The day dawned with the same dense fog as always, but the interior of Salt Manor was warmed by familiar silence and the smell of fresh coffee.
I descended the stairs slowly, step by step, without taking my eyes off the yellowed pages of the grimoire that now seemed to be an extension of my arm.
My eyes scanned the complex mana flow diagrams, trying to understand the transition from static to kinetic energy without heat loss.
To an outside observer, I was just a teenager addicted to an antique-looking book, but in my mind, I was reviewing lines of code for a reality most people didn't even know existed.
I passed through the dining room toward the kitchen, still immersed in reading a paragraph about the resonance of conductive materials.
"You only have your face buried in that book now, Nathan," my mother's voice came from the side of the kitchen island.
She was standing there, watching me with that mixture of concern and resignation that only mothers of mages seem to have.
It wasn't a scolding; it was an observation.
She knew what knowledge did to a person's mind, how it could isolate you from the common world.
"Knowledge doesn't move itself, Mom," I murmured, not looking away from the page, while grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl out of pure motor instinct.
"Your father said you'd have this reaction. Just try not to forget that there's a world out here that isn't made of ink and parchment," she completed, letting out a light sigh as she went back to organizing her things.
I barely heard the end of the sentence.
I just nodded vaguely and continued on my way, exiting through the door that led to the indoor garage.
The moment the heavy door closed behind me, I shut the grimoire with a dry thud.
The anxiety, which I had been keeping under strict control since I woke up, finally surfaced.
There it was.
The Dodge Charger sat under the garage's fluorescent lights, looking even more intimidating than the night before.
The matte black bodywork absorbed the light, creating a silhouette that looked like a cutout of shadows against the concrete.
I walked up to it, feeling my pulse quicken slightly.
To me, that car wasn't just a luxury vehicle; it was the greatest tool I had ever held in my hands.
I ran my hand along the roof, and Magic Vision activated almost involuntarily.
The runic mesh my father had installed glowed a deep blue beneath the metal.
It was a masterwork.
The mana lines were perfectly integrated into the electrical and mechanical systems, transforming the engine not just into a combustion machine, but into a potential force field generator.
I opened the door, and the smell of new leather enveloped me.
I sat in the driver's seat, feeling the perfect fit.
I wasn't just going to school; I was taking a piece of heavy artillery disguised as a muscle car into wolf territory.
I turned the key.
The engine didn't just start; it punched the air.
The deep roar reverberated off the garage walls and climbed up my spine.
"Yeah," I murmured, a small smile appearing at the corner of my mouth as I adjusted the rearview mirror and saw my own reflection—calm, but with eyes shining from analyzing the data the car was sending me.
"This is going to be fun."
I shifted gears, and the car slid smoothly out, ready to face the Beacon Hills fog and whatever was hiding in it.
"Holy shit," the words escaped before I could filter them.
I gripped the leather steering wheel, feeling the premium texture under my fingers. For a moment, the whole "calculating mage and serious transmigrator" posture went out the window. I was eighteen, sitting inside a magically armored matte black Dodge Charger, and I was about to roll up to school driving this beast.
A stupid grin spread across my face. I could visualize the scene in 4K in my head: the Charger entering the parking lot, tearing through the morning mist of Beacon Hills. The sound of the V8 drowning out Jackson's ridiculous Porsche. The dumbfounded looks on the students who had watched me get off the school bus all week.
I felt badass. There was no other word for it. It was that feeling of achievement finally materializing.
I accelerated to leave the garage, tires chirping briefly on the smooth concrete. The sensation of mechanical power mixed with the subtle mana permeating the chassis—a perfect synergy between human technology and arcane mysticism.
But as soon as I hit the open road and the initial adrenaline settled, reality weighed down again. The smile faded, giving way to a thin line of concentration.
The speedometer read 80km/h, but my mind was elsewhere.
I activated Magic Vision.
There were no floating blue windows, no skill menus, no ding! notifications congratulating me. The only "gamified" thing was the red number floating in the corner of my peripheral vision — [MP: 2,100]. And even that wasn't real; it was just my brain, addicted to RPGs from my past life, translating the abstract sensation of the water volume in my internal "tank" into numerical digits. It was a psychological crutch so I wouldn't lose track of how much I was spending.
I looked at the passenger seat, where my backpack held the Grimoire.
"Five pages," I muttered, frustrated, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the quiet music on the radio.
I was stagnant.
Since I awakened, I spent all day with Magic Vision active, forcing my eyes to see mana currents, people's auras, the structure of reality. I thought it was like Skyrim: use the skill a thousand times and it levels up.
But real life—or this new real life—didn't work that way.
The Grimoire remained stubbornly blank from the sixth page onwards. If I focused my entire magic tank into my Magic Vision, I could see some letters, but they scrambled, causing a headache if I tried to force the reading. I had access to three basic concepts, and that was it.
Telekinesis. Moving things. The basic of basics.
Fireball. Condensing thermal energy and launching it. Too dangerous and flashy.
Magical Enhancement. Reinforcing the body or objects with mana. What I was saving so I wouldn't die if a werewolf decided to use me as a chew toy.
The problem was that I was treating magic like mathematics. I saw triangles, cubes, vectors. I tried to calculate the trajectory. But Salt magic... it wasn't geometric. My father spoke of water. Of flow. Of oceans.
Geometry was just the way I tried to contain the chaos. It was my "compression." But to turn the page, to access the real spells, I felt like I needed to stop trying to calculate the magic and start being the magic.
"I'm a Level 1 mage with Level 50 gear," I grumbled, taking a sharp turn perfectly, feeling the car respond as an extension of my body. "I have mana for days, a runic car, but I only know party tricks."
I looked at the road ahead. The school was coming up.
I took a deep breath, forcing mana to circulate through my eyes, clearing my vision, focusing on the flow. I needed a real challenge. Reading theory wasn't going to open the sixth page. I needed pressure.
And considering I was heading into a place full of hormonal werewolves and paranoid hunters... pressure was one thing that wouldn't be in short supply.
The school gate appeared. I adjusted the rearview mirror, my teenage side taking control again for a split second.
I downshifted, letting the engine roar deep and loud, an audible warning that the parking lot hierarchy was about to change.
Jackson's silver Porsche was parked near the entrance, with him leaning against the door, arms crossed, surrounded by some players from the team. Lydia was beside him, touching up her lipstick, looking bored with her own existence.
When the Charger entered their field of vision, the conversation died.
I didn't need to look to know. I felt it. The collective attention shifted focus like a rotating spotlight.
I slid the car into the spot next to the Porsche—a calculated and unnecessarily aggressive move. The space was tight, but with the car's magical sensitivity, I parked with millimeter precision, stopping inches from the "King of the School's" bumper.
I killed the engine. The silence that followed was almost palpable.
I grabbed my backpack, put on my sunglasses (totally unnecessary with the fog, but essential for the aesthetic), and opened the door.
I got out slowly, adjusting my jacket.
"Nice boat," Jackson's voice came loaded with disdain, but his aura... ah, his aura told a different story. That electric blue was vibrating with pure envy. He hated not being the most expensive thing within a hundred-meter radius.
"Thanks," I replied, locking the car. The beep-beep of the alarm sounded strangely deep. "Thought it matched the weather."
Lydia lowered her hand mirror and looked at me over the top of her sunglasses. A slow, approving smile appeared on her red lips.
"Definitely an improvement over the bus," she commented, extending her hand for Jackson to open his car door for her (which he didn't do, of course). She rolled her eyes and walked over to me. "You're sitting with us at lunch. I won't take no for an answer."
"Maybe," I said, shrugging. "Gotta grab some books first."
"That wasn't an invite, Nate," she winked and walked on, her high heels clicking on the asphalt.
Jackson shot daggers at me one last time before following his girlfriend, kicking a pebble on the way.
I walked toward the entrance, the heavy backpack on my shoulders. Magic Vision scanned the crowd. Grey auras, yellow auras of pre-test anxiety, red auras of repressed anger.
And then, I saw something that made me stop.
Near the lacrosse field bleachers, away from the main flow of students, there was a point of darkness.
It wasn't a normal shadow. It was dense. Cold.
Scott and Stiles were there. Stiles was gesturing frantically, and Scott... Scott was paralyzed.
The wolf's shadow wasn't over him. It was inside him, fighting to get out. His red aura pulsed violently, like a heart about to explode.
But that wasn't all.
There was another presence there.
Leaning against the fence, almost invisible to anyone who didn't know what to look for, was Derek Hale.
His aura was that deep, sad blue, black roots of guilt spreading across the ground. But today, there was something else. There was a sharp intention. He was pressuring Scott. Testing the new Beta's control.
"This is new," I muttered, remembering my own wish in the car minutes ago. "Doesn't this happen way later in the story?"
I changed course. Instead of going to the main building, I turned toward the field.
I needed to see this up close. I needed to understand how a werewolf's mana interacted with a born Alpha's. If I wanted to open the sixth page of the grimoire, maybe observing primal magic in action was the missing key.
I approached slowly, keeping my own aura compressed and silent. Flow Control was active, making my mana circulate internally without leaking into the environment. I was a black hole on their supernatural radar. Or at least, I hoped I was.
I got close enough to hear voices.
"...you can't play if you can't control yourself!" Stiles hissed. "Look at your hand, Scott! You have claws! Claws don't hold sticks, claws rip throats!"
Scott looked at his own hands, trembling.
"I can't stop it..." he stammered, his voice raspy, almost a growl. "It hurts."
Derek watched, impassive. He tossed a lacrosse ball in Scott's direction.
"Catch."
Scott tried to catch it. The claws tore the glove.
"Again," Derek ordered, throwing another ball with inhuman force.
Scott grunted, the pain and anger rising. His red aura expanded, a wave of magical heat that made the surrounding grass wither slightly in my vision.
Stiles took a step back, scared.
"Derek, stop! You're gonna make him turn right here!"
"If he can't hold it back when he's angry, he dies on the full moon," Derek replied coldly.
He picked up another ball. This time, he didn't throw it. He hurled it.
It was too fast for a human to see, but Magic Vision isn't human.
To me, the white blur drew itself in slow motion. It wasn't just a rubber ball traveling at a hundred and fifty kilometers per hour; it was a vector of killing intent wrapped in residual mana.
I saw the exact moment Scott's instinct overrode his panic.
His aura, which was previously a disordered explosion of red and gold, collapsed into a single point of focus. There was no calculation. There was no geometry. There was only necessity.
CRACK.
The sound snapped like a whip.
Scott didn't just catch the ball. He stopped it with such violence that his lacrosse glove burst, leather and netting yielding under the pressure of claws that punctured the gear.
He was crouched, panting, arm extended. When he lifted his face, his eyes weren't brown. They were two beacons of liquid gold, shining with a ferocity that made the air vibrate.
Stiles let out a stifled squeak and backed away, tripping over his own feet.
I held my breath behind the bleachers, forcing my own mana to compact. Presence Suppression. I needed to be nothing more than an inanimate object to the sharpened senses of an Alpha and a turned Beta.
Derek didn't smile. He didn't even blink. He just relaxed his stance, as if he had proven his point.
"If you do that in the game," Derek's voice cut the silence, cold and low, "you kill someone."
Scott looked at his own hand, where the claws were still dug into the remains of the glove. The golden glow in his eyes wavered, fighting against the human fear surfacing again.
"I... I can't control it," Scott whispered, voice trembling. "It's too strong."
Derek took a step forward. His aura, that dense and sad blue, expanded slightly, enough to stifle Scott's wild aura. It was pure dominance.
"Then learn," Derek said, turning his back. "Or the Alpha will teach you. And his class involves bodies, not rubber balls."
"Wait!" Stiles shouted, regaining his courage (or stupidity). "What Alpha? Who is he? You can't just drop a bomb and walk away, dude!"
Derek stopped for a second but didn't turn around.
"This sport isn't for you. If you play, Scott... he will know. He will smell it."
And with that, Derek walked toward the edge of the woods. The fog seemed to part for him and swallow him immediately after. In seconds, his physical and magical presence vanished completely.
Scott fell to his knees on the grass, ripping the destroyed glove off his hand. The claws retracted, leaving behind trembling, human fingers.
"That was... intense," Stiles murmured, running a hand through his buzz cut. "Like, horror movie level intense. You okay?"
"No," Scott replied, throwing the ball away in anger. "I'm screwed, Stiles. If I play, I kill someone. If I don't play, I lose the only good thing that's happened in my life."
I watched the two of them as they gathered their things, defeated, and walked back to the locker room.
Only when I was sure they were far enough away did I let out the air trapped in my lungs.
I stepped out from behind the metal structure, my eyes fixed on the spot where Scott had caught the ball.
"Flow," I murmured, my mind racing.
I was trying to understand Salt magic like an engineer. Geometry. Structure. Compression.
But what I just saw had no logical structure. Scott used anger and fear as fuel. His mana didn't follow straight lines; it exploded in response to raw emotion.
Derek didn't use spells. He used intention.
I looked at my right hand.
I closed my eyes and, instead of visualizing a perfect cube or triangle, I tried to recall the sensation of driving the Charger at full speed. The adrenaline. The subtle fear of crashing. The euphoria.
I pulled mana from my core, but I didn't order it around. I let it follow the emotion.
Heat.
I felt my hand tingle. When I opened my eyes, there wasn't a geometric design. There was a slight distortion in the air around my fingers, like hot asphalt on a summer day. The mana was vibrating, unstable, but alive in a way my perfect cubes never were.
In the corner of my vision, the pseudo-system blinked.
[Magic Vision Upgraded! (Level 2 -> Level 3)]
It didn't open the sixth page. But the edge of it lifted, revealing a single glowing word before closing again:
Resonance.
A slow smile formed on my face.
"I get it," I whispered to the empty field. "It's not about controlling the river. It's about learning to swim in it."
I adjusted my backpack. The day had barely started, and I already had a vital clue.
The bell for the start of classes rang, shrill and mundane, breaking the mystical atmosphere.
I walked toward the main building. I had Economics now. And ironically, sitting in a classroom pretending to be normal seemed like the perfect disguise to process what I had just learned.
[...]
Mr. Stocker's Economics classroom was a beige purgatory smelling of chalk and boredom. The monotone sound of his voice explaining "Supply and Demand Curves" worked as a lullaby for thirty teenagers.
I was sitting in the last row, in the strategic corner where the curtain's shadow partially covered me.
On the desk, the "Principles of Economics" textbook was open to page 42. But, nestled discreetly inside it like a forbidden magazine, was the black-covered Grimoire.
Thanks to Magic Vision Level 3, I didn't even need to lean in. The text in the Grimoire, which previously looked like faded ink, now jumped out at my eyes with three-dimensional sharpness.
While pretending to take notes, I was analyzing the Resonance diagrams. The book explained that magic leaves traces. "Where the mage touches, he leaves a part of himself. Like a radioactive fingerprint."
I read that and frowned.
Suddenly, I felt movement in my peripheral vision.
Three rows ahead, Erica Reyes turned her head slightly—I think this was the only class we had together.
My eyes narrowed. I knew, from the original script, that Erica had a massive crush on Stiles around this time. Stiles was sitting in the row next to her, a bit further back.
But when I traced the line of her gaze, I realized she wasn't looking at the Sheriff's son.
Her gaze went right past him, crossed the space between the desks, and landed... on me.
Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. She blushed violently and turned forward.
I activated Magic Vision to check on her condition.
Her aura still had that sickly gray tone, but there was something different. Around her shoulders and at the base of her neck, where I had focused my energy yesterday in the library, there was a faint glow. Blue.
It was my mana. The residue of my intervention. I had left a signature on her without realizing it.
"Shit," I thought. "I marked her."
It was in that moment that the atmosphere of the room changed.
It didn't come from Erica. It came from outside.
My Magic Vision picked up a distortion creeping under the classroom door. It wasn't normal smoke. It was a thin, intelligent wisp of Red Mana, dark and viscous like coagulated blood.
It didn't float randomly. It entered the room like a bloodhound sniffing a trail.
It ignored Stiles. Ignored the teacher. Ignored the athletes.
It went straight for Erica.
But then I saw the detail that made my blood run cold. The red mana wasn't attacking her illness. It was attacking my blue trace.
"It's not a random attack," realization hit me like a punch. "It's bait. The mage felt my mana on her. He's using Erica to call me out."
The red smoke curled around Erica's neck and tightened.
The clash between the hostile mana and the residue of my mana caused a violent reaction in her unstable nervous system.
Erica let out a choked, terrible sound.
Her pen fell from her hand. Her body stiffened, her head thrown back violently.
"Miss Reyes?" Mr. Stocker called.
Her answer was falling out of her chair. Her body hit the floor with a dry thud, starting to convulse.
The room exploded into panic. Stiles jumped from his seat, knocking over his desk.
"Erica!" he shouted, kneeling beside her as she thrashed.
I was already moving.
Guilt burned in my chest hotter than any magic. I did this. I helped her, left my signature, and now someone is torturing her to see who shows up to save the day.
I snapped the Grimoire shut, tossed it into my backpack, and crossed the aisle.
In my Magic Vision, the scene was clear: the Red Mana was pulsing, sending a signal. It was a beacon. Come here. Show yourself.
"Back off!" I shouted, pushing my way through the students.
"Nate, don't touch her!" someone yelled.
I ignored it. I dropped to my knees opposite Stiles. He was holding her head, eyes wide with panic.
"She's not breathing, man! She's choking!" Stiles screamed at me.
I looked at the "infection." The red mana was laughing at me. If I used my magic now, I would confirm the enemy mage's suspicion. I would be saying "I am here."
But if I did nothing, the overload would kill Erica or fry her brain.
The choice was obvious.
"Hold her head, Stiles," I ordered, voice cold and focused.
I placed my hand over Erica's chest, exactly where the red stain was fighting with my blue residue.
You want to know who I am? I thought with anger, directing my intention at the invisible shadow watching from somewhere. Then take this.
I didn't use subtlety. I didn't use the Minor Cycle.
I released a pulse of pure mana.
Impact Resonance.
It was like slamming a hammer onto a glass table. My mana flooded Erica's body in an instant, not to heal, but to cleanse. I expelled everything. I expelled the invader's red mana and, painfully, burned away my own previous trace.
I erased the evidence and the threat in a single strike of brute force.
The red smoke was expelled through her pores and unraveled in the air, destroyed by the pressure of my aura.
Erica took a violent gasp of air, her lungs working again with a wheezing sound.
Her body relaxed instantly. The seizures stopped.
She opened her eyes, glazed, focusing straight on me. The magical connection between us had been severed, but the physical memory remained.
"Nate..." she whispered, barely moving her lips.
I pulled my hand back quickly.
The room was in absolute silence. Only the sound of Erica's irregular breathing filled the space.
I looked up and came face to face with Stiles.
He wasn't looking at Erica. He was looking at my hand, and then up to my face. His eyes, usually agitated and distracted, were sharp as razors.
Stiles Stilinski was the only human in this town who actually paid attention. And he had just seen Erica go from "almost dead" to "awake" the exact second I touched her.
"What..." Stiles started, voice low, almost a whisper so only I could hear. "What did you do to her?"
I stood up, wiping cold sweat from my forehead.
"First aid," I replied, forcing my voice to sound banal, even though my heart was racing. "Cleared the airways. The basics."
"That wasn't basics," Stiles shot back, narrowing his eyes. He looked at my hand again, as if expecting to see sparks coming off it.
The school paramedics entered the room at that moment, breaking the silent confrontation.
I took a step back, blending into the other students, but kept Magic Vision active.
I looked at the floor, searching for the trail of that black smoke.
It came from the hallway. And now that I had destroyed the probe, its owner knew two things:
First: the "mystery mage" was in the Economics classroom.
Second: he was strong enough to crush the attack effortlessly.
But I had also confirmed something. I grabbed my phone quickly and typed a message to my father.
'The dark mage is at the school.'
I clenched my fists inside my pockets. I had saved Erica, but I had just confirmed my presence on the enemy's radar.
The game of hide-and-seek was over, for both sides.