The training hall looked different in the context of magic.
Same high ceilings. Same stone walls. Same weapons mounted in neat rows that Shin'ya was no longer allowed to touch unsupervised. But Yuki had cleared a wider space in the center, and the practice swords were set aside, and somehow that made the room feel both larger and more serious at the same time.
Shin'ya stood in the middle of it, arms at his sides, trying to look ready.
"First things first," Yuki said, standing a few paces away. "Magic isn't something you force. It's something you reach for. The element already exists around you, you're not creating it, you're calling it."
"Calling it."
"Yes."
"Like... verbally?"
"No. Not verbally."
"So just thinking at it."
Yuki's expression suggested this was not quite the right framing but that she lacked the patience to correct it fully.
"Extend your hand," she said. "Focus on warmth. Not heat, warmth. Something small. A candle flame, not a bonfire."
Shin'ya extended his hand.
He thought about warmth. About candles. About the small lamp on his desk back home that he always left on when he studied late.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then, a flicker. Barely visible. A small tongue of flame that appeared above his palm for exactly one second and then vanished.
He stared at his hand.
"Did I just–"
"Yes," Yuki said. "Fire. Basic level. Again."
---
They went through all seven.
Fire came first and came easily– small, controllable, gone as quickly as it appeared.
Water was harder. He kept thinking of oceans instead of streams and the scale kept getting away from him. After the third attempt produced a splash that soaked his left sleeve entirely, Yuki suggested he think smaller.
"A cup," she said.
"A cup," he repeated.
A small orb of water appeared above his palm. Wobbly. Slightly uneven. But there.
Earth took longer. The element felt stubborn, like it didn't particularly want to move for someone without roots in it. He managed to raise a small clump of dirt from the floor after several attempts, but it crumbled immediately.
"Adequate," Yuki said.
"That's generous."
"It wasn't."
Wind was interesting – it came almost without thinking. He reached for it and it was just there, a small current wrapping around his fingers before he'd fully decided to try. He noted that but didn't say anything.
Electric felt sharp and impatient, like it wanted to move faster than he could direct it. The first attempt produced a small static spark. The second produced a larger one that jumped sideways and hit the wall.
"Away from me," Yuki said flatly.
"It went away from you."
"Further."
Light was strange. It came reluctantly, like something he was borrowing rather than calling. A faint glow above his palm that lasted a few seconds before fading entirely.
And Shadow–
Shadow was the easiest of all.
He didn't even have to think about it. He reached and it was already there– familiar, almost instinctive, like reaching for something he'd always known how to hold. A dark tendril curled around his fingers without any effort at all, responding before he'd finished the intention.
He looked at it for a moment longer than he needed to.
"Shadow responds to you naturally," Yuki observed.
"Yeah," Shin'ya said. "I noticed."
He didn't know why. He filed it away.
---
They practiced for what felt like hours.
And then more hours.
And then more hours after that.
Shin'ya's arms ached from weapon training. His head had begun to ache from the sustained focus magic required. His legs ached from standing. His back ached from the number of times he'd instinctively braced himself when something went sideways.
He was, in every measurable sense, completely done.
He looked up at the windows.
The light coming through them was almost identical to what it had been when they started.
He stared at it.
"Why," he said slowly, "has the sky not moved."
Yuki looked up briefly. "It has."
"It has not."
"It's moved approximately twelve degrees."
"Twelve– how long have we been in here?"
"Approximately fifteen hours."
Shin'ya turned to look at her.
"Fifteen hours."
"Yes."
"We have been training for fifteen hours."
"Yes."
"And the sun has moved twelve degrees."
"Roughly."
He looked back at the window. Then at Yuki. Then at the window again.
"WHY IS THE DAY SO LONG."
Yuki's expression didn't change. "Because it is."
"THAT'S NOT AN ANSWER. THE SUN HAS BARELY MOVED. I HAVE BEEN AWAKE FOR WHAT FEELS LIKE THREE DAYS AND IT'S STILL AFTERNOON–"
"It's early evening, actually."
"IT'S THE SAME COLOR AS NOON."
"The light shifts gradually here. It's subtle."
Shin'ya stared at the window for another moment. Then he turned to Yuki with the expression of someone who needed a real answer immediately.
"How long," he said very carefully, "is a full day here."
Yuki considered whether this information was going to be a problem.
"Seventy-two hours," she said.
Silence.
Shin'ya's face did something complicated.
"Seventy," he repeated.
"Two," she confirmed.
"Seventy-two hours."
"Yes."
"Three days."
"One day. Seventy-two hours."
"THAT'S THREE DAYS."
"It's one day here."
Shin'ya felt something leave his body. Not dramatically – not a collapse or a gasp. Just a quiet departure, like his soul had decided to take a brief walk outside and would return when it felt ready.
He sat down on the floor.
Yuki watched him.
"You'll adjust," she said.
"Will I."
"Most people do."
"Most people are from here."
She didn't have an answer for that one.
---
They stopped for the day eventually – or what counted as eventually in a world where eventually could mean thirty hours from now.
Shin'ya ate something Yuki had arranged to be brought to the training hall, and it was good, and he was grateful, and he was still thinking about seventy-two hours.
By the time the light outside had finally, genuinely begun to shift toward something resembling dusk – only about twenty hours later than it should have – he was horizontal on a simple bed in a guest room somewhere in the castle, staring at the ceiling.
His body hurt in approximately eleven places.
His brain had mostly stopped working.
He then washed his face and took a small nap
---
To Be Continued