Louis forced his eyes open, the world blurring back into shape. Pain throbbed deep in his chest, every breath dragging fire through his ribs.
"Are you okay?"
The voice was gentle—female. For a moment he couldn't place it. His vision swam, shapes shifting, refusing to settle. He couldn't move, couldn't even lift his head.
"Teacher, what are you really doing? You almost killed him."
Another voice. Sharper. Closer.
Killed?
Fragments of memory rushed back like broken glass. The gate. The blinding light bursting from the Academy's seal. The crushing impact. The taste of blood flooding his mouth. And through it all, that figure… the same one now standing just out of focus.
"Ergh…" He coughed, forcing himself upright. His vision cleared enough to see the one kneeling beside him.
"Louis!" Vey's face swam into focus. Her emerald eyes were tight with worry. "Are you okay? Your chest—"
He looked down. His shirt was torn, a faint scar slashing across his skin. A scar. His breath caught. But… I heal. Always. How…?
"You took real damage," Vey said quietly. Her voice carried something rare for her—hesitation. "Your ability handled most of it. But this wound was different. It left a mark."
Louis blinked. She sounds… guilty?
For a heartbeat, her proud mask slipped, and Louis felt something twist inside him. Then she caught his stare and scowled.
"Don't misunderstand, idiot," she snapped, cheeks faintly red. "I just… feel guilty I wasn't beside you when it happened. Nothing more."
Louis chuckled weakly, trying to ease the tension. "Hey, are you sure you can't read my mind? You're scarily good at answering thoughts I don't say."
Before he could stop himself, his hand reached out and—pat, pat—landed lightly on her head.
For exactly one second, Vey froze. Her face flushed a bright crimson—before a blade flashed to Louis's throat.
"Put. Your. Hands. Down," Dima growled, his sword pressing cold steel against Louis's skin. His blue eyes narrowed like ice shards. "You dare touch the head of Belgari? You're not worthy."
Louis raised both hands slowly, sighing. "Okay, okay, my bad. Sheath the royal pride-stick already, your highness." His tone was casual, but his pulse hammered. Dima was still terrifying… yet somehow, Louis found himself less afraid now. Maybe because after nearly dying, nothing else compared.
Vey stepped back quickly, trying to hide her flushed cheeks. "Idiot," she muttered, too soft for anyone but Louis to hear.
Louis almost smiled. Tsundere princess, huh?
He pushed himself fully upright, wincing. "So… what actually happ—"
A deep voice cut him off.
"What is your family name?"
Louis turned.
The figure from the gate stood there, tall and imposing. He was broader than Dima, close to one ninety, his build sharp as carved stone. Pale skin and blond hair framed a face that seemed both regal and weathered, and behind him—faint but unmistakable—two golden wings shimmered like translucent fire. Not fully solid, more like echoes of something divine.
Louis's breath caught. His eyes were brown. Not icy blue, not green, not amber—brown.
"Aura…" Vey whispered, her usual confidence cracking. She shook her head quickly at Louis, signaling him to stay silent, to focus.
The man repeated, voice steady as granite. "Your family name."
Louis swallowed hard. "Chen."
The man studied him for a long moment. Then, quietly: "Hm. Then you truly don't know who you are."
"What?"
"The time will come, and you will know the truth."
Louis clenched his fists. "I don't care about riddles. Why did you attack me? You nearly killed me!" His voice cracked with anger.
The man's gaze was cold, his tone sharper than ice. "If I wanted to kill you, you would not be breathing. I only tested your limit. I wanted to see how far your healing could carry you."
Louis's jaw dropped. "Test?! I was bleeding out!"
"Enough," the man said. The weight of his voice froze the words in Louis's throat. But then, almost imperceptibly, his tone eased. "I will explain. Slowly. In time."
He turned, his presence filling the corridor like gravity itself. "Come. To my chamber. There you'll understand."
Louis staggered forward, still clutching his chest. "And who exactly are you?"
The man's eyes glinted. "Ceflico de Pricilius. For now… you are my disciple."
"What—"
"Stop asking," Ceflico interrupted firmly. His gaze swept the hall. "Follow me. You too, Vey. Dima. And you two in hiding."
Neo and Amara froze where they'd been lurking, then sheepishly stepped into view.
Amara gave Louis a wink as if to say busted. "Relax, Louis. If he wanted you dead, you'd already be a stain on the wall."
Louis exhaled, muttering under his breath, "Great. First I'm almost killed, now I'm adopted by a lunatic with ghost wings."
Still, when Ceflico moved, they followed. His words might have softened—but in his tone lurked a silent promise: Obey, or face the consequence.
***
The group fell into step as they left the gate behind. Their boots echoed faintly along the marble corridor, the pale runes in the walls pulsing with a slow, steady rhythm, like the heartbeat of the fortress itself.
Louis started beside Vey, but only for a few steps.
"Vey," Dima's voice cut like frost. He stepped between them with effortless authority. "Up front. Walk with Amara and Neo."
She frowned, glancing back as if she wanted to argue, but Dima's glare was unyielding. With a sharp click of her boots, she moved ahead, joining the others. Her shoulders were stiff, her chin lifted high, but Louis caught the brief glance she threw back at him—half annoyance, half something else.
That left Louis with Dima. Again.
The silence stretched, cold and heavy, until Louis finally muttered, "So… who exactly is this Ceflico guy?"
Dima didn't even glance at him. His gaze stayed forward, his steps precise. "One of the most powerful Echoers alive."
Louis blinked. "What? Really? Then… what about the King?"
"They match," Dima said simply. "Father is the only one here who can stand against him."
Louis whistled under his breath. "But then why's he just… a teacher? Why not monarch, or minister, or… something?"
Dima's lips thinned, his voice dropping lower. "Not because he can't. Because he won't."
Ahead of them, Ceflico walked without turning, hands folded behind his back. For a fleeting moment, his lips twisted into a faint smirk—gone as quickly as it came.
Louis shivered. Whatever that meant, none of them knew yet.
***
The group reached Ceflico's chamber at last. The doors opened without a sound, gliding inward as if the stone itself obeyed him.
Inside, Louis froze.
The room was immaculate. Every book lined up with mathematical precision, every chair angled perfectly to match the walls. Even the ink bottles on the desk were arranged in flawless symmetry. Not a single corner of the chamber leaned off-balance—not by a degree, not by a breath.
Shit, Louis thought, his skin crawling. This guy's scary. I've read about people like this in books—the obsessively neat ones. The kind that turn out to be psychopaths.
"Welcome to my chamber." Ceflico's voice carried no warmth, but no cruelty either—simply command. He walked to the center and lowered himself onto a long, cushioned seat. His hand swept out toward the others. "Sit."
Chairs seemed to appear where needed, sliding into place with a faint shimmer of aura.
"Thank you, sir," the others said almost in unison, moving quickly to obey.
Louis followed, opening his mouth. "Thank you—"
"Stop."
Ceflico's eyes fixed on him. "You will not call me teacher. From now on, you call me Moutvas. I am your Moutvas. Remember it."
Louis blinked. The word burned strangely in his mind. Moutvas. He didn't know what language it was, but the meaning settled in him immediately—master, guide, teacher.
He glanced at the others. Neo frowned. Amara tilted her head. Even Dima's brows furrowed slightly. None of them seemed to understand.
"Teacher… what language was that?" Neo asked, as blunt as always.
Louis almost laughed. Thanks for your bad habit, bro. Asking the stupid question so I don't have to.
Ceflico didn't flinch. "The language of the Ancients. Only those chosen by its call can speak—or hear—its truth."
"What?" Neo blinked. "Chosen?"
"Try it," Ceflico said simply.
Neo cleared his throat. "M… Mou—vas? M—Mos? Moskva? Wait, what?" His tongue stumbled as if the word was rejecting him.
Vey tried next. Her voice, usually sharp and confident, faltered. "M—" The sound broke, dissolved, and vanished on her lips. Amara tried too, shaking her head with a frustrated huff. "What? Even my tongue doesn't move right—like the word itself hates me."
Ceflico's tone was cold. "Because the Ancient Whisper does not bow to desire. It speaks only to those it chooses. Not to those who wish."
Vey's gaze snapped toward Louis, her eyes narrowing. "So it chose him?"
"Yes," Ceflico answered without hesitation. "But do not mistake this for superiority. It does not make him better than you. The ability to speak truth is a tool, nothing more. Strength lies in how one learns to wield it."
He leaned back, folding his hands together. "The Ancient Whisper is the language of truth itself. Through it, one cannot lie. Even the spells you cast are fragments of it—echoes of the true language. Few Echoers can touch it. Here in Belgari, only two have mastered it fully."
"My father," Dima said firmly.
"And me," Ceflico confirmed. He let the words hang before adding, "And perhaps one day, his children. The potential lies in both of you. But not through me. That is your father's gift to give."
Dima's chest swelled at the acknowledgment, pride flickering in his icy gaze.
Louis raised a hand weakly. "So… what's the point of calling you Moutvas, then?"
Ceflico's eyes sharpened. Suddenly, Louis felt something connect—a thread of power latching onto his chest and pulling tight.
"What the hell—my power—what is this?" His voice cracked as he grabbed at his ribs.
Ceflico's lips curved faintly. "When you become the disciple of one who speaks the Ancient Whisper, a bond is formed. My base becomes your base. You no longer begin at zero."
Louis gasped, his body trembling. "But… I still can't use it?"
"Not yet. You must learn it, as I did."
Vey leaned forward, voice tense. "Wait—does that mean he just got a buff from you?"
"Yes." Ceflico's smirk deepened. "But whether he is strong enough to endure it—that is not my concern."
Louis's breath hitched. "Wait—what—"
The world collapsed.
Agony ripped through him, raw and unrelenting. His muscles stretched, tore, and re-knit, only to tear again. Bones cracked, mended, then shattered once more. His body was a battlefield—destroyed and rebuilt in endless, merciless rhythm.
"Teacher!" Vey leapt from her chair, fists clenched. "What's happening to him?"
Ceflico didn't move. His voice was calm, clinical. "His potential is colliding with my base. His body must break and remake itself until it can contain both."
Louis's scream tore through the chamber. "AAARGHHHH!" His back arched, veins bulging, his skin flickering between bruised purple and pale white as healing fought with destruction.
I'd rather die than feel this again.Stop… please stop… just let me black out.Why does healing hurt worse than dying?
Dima's fists tightened at his sides, jaw locked. "So it's an instant power-up, then?" His voice carried jealousy, even through the tension.
"No." Ceflico's eyes glinted. "It is like snapping your legs and demanding a healer repair them—over and over. Power bought with pain."
Vey's face was pale, her voice sharp with fury. "That's insane! What if it kills him?"
"Then he was never worthy," Ceflico replied without emotion. "And if the collision unravels his mind, the only choice will be to end him."
"You're using him as a guinea pig?" Dima snapped, outrage flashing for the first time.
But before Vey could retort, Louis's body convulsed violently, cutting through the argument. Flesh tore in invisible lines, bones cracked like firewood, and blood spattered the chamber floor.
"ARRRGHHHH!" His scream was no longer human—it was raw, guttural, the sound of a man being ripped apart and sewn together in the same breath.
They all fell silent. Even Dima. Even Vey. Even Amara, who normally hid her tension behind sly remarks, pressed her lips tight, her hands clenched white in her lap.
Because this was no training.
This was torture dressed as rebirth.
And only Louis could feel the whispers ccrawling at the edges of his mind, hissing in the language of truth.