Time lost all meaning in the oppressive silence of the chamber. Indra remained kneeling, his arms wrapped around the cat as if it were the only anchor in a sea of cosmic terror. The feline's low, constant purr was a tangible mantra, a focal point that kept him from being completely consumed by the echo of that abyssal presence and the terrifying promise imprinted on his soul.
"When you master this, I will repay my debt."
Those words, felt more than heard, burned within him. But paradoxically, it was that very terror that ignited a cold, determined flame in his core. Fear transformed into fuel. Powerlessness hardened into a silent oath.
He never wanted to feel that way again. Never again. He would become strong. So strong that not even an Abyssal Corrupted would be a threat. He would transcend everything. Humans, monsters, the Other Side itself. He would master himself, his energy, and the destiny that now seemed to be closing in on him.
With a deep sigh that echoed in the silent chamber, Indra stood up. His knees still trembled slightly, but his posture was firm. He stroked the cat's head, which looked at him with its pink eyes, now bearing a serious and incomprehensible expression.
"Thank you." — Indra whispered, his voice hoarse. The cat rubbed its head against his chin in response.
His attention then turned to the only object in the room that didn't emanate pure malice or despair: the dark wooden writing desk. It was a point of sanity amidst the chaos. And on it rested an untitled book.
Curiosity overcame caution. Whoever had built this place, sealed that creature, and left that book behind had a story to tell. And Indra desperately needed answers.
He approached, his shoes making a muffled sound on the stone floor. The book was bound in dark leather, worn by time but well-preserved. There was no title, no author on the cover. With an instinctive reverence, he opened it.
The first page confirmed his immediate suspicion. It was written in the Universal Language, an idiom everyone learned, designed to transcend cultural barriers. Whoever wrote it wanted it to be read.
It was a diary. The entries were short, direct, written by a firm, confident hand.
September 15, 1591
"Today I visited the Islands of Death. The Onis who live there are neutral, but it seems to me they are beginning to grow hostile to the Esoteric Society—well, that makes sense considering the Society is trying to mine all the precious stones they possess. It's obvious that at some point they would tire of all this exploitation."
Indra raised an eyebrow. The Onis were a race inhabiting the Realm of Phenomena. The entry painted a picture of the Esoteric Society he didn't know: expansionist, exploitative.
January 5, 1592
"I spent the new year in the Silent Citadel. It's a wonderful place, I can understand why some Paranormals choose to live there."
August 12, 1592
"Some Mages in the Esoteric Society are seeking independence; they decided to found an organization called the 'Magic Tower.' I, as one of the Seven Mage Kings, was invited to join, but I refused. The Esoteric Society is trying to make a deal with them; I want to help however I can. I don't want to see any more innocents dying."
Indra almost dropped the book. Seven Mage Kings? He knew the Magic Tower was a powerful, independent faction, but he didn't know its origins lay in a schism within the Esoteric Society itself. And the author... was one of the original Mage Kings? His refusal suggested a man of principles, weary of conflict.
July 22, 1594
"Encouraged by the Magic Tower's attitudes, some other Paranormals decided to band together to form the 'Adventurers' Guild.' From what I've heard, the Esoteric Society will deal with them the same way they dealt with the Magic Tower. Well. That must be exactly why they decided to join forces in the first place."
The Adventurers' Guild was also born from dissent. The image of the Esoteric Society as a monolithic, benevolent entity began to crack on the diary's pages.
October 1, 1597
"The situation in the Esoteric Society is not good at all. The Magic Tower and the Adventurers' Guild are helping the Esoteric Society a lot, but I've been hearing more and more rumors about people wanting to stage a coup d'état in the Society. I hope they are just rumors."
December 20, 1597
"The rumors about the coup d'état in the Esoteric Society are true. A great friend of mine called me to join the cause, but I refused. The Esoteric Society has its flaws, but I don't intend to carry out a massacre for empty ideals. Apparently, the next time we meet, we will be enemies."
Tension overflowed from the pages. The author was being dragged into a conflict he didn't want, forced to choose between loyalty and friendship.
February 10, 1600
"The coup d'état in the Esoteric Society failed, but it came very close to success. Surprisingly, the attempt was carried out by only four individuals. All of them managed to escape; I will probably never see any of them again. It's a pity; we really were great friends."
Four people. They almost toppled the giant Esoteric Society. The seed of a legend was born there.
April 17, 1602
"The individuals who attempted the coup d'état are being called the 'Four Immortals.' No one knows where they are or what they are doing, but the Esoteric Society is taking future measures to prevent other rebellions from starting. They are recruiting people to create a 'Hall of Punishment.'
The Four Immortals. The name sounded heavy, laden with power and mystery. And the Hall of Punishment, that was the original name of the Hall of Justice... Indra felt a chill down his spine. He knew this organization. They were the dark, feared enforcers of the Society.
May 14, 1605
"The Sword Master of the Four Immortals came to me. He entrusted me with a notebook containing an Elven Sword Dance. He told me he had improved the technique and asked me to hide it in that place. He also told me things I hope are not true. Perhaps this world hides darkness darker than I imagined."
Indra held his breath. The Sword Master. The creator of the technique he had found. The one who refined the Sword Dance. And he told the author "things." What horrible secrets were these?
June 6, 1610
The handwriting here was different—faster,more angular, as if written under great stress. "It was all true. Everything the Sword Master said was right. Unfortunately, I cannot change things now. If I had known this before, I would certainly have joined the Four Immortals. But there is no room for lamentations. I did as the Sword Master asked. I engraved the Elven Sword Dance in a cave in a forest near the domains of the Esoteric Society. Unfortunately, I found out they are planning to build some kind of Academy near the forest and use it to educate young Paranormals. I will do everything in my power to ensure no one but 'that person' discovers the Sword Dance. But I will leave a warning: if you have learned the Sword Dance and are reading this, you are cursed, condemned to a miserable fate. I will not tell you the truth, but when you discover it, you will hate all of us."
Indra felt the floor give way beneath his metaphorical feet. The air left his lungs. The cave. His cave. The Academy. His academy. The Sword Dance. His technique. Everything was connected. Everything was part of a larger plan, a web into which he had fallen unwittingly.
And then, the final signature. A strong, decisive handwriting, below the last, dark entry:
Salazar Vallencourt.
The name echoed in Indra's mind. Vallencourt. The forest. The family that gave this place its name. The author wasn't just a powerful Mage King. He was the Vallencourt.
And the last line of the book, written separately, like a final postscript:
"Take and accept your cursed Fate."
His heart beat hard against his ribs. His hands trembled slightly. Cursed. A miserable fate. The truth that would make him hate everyone.
The silence of the underground chamber was now a different weight. No longer laden with the terrifying presence of the Abyssal Corrupted, but by the echo of Salazar Vallencourt's final words and the heavy burden of newly acquired knowledge. Indra stood still for a moment, the image of the empty, torn sarcophagus burning in his retinas. He had freed something. Something even a powerful Mage King had feared enough to seal.
His attention returned to the writing desk. The drawer, now slightly ajar, seemed to invite him to the next—and perhaps last—secret this place held.
With a hand that insisted on trembling slightly, he pulled the drawer open completely. Inside, resting on a piece of black velvet that had faded with time, was a notebook. Its cover wasn't leather, but dark, smooth wood, so dense it felt like metal. On it, words were carved with a precision bordering on the supernatural, forming a sentence that was both a name and a declaration of power:
Sword Shakes Dimensions.
Indra picked up the notebook. It was surprisingly light, considering the cover material. As he opened it, a new wave of strangeness hit him. The pages weren't paper. They were made of an ultra-thin, slightly textured material he recognized as treated hides of Other Side Creatures, each slightly different in color and tone, bound by a black thread that seemed to vibrate with subtle energy. The ink used for the writings and diagrams was a deep, opaque black, but with a sullen red gleam when hit by the blue light of the candelabras. He had no doubt: it was blood. Blood of something powerful, used as ink to preserve forbidden knowledge.
On the first page, an aggressive, confident handwriting, completely different from Vallencourt's, dominated the parchment:
"If these words find your eyes, know that destiny, however tortuous, has guided you here. I am Czech Tzigane, the Sword Master of those they call the Four Immortals."
Indra held his breath. The very author of the improved technique. The legend was taking shape.
"The man who guarded this knowledge, Vallencourt, is a noble fool, but with a heart less corrupt than most. He acted out of fear, not malice. Now, listen to me, unwilling heir: the seal you broke did not guard a mere Other Side Creature. That was a Realm Ruler. An ancient entity that does not belong to this plane, whose power transcends simple categorization by cores and classes. Freeing it was a mistake of unpredictable consequences. Its debt to you is real, but the price of its freedom may be paid with the blood of worlds."
Realm Ruler. The term echoed in Indra's empty mind. It wasn't in any of the Academy's manuals. It was a concept beyond his knowledge, a deeper, darker layer of reality he was only beginning to scratch. A cold feeling of guilt and dread gripped him. He had freed something that not even the Four Immortals, in their rebellion, perhaps fully understood. But, as Tzigane's own words implied, it was too late for regrets. The mistake was made. The entity was loose, and its promise—or threat—looming over Indra.
He forced himself to take a deep breath, channeling the calm of the Silent Heart of the Inner Vortex. Worries for the future. Now, he needed power.
Flipping through the following pages, he found a concise introduction to the philosophy behind the Sword Dance, but it quickly gave way to the real treasure: a meticulously detailed step-by-step guide to the technique Tzigane had named Sword Shakes Dimensions.
It was astounding. Each movement of the original 48 Elven Sword Dance was not only illustrated with anatomical precision but also accompanied by complex diagrams showing the necessary Energy flow, the exact angles that defied conventional physics, and marginal notes explaining the reason for every micro-adjustment. Tzigane hadn't just copied the technique; he had deconstructed it, understood its fundamental principles, and rebuilt it to be more efficient, more powerful. He explained how certain movements, when executed with a specific intent and a precise pulse of Energy, could not only cut flesh but could tear momentary breaches in the fabric of reality—shaking dimensions, as the name suggested.
It was a master's guide for a disciple. A disciple he would never know, but for whom he left his greatest work.
Indra closed the notebook, his heart pounding with excitement mixed with apprehension. This knowledge was dangerous. It was revolutionary. It was exactly what he needed.
He stored Vallencourt's diary and Tzigane's precious guide inside his Dimensional Ring, where they would rest beside the Dormant Terror's cores—symbols of his recent past and his uncertain future.
Before turning to leave, his gaze was captured once more by the black stone monolith. The distorted, angular runes now seemed to make sense, not through reading, but through an intuitive understanding that arose in his mind, like an echo of the knowledge he had just acquired. He could understand it.
"The Sage was wrong." the inscription began, each word laden with a bitter weight. "The Pillars knew the truth. The Mages recoiled in their insignificance. And the Immortals ascended to godhood." —Salazar Vallencourt
The message was cryptic, a fragment of a much larger discussion or revelation. Who was the Sage? What Pillars? What truth was this that the Mages—perhaps the Magic Tower itself—recoiled from? And the Immortals... ascended to godhood? The Four Immortals? Was it a blasphemous statement or a literal fact?
Indra didn't have time to decipher that puzzle. But it was important. He raised his wrist and used the smartwatch to take several clear photos of the inscription, capturing every detail of the runes. Sophie, or someone with more knowledge, might help him interpret it.
A quick glance at his watch made him jump with anxiety. 11:30.
Half an hour. He had only half an hour to cross what remained of the Vallencourt Forest and reach the Clock Tower, the final meeting point. Being disqualified after all he'd been through—surviving a Dormant Terror, a Silver Storm, and an encounter with a Realm Ruler—would be the cruelest of ironies.
There wasn't a second to lose.
He did a quick mental check: the Dimensional Ring was secure, the notebooks stored, the cores intact. He looked at the cat, which watched everything with infinite patience.
"It's time to go," Indra said, his voice firm.
The cat meowed in agreement and jumped onto his shoulders, nestling into its familiar post.
With a last look at the sealed chamber—at the violated sarcophagus, the empty desk, the silent monolith—Indra turned and began to climb the stone staircase.
The ascent was faster than the descent, driven by urgency. The darkness was still oppressive, but his Energy Sense, now focused on finding the path and not detecting threats, guided him safely. The daylight, filtered by the waterfall, seemed to explode in his eyes as he emerged from the underground entrance.
He didn't stop to look back. Running with the enhanced agility of a Graduate, his body a machine of perfectly tuned muscles and Qi, he cut through the forest. The obstacles that had once slowed him down—branches, roots, uneven terrain—were now overcome with ease. The cat held on firmly to his shoulders, a silent, unperturbed passenger.
The Vallencourt Forest, once a labyrinth of dangers, was now just a backdrop. His mind was no longer on imminent dangers, but on the future. On Tzigane's notebook. On the Realm Ruler's debt. On Vallencourt's curse. And on the inscription on the monolith.
The Practical Exam was ending. But for Indra, the true lesson—and the true test—had only just begun. He was running not just to reach the Clock Tower, but toward a destiny that was becoming more complex and dangerous with every step.