"Magic at it's purest essence is merely that alteration of the physical world controlled by one's will. If I lift up this ball and drop it on the floor, it is considered magic. My mind wished for the ball to be moved from the table and dropped back down to the floor. There is no difference between this simple act and the much more complex gravitational control of Newton's fourth spell. Magic, however mystified or obscured, is nothing more than simple will to perform an action. As proud students of Blackstone School for Magical Studies, I surely hope you keep this in mind. Oh and before we end class, I would like everyone to get their magic activation apparatuses calibrated at engineering. I don't want to see anyone overloading their systems during the field test tomorrow. Class dismissed" It was another day in Blackstone. Students rushed off from their classes. Some lingered to chat, others were showing off their skills in fantastical display of gravitational control or electric fireworks. Professors looked on with disapproval. Everything seemed normal except for one particular person. He overlooked the school from one of the taller buildings. It was large Victorian structure called, "The Clocktower," by the students and staff, although it had no clock at all. There was just a mysterious circle somehow burned onto one of the sides that resembled a clock. Everyone thought it was caused by accidental display of heat control, but the professors knew it to be something else. The man was as still as a statue. His eyes were closed, and his head was tilted as if he was trying to hear something off in the distance. After a few long moments, he seemed to have found what he was listening for. His eyes open to reveal violet eyes that seem to glint with a strange radiance. He merely let go and fell off the tower. There was no sound of crushed bones or organs being splattered across pavement, only a single feather dancing in the wind.