Elara Thorne's first official class at Silver Star Academy, Kingdom History and the Origins of the Abyss, was scheduled in the Academy's grandest lecture hall: the Echo Hall in the Central Hub.
The hall was majestic yet bore the scars of time. The dome's frescoes depicted epic heroes beneath the stars, though much of the paint had faded or flaked away, as if time itself had gnawed at the surface. Massive steam conduits ran along the walls, humming and vibrating to provide heat and basic illumination. Their low, resonant rumble felt like the echo of history's wheels rolling over ruins, unceasing. Hundreds of freshmen filled the tiered seats according to sequence: Vigils crowded the back and flanks, postures as straight and rigid as javelins; Weavers occupied the center-front, radiating calm focus. Elara chose a middle-row seat by the aisle, observing the hall without drawing attention.
The lecturer was Professor Margarita Croft, an elderly Weaver and historian. She wore a faded Academy robe, her spine slightly hunched, as if the weight of countless tomes had bent her. Yet behind crystal spectacles, her eyes were clear and piercing, capable of seeing through the fog of time itself. Her voice, amplified by the psionic lattice embedded in the podium, carried to every corner, cutting through the low hum of the steam infrastructure.
"Children," she began, calm yet grave, "welcome to Silver Star Academy. Before you can wield your power, you must first understand why you fight—and what you fight against. Our history is not a tale of glory, but a record forged on anvils, struggling for survival at the Abyss's edge."
She began with The Great Sundering.
"Before the Sundering," she said, voice tinged with distant melancholy, "the world was different. Scholars call it the Age of Forging. Magic and craft coexisted in harmony; the skies were clear, the lands fertile. No pervasive whispers of Blight. No rifts tearing reality apart."
Her description of the cataclysm was stark: "No one knows the origin of The Eternal Weaver, Erebos-Apophis. Its arrival rent the fabric of reality itself. The heavens tore asunder, and from that rupture poured not starlight, but an endless darkness—an energy torrent called the Blight. Thus was born the Shadow Abyss. It is not a place, but a malignant law, a cancer upon existence."
Silence hung in the hall, punctuated only by the hiss of steam pipes. The professor activated an illusion crystal, projecting horrifying visions: cities dissolving into tar-like tides, humans mutating into grotesque aberrations under excruciating suffering, heroes battling despair to their end.
"All remnants of the old world were nearly obliterated. Survivors clawed through ruins until the 23rd year after the Sundering (23 AS), when a few great figures founded the Iron Anvil Kingdom—signifying that our civilization, like an anvil, would endure even under relentless strikes."
She continued to describe the founding of Silver Star Academy (~50 AS), established to systematically cultivate psionic warriors—Vigils and Weavers—trained against Blight. She recounted the painstaking development of psionic protocols, the lethal dangers of Bloodrage and Mindshred, and the kingdom's continuous campaigns to purge corruption, explaining why the Blight always resurged.
"The source of corruption, the Eternal Weaver, never left, nor ever slumbered," her voice turned icy. "Its existence casts a constant field of Blight. Clearing one region is like trying to drain a lake that's perpetually filled with sewage. Rifts always reappear where reality is weakest."
Then she introduced a concept that made Elara's pupils shrink:
"Some leading scholars argue that Blight is not merely destruction. It imposes a cold, perverse order, overwriting our reality. It adapts. Our strategies, our purges—over time, their efficacy decays."
Elara felt a shiver. This confirmed what her alien soul had long sensed—the Abyss was an invading system, a parallel set of rules attempting assimilation.
As the lecture drew to a close, Professor Croft casually mentioned:
"Worth noting, some Sages of the High Council have recently 'reinterpreted' certain early Abyssal texts. Records of the Blight's origins have been altered or excised. History's dust is sometimes swept by unseen winds, concealing disturbing traces." Her gray-blue gaze swept across the room, lingering faintly on Elara, as if conveying subtle meaning. "Here at the Academy, you must not only learn knowledge but discern it. Under perfection may lie fractures. Be wary of authority that seems… absolute."
The words dropped like a pebble in a still lake, sending ripples through Elara's mind. The Association was rewriting history? Why? To hide something? Or was some force subtly warping perceptions of the Abyss itself? Her otherworldly instincts resonated with this hidden warning.
The lecture ended under a heavy, contemplative silence. Croft's eyes scanned the young, solemn faces:
"Remember, children, we do not reclaim lost ground. We merely delay the end. Yet even that delay is meaningful. As long as we resist, the ember of the old world has not died."
The weight of history pressed like lead on every freshman.
For Elara, this class was priceless. It validated her suspicions and revealed a terrifying truth: her ultimate adversary was intelligent, adaptive, and constantly learning. Official forces were not only reactive—some high-ranking members could be compromised or influenced. Croft's subtle warning was a bell tolling in her mind.
Her resolve hardened. She could trust neither the Academy nor Kaelan's planned path. She had to accelerate her own power—not only as a witch but as a student of this world's laws and the Abyss's essence. This history lesson had become her first study in enemy weaknesses and latent threats.
As she left Echo Hall, the setting sun stained the city's spires crimson. Elara watched the enormous gears slowly turning in the dusk. They were not merely moving the Academy forward—they were locks, precisely interlocking every person's fate.
Yet deep within this fortified cage, an alien soul had already begun quietly prying at the first stone. Her five-year plan was underway, under the weight of history and the shadow of unspoken warnings.