing all around us. One guy in the center of the class suddenly jumped up and started dancing frantically—apparently fulfilling a contract. A girl's paper burst into flames and crumbled to ash—she had simply broken the bond with her own will.

  The spacesuit-teacher drifted over to our desk. "Why aren't you signing, Greg? The lesson is underway." "Don't want to," I cut him off. "He's asking for something I have no intention of doing. To take off my mask."

  The teacher let out a strange, vibrating sound—probably what a disapproving whistle of gas sounds like. He turned to my hybrid neighbor. "Rewrite it," he hissed. "There are boundaries within a student's personal space that a contract must not cross without consent."

  My neighbor gloomily took the paper back, scribbled a couple of words, and turned back to the teacher: "Aren't you curious yourself about who is under that mask?" The teacher didn't answer; only the murky glass of his helmet gleamed dully.

  A new piece of paper landed in front of me. The same thing: "Clap your hands three times." Fair enough.

  I picked up a small ritual knife. Pressed the point to the pad of my finger. And froze. Something snapped inside me. My breathing grew shallow.

  I... I suddenly realized that I couldn't remember the last time I had caused myself harm. My skin was always intact. My regeneration worked so perfectly that I had forgotten the taste of physical pain and the sight of my own blood.

  Am I. Afraid?

  My hand began to tremble slightly. I touched the knife to my skin, intending to make a light incision, but the moment the steel pressed down a bit, I yanked my hand back as if from fire.

  It wasn't just unpleasant. It was... unnatural. Several minutes passed. The entire class had already finished, and now everyone—the students, the princesses, Alastia—were looking at me. In the silence, you could only hear the gas bubbling in the teacher's spacesuit.

  I looked at the knife, then at my finger. It seemed so simple: one motion, a drop of red on the paper—and it would all be over. But my survival instinct was screaming that this was the biggest mistake of my life.

  I finally made up my mind. I brought the blade to the pad of my finger and made a tiny, almost invisible incision. The feeling was awful—as if I had violated some fundamental law of my own existence. But my regeneration kicked in before I could even blink. The wound closed instantly, leaving not even a trace on the paper.

  The hybrid neighbor, watching my torment, snorted contemptuously. "Why are you shaking? Are you a wimp or something? Give it here, I'll help."

  He unceremoniously grabbed my hand and slashed the knife across my palm. The blade simply glided over my skin, like over stone. Not a scratch. My neighbor froze, staring blankly at the knife.

  Something began to boil inside me. This was abnormal. My body was refusing to let blood out. My irritation escalated into fury. If the world wants my blood—it's going to get it.

  I snatched the knife back. Without thinking, I gripped the handle and, with all my might, drove the blade straight into the center of my palm, piercing my hand all the way through.

  "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" the neighbor cried out, recoiling.

  The knife stuck in the wood of the desk, pinning my hand. Thick, dark blood slowly flowed down the blade, soaking into the contract paper. The paper instantly turned crimson, the mana within it howling. The neighbor, obeying some foolish adrenaline rush, sharply clapped his hands three times.

  And in that moment, reality shattered.

  The neighbor screamed. His face contorted in unbearable agony. But I barely heard him. Thousands of moments flooded into my brain, as if through a drill. Thousands of lives where my hands had been covered in red exactly like this. The smell of iron filled my lungs, pushing out the teacher's gas. I stood paralyzed, staring at my pierced palm.

  I turned to the class. The world blinked. Instead of desks and students, I saw mountains of corpses. Instead of the Academy walls—the snarling maws of thousands of monsters, reaching their claws toward me.

  I violently jumped up, kicking my chair away, and leaped back against the wall. "STAY AWAY!" I roared, my voice breaking into a growl.

  I couldn't breathe. The mask on my face suddenly felt heavy, ice-cold; it dug into my skin, turning into iron shackles. I dug my fingers into it, ripped it off my face, and hurled it aside.

  "STAY AWAY!"

  I made a sharp sweep with my arms. The floor in front of my feet split open with a deafening crack, a deep fissure tearing through the classroom all the way to the blackboard.

  Someone teleported to my left. Reflex kicked in instantly—I hurled a glob of white flame there. The opponent changed trajectory, flashing to the right. I smirked (I could feel that insane smile on my face) and sent another charge there. A shift forward. Another strike.

  I was just about to unleash the accumulated power and simply vaporize this room along with all the "monsters," when suddenly I felt a movement from above. Before I could raise my head, a warm, soft palm covered the crown of my head.

  Click.

  The world swayed. I collapsed to my knees, gasping heavily for air. The blood in my veins, which had just been boiling, instantly cooled. My mind began to slowly return to reality, pushing out the ghosts of war.

  I looked at my hand. The knife was still sticking out of my palm. I slowly pulled the steel out. The wound closed right before my eyes, pushing out the remnants of the metal, the skin becoming smooth as if nothing had ever happened. My strength left me as abruptly as it had come. I felt myself falling into the empty, black abyss of sleep.

  I woke up. The room was dark; only the dim light of magical lanterns from the street pierced through the window. I raised my hands to my face. The regeneration had erased all traces—but I could still feel it.

  I rotated my palm. Not a scar. As if I hadn't driven a knife entirely through it however much time ago.

  "The rumors traveled faster than you woke up," the Dragonkin's voice came from the corner. He was sitting on the floor, enveloped in a faint heat. His yellow eyes glowed in the darkness like two coals.

  "They say you tore the classroom apart. Some kind of fit of madness. They're writing that you almost killed your deskmate and looked like a monster. And also..." He nodded at the shelf, where the fragments of my mask lay. "You don't need to wear it anymore. The whole building already knows that 'that guy with the different colored eyes' has arrived at the Academy. You are now a local attraction."

  I stayed silent. A cold lump was still tumbling around inside me. Why do I lose control? What snaps inside me when I see my own blood? I felt like a broken mechanism that occasionally starts spinning its gears in reverse, grinding everything around it.

  "You don't look strong on the outside," the Dragonkin continued, studying me with his predatory gaze. "Just an ordinary, skinny teenager. But those who were in the classroom swear they saw a Shadow behind your back."

  "I don't know," I grumbled, pulling the blanket up. "I have nothing to say in my defense."

  I closed my eyes again. Sleeping was the best thing I could offer my psyche right now. Past cycles were beating down the door of my mind, and I just wanted to lock myself away from them in the dark.

  When I opened my eyes for the second time, it was deep in the night. The Dragonkin was snoring rhythmically in his corner, his tail twitching lazily in his sleep. I sat up on the sofa and stared at the huge clock outside the window. The hands were frozen at 5 hours and 76 minutes.

  I scratched the back of my head. Decimal time system. One hundred minutes in an hour. The local architects of chaos had clearly decided that regular time was just too simple.

  "Alright," I whispered under my breath. "If I want to stop running around the Academy like a scalded cat and falling into lottery-mirrors, I need a Plan."

  I need to calculate everything. The flight trajectories of the buildings, the rhythm of the shifting floors, the switching cycles of the mirrors. If this world is an algorithm, that means I can hack it.

  I need a map. A real, dynamic map of this madhouse. And I'm going to draw it. Even if I have to spend the entire night and the last shreds of my sanity to do it.