John Doe, freshman at Sorcery school.

Hello there, everyone, Orange here. So, Mr Gfoxx gave me the greenlight to pop in and write here, and like a weed, sprout! Here I am. I personally think this story has got some great potential, so I will implore other writers with time on their hands to pipe in and WRITE SOMETHING! That said, I should have my AMA chapter out in a day or two, so keep your hopes up.

This branch contains the usual themes you see in a smut story, plus a few varying elements, so move along and enjoy the read.

All over to you, Foxx2.

CHAPTER ONE

They all said this day will never come. Your Math teacher, Mr Hank said so, going as far to point out that your pencil had more talent in its tip than you do in your entire body. Your usually grumpy ol' Grandpa actually laughed at you and called you a birdbrain whose head is way up, beyond the clouds. Mr Fletcher, the storekeeper said the same thing and made a bet with you on it. Even your parents tried to discourage you as you were following through CalSorc evaluation for Sorcery affinity. They said no one in your entire family has ever been gifted with a Spell before. Well, there's a saying, it takes one to make difference. And true to those words, you stand here today, 100$ richer (from the bet) and resplendent in your CalSorc Institute For Sorcery uniform.

CalSorc Institute For Sorcery is a schooling program founded by the government to train young sorcerers and sorceresses in controlling their powers and maintaining a peaceful coexisting community. Admission into the school is given strictly by invitation and only people with notable magical prowess are likely to be accepted. Like, if your Spell only allows you to talk to fish, well... at least, you have a school of fish to. It is not fair, but that is how life is.

Which means that when your Sorcery Grimoire arrived in your mail, along with a letter that formally states you have been invited to study in CIFS without you applying for such, you knew your Sorcery had to be special enough to warrant such an attention from the school, though you haven't had the time to check the magical pamphlet for which ability you possess. The excitement and celebration in your house was just that much. Well, haters, how about that? You can bet Mr. Fletcher is busy sulking in his store right about now.

You can't confess to be wholly excited about the whole thing, although your parents would beg to differ as they are lighted up with so much energy that you have to avert your eyes lest you go blind. Your uncertainty is understandable. You are leaving home for the first time ever, venturing into a unknown world and that much, would overwhelm anyone. Oh well, it's like your grandpa always say, you have to milk the worst for the best of it.

The train whistle blows.

You quickly grab both your bags and push through the crowd of parents, noisy students, and various relatives and hangers-on to the forefront. Your mother helpfully flags down a porter for your luggage. You are caught by surprise when your parents suddenly pulls you into a tight hug.

"Be good, son." Your father whisper.

Being affectionate in a public scene isn't really your thing, but you bury yourself in the hug and to memory, you commit; the smell of your father's familiar cinnamon-scented cologne and the scratch of your mother's favorite cardigan. Your eyes stings as you disengage from them but you valiantly keep the waterworks from flowing.

"All aboard!" shouts a guard from the end of the platform.

You heed and embark the train. In the carriage, students are pushing, waving, and yelling. You squeeze past the porters who are strapping down the luggage, and find yourself an empty compartment in which to settle while watching the sea of uniforms. Everyone is putting on ivory long-sleeved shirt and black tie; the boys in charcoal slacks, while the girls wear very short skirts of the same color, giving you a tantalizing view of their thighs as they walk past. You also notice that many of both are wearing dove-gray sweaters.

Through the window, your parents are waving, but you can hardly see them now amidst the crowd. With a screech of metal on metal, the train rumbles into motion, prompting everyone to take their seats. Now bored, you decide to review your grimoire, which you dig out of your pocket. It is a small booklet, printed on cheap paper. "John Doe's Personalized Sorcery Grimoire", the front proclaimed proudly in papyrus font.

You open the tome, eager to find the kind of Spell you have.