[Act IV: THE ONE]

"Ah!"

With a sharp gasp, Blackie jerked awake, a cold sweat beading at her temples, as if clawing her way out of an abyssal nightmare. She blinked dry, stinging eyes. Her throat felt parched and tasted faintly of copper—was that from screaming in the dream? Or...?

Instinctively, she clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms, using the sting to anchor herself.

Her vision slowly focused, but the world before her seemed distorted, like looking through rippling water.

She was still at the train station. Still slumped on that bench. The ticket seller's muffled calls, the distant roar of an engine starting... all sounds felt distant, wrapped in thick cotton wool.

I must be sick... she murmured to herself, her voice feather-light, heavy with exhaustion and a thread of self-mockery. To dream something so... horrifying.

Just then, the slanting light of dusk washed over her, as if someone had gently brushed the horizon's clouds with gold.

She looked up at the sky, an absurd sense of relief washing over her – it was late. The sun was sinking low, casting long, forgotten-line shadows.

"Guess that officer really was messing with me," she scoffed softly to the air, releasing a long breath. She stood slowly, brushing the dust from her jeans, ready to leave.

But her lifted foot hovered mid-air, as if held by an invisible tether. After a moment's hesitation, she lowered it again and sank back onto the bench.

Leaning against the backrest, she let the twilight light fall on her weary face. For this moment, she allowed herself to stop. To breathe.

[She wasn't in such a hurry to leave after all.]

"Never mind..." she whispered, the words so light they might blow away. "I'll wait a bit longer."

[Life's turning points are like subway transfers; they just require patience for the next train.]

It was then that the deep, resonant hum of the tracks exploded into sound.

A trail of cyan-blue mana light flared into existence from the void—dimensional magic! A deep green train, streaked with rust, seemed pushed into reality by an invisible hand. Warm yellow light glowed simultaneously from all sixteen windows.

A rotund figure tumbled out of the sliding door, his polished scalp catching the moonlight. "Made it... just made it—!"

"Just made it!" A middle-aged man panted, wiping his gleaming forehead as he scurried towards Blackie, a briefcase clamped under his arm. Parchment scrolls spilled from it like ancient secrets scattered by the wind.

"Who are you?" Blackie bent to pick up the nearest scroll. As her fingertips brushed the parchment's edge, the owl emblem on its wax seal suddenly whirled, ruby-red eyes blinking.

The owl imprint opened its beak, clamped onto her pinky finger, and gave a sharp peck, leaving a shallow crescent moon mark.

"Tch— didn't even hurt..."

She flicked her hand lazily, letting the "daft bird" dangle from her finger, her expression bored, as if it were nothing more than a mosquito bite.

"Don't! That's a living anti-counterfeit charm!"

the man yelped, frantically shoving scrolls back into his briefcase like a turkey tossed into a spice rack, limbs flailing.

"Who—are—you?"

Blackie leaned forward slightly, repeating the question, her gaze a mix of wariness (three parts) and curiosity (seven parts).

"Allow me to introduce myself! Special Envoy from the Magic Academy—Alen Miro! Call me Professor Miro!"

The man's voice brimmed with irrepressible energy, bright as if he'd just spun through sunshine.

"Apologies for the delay, haha! Blame the Ethics Committee fossils. Had to prove the train's lavatory teleport wouldn't accidentally deposit a living soul into a septic tank..."

"You're... here for me?" Blackie asked hesitantly, her eyes darting between Professor Miro and the scroll still writhing faintly on the ground.

"Exactly! Sorry for the abrupt dimensional train summon—startled you, didn't it? But this old bucket won't stay put long. You hear her groaning and clanking! Hop on board, I'll explain everything inside." Professor Miro gestured enthusiastically towards the carriage.

If it's a kidnapper, he's going to absurd lengths. Blackie thought wryly.

She followed him inside. The metal threshold, inlaid with dark gold runes, rippled like disturbed water as she stepped over it. Warm air, scented with cedar, brushed past her ears.

The carpet beneath her feet suddenly surged in wave-like patterns, propelling her stumblingly into a plush velvet seat.

"Living magi-fibers. Ownership recognition." Professor Miro squeezed his bulk into the seat opposite. The furniture groaned in protest.

Blackie rubbed her thumb over the heated rune on the armrest. The fine leather retained a scorching warmth. The dark gold patterns seemed to pulse faintly under her touch, like the arched backs of disturbed, slumbering serpents.

"Ancient script, drawn with powdered whalebone. Mostly for temperature control," Professor Miro explained, rummaging in his briefcase for a white paper folder.

His checked waistcoat strained over his belly, his tie askew at a 45-degree angle, resembling a Christmas present mauled by an overeager child.

"I'm guessing the topic..." Blackie toyed with the crystal ball perched on the oak table before her, a hint of dry amusement in her voice, "...is my magic?"

Suddenly, the balding man seized her wrist. His eyes, bright with alarming intensity, reminded her of a collector unearthing a limited-edition figurine in a junk pile: "D'you know? Your magical residue blew up three crystal balls in the alchemy lab! We finally stabilized it using a dragon-lizard's stomach lining!"

"That pickup line would make students cry in a bar..." Blackie snatched her hand back as if shocked, momentarily speechless. Yet, his fervor wasn't off-putting. And it certainly wasn't the worst opener she'd heard—definitely better than the weirdo in the cafeteria who'd pressed a compass to her forehead asking, 'Classmate, is your star sign Capricorn?' while checking for a 'magnetic field'.

Professor Miro smacked his gleaming forehead, making the three defiant silver hairs atop it quiver. "Look at me, jumping ahead!" He shook out a half-meter-long parchment scroll from the folder. Faded yellow, it bore intricate black tracings. "This is your mana signature! Look at those perfect resonance waves! Nearly blew the roof off, but your magical affinity..." His voice was cut off.

"Speaking of which," Blackie interrupted softly, her fingertip tracing a vortex-like black swirl on the chart—lines that seemed to embody years of pent-up frustration, "if I've always had this magic... why have I never felt it?"

"Excellent question! We burned the midnight oil for days! Final conclusion—" Professor Miro slapped the mana chart flat on the table, "—your mana is thick as honey! You can only tap into it with intense, frequent training, or under extreme duress! Otherwise, it just... sleeps!"

"Lazy little sleeper. Takes after me," Blackie quipped offhand.

"You know paint, right? When you mix all the colors together, what do you usually get?"

"Um... black?"

"Exactly! But when you pour every magical pigment into the crucible—guess what you get?"

"Probably not a Rainbow Pony," Blackie teased.

"Chaos! The Abyss!" Professor Miro slammed the oak table, making the crystal ball roll on its velvet cushion. He leaned forward, hands braced, his voice rising withexcitement. "Your magic lit up every detector we have like Christmas trees!"

"Christmas trees are marginally better than Rainbow Ponies..." Blackie decided to ride the wave of his chaotic thinking.

"Better than Christmas trees! Your magic resonates with practically every element! Not just elements! It reacts to other magic types! That means you might have the potential to learn nearly every known spell! It's unprecedented! Utterly unique!"

"You're saying... no one has ever been like me?"

"Correct! Your magic is an entirely new classification! After an emergency session, the school board has voted to name this new magic—"

"Couldn't possibly sound worse than 'Blackie'."

"Blacklist!" Professor Miro announced triumphantly.

"Hold up, hold up!" Blackie pressed a finger against his forehead, which was getting dangerously close. "What did you just call my magic?"

"Blacklist! The Envoy wielding Primal Darkness!" He waved his arms excitedly.

"Where I'm from, 'Blacklist' usually describes troublemakers," Blackie groaned, covering her face.

"Better than that! You could be—"

Suddenly, his expression turned serious. He placed both hands firmly on her shoulders. "You could be The One."

"The One?"

"Exactly! The One! The first Omni-Mage in history! Join our academy now, and you'll receive personal guidance from legendary spellcasters!" He thumped his chest emphatically. "Top-tier mentors like yours truly!"

The entire carriage obligingly erupted with golden streamers. Blackie calmly picked a stray glitter fleck off her collarbone, a faint smile touching her lips. "Back home, that pitch sounds like a pyramid scheme recruiting."

Professor Miro seized the moment, slapping the enrollment contract onto the wooden table. A tiny piece of pizza cheese clung stubbornly to one corner of the parchment. "Sign here, and you get a private room at our pyramid sche— I mean, at our most prestigious magical academy!"

"Did you just say pyramid sche—"

"Details, details! Sign and you're family!" He shoved a leaky peacock-feather quill into her hand. "Bonus perk—enroll now, and you get a surprise gift handpicked by the academy!"

He abruptly stopped talking. From seemingly nowhere, he produced a miniature crystal ball. Inside, a tiny dragon-lizard was frantically running in circles, spewing rainbow-colored... something.

Blackie pushed the hovering crystal ball away from her face, her eyes fixed on Professor Miro's flushed, slightly sweaty face. She seemed to space out for nearly two seconds of silence. Then, a soft chuckle escaped her.

"Alright. Count me in."

"Brilliant!" Professor Miro clapped his hands, delighted. "Paperwork's mostly done! Just need your signature! Though..." He scratched his head, looking suddenly hesitant, sneaking a glance at the girl now looking over the documents.

"Are you still planning to go by... 'Blackie'?"

When a stray cat finds a home, it stops being called the dumpster diver. A flicker of resignation crossed her face.

"If you wish, you can choose a new name. This record is fresh," Professor Miro offered gently, maintaining careful boundaries with this sensitive topic.

The girl gazed out the window at the passing wilderness. The reflection labeled 'Blackie' in the glass seemed to fade.

"Then call me Ellis."

"Vane?" Professor Miro echoed, puzzled.

"No reason. I just like the sound of it."

The girl grinned, a flash of youthful mischief appearing in her right cheek where a small canine tooth pressed against her skin. It was like a cherry blossom meeting a dew-kissed peach petal at dawn – effortlessly vivid.

Professor Miro blinked, momentarily stunned by her smile. This girl, who had seemed so reserved, almost cold, now shone with a brightness that swept away the shadows, her smile holding the full radiance of spring.

"Haha, I like it! And the family name?" he recovered quickly, leaning forward.

"Take my mother's surname, Vane. So call me... Ellis Vane." She reached for the peacock feather quill. Its tip trailed starlight through the twilight as she moved it towards the parchment.

Alen Miro watched the figure poised over the ancient paper. This girl who had grown for eighteen years in the shadows now dipped her quill. Like a candle flame flickering just before catching fully, she pressed the tip down onto the contract's blank line, etching the first mark that was truly, irrevocably her own:

E·l·l·i·s V·a·n·e.