The morning sun was a pale shimmer behind the gray veil of clouds. Liberia Academy's campus sprawled across the horizon like a city of glass and marble, its towers gleaming faintly in the mist. Floating mana rings orbited the upper domes, humming like celestial halos as the faint scent of ozone hung in the air.
Inside the eastern wing, on the upper floor of the Poet's Hall, Mark Francis sat in silence. His desk was cluttered with notes written in his looping script — fragments of verses, thoughts that twisted between despair and brilliance. The room around him was still.
Before him, the System window glowed faintly — its translucent light bathing his pale face in hues of blue and violet.
---
[SYSTEM STATUS WINDOW]
Name: Mark Francis
Age: 21
Level: 10
Class: Poet (Black Poet)
Sub-Class: Nihil Versebearer / Acrostic Versebearer / Black Diamond Versebearer / Domain Versebearer
Active Skill: Rewrite
Passive Skills: Intellect Drop / Reality Absorption / Photographic Memory / Poet Verses
Soul Weapon: Black Diamond Orb
Stats:
• INT: 2000 (Normal 1000)
• STR: 500 (Normal 1000)
• DEX: 500 (Normal 1000)
• AWARENESS: 2000 (Normal 1000)
---
Mark's reflection rippled across the floating display — tired eyes, hair unkempt, the faint darkness beneath his gaze a constant reminder of sleepless nights spent writing and rewriting his verses until his sanity bled into the ink.
He stared at the numbers for a long time, then muttered, "Months passed… and I'm still level ten."
He leaned back on his chair, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the desk. The faint hum of mana engines filled the silence.
> "Even after awakening three other Versebearers… even after clearing the field dungeons… I haven't moved at all."
The air shimmered faintly. The System's chime echoed — calm, almost patronizing.
---
[SYSTEM:]
"Your level is irrelevant. Experience no longer defines your strength. You possess Rewrite."
---
Mark's brow furrowed slightly. "Rewrite…" He whispered it like a curse and a prayer. "To alter existence with words — yet the price… always the mind."
He closed the window with a gesture, the glow fading into the air. For a brief moment, he sat in the silence again — until a voice broke it, distant at first, then closer, echoing through the hallway outside.
"Students, assemble in the courtyard!"
The voice was sharp, commanding — and distinctly feminine. Dr. Carmilla Crimson.
Mark sighed, standing slowly. He picked up his small notebook, its black leather cover worn from use, and tucked it under his arm. His uniform — simple black with faint silver lining — fluttered as he walked through the corridor.
When he stepped into the courtyard, the light blinded him for a moment. Rows of students were already there, chattering in clusters, their excitement and anxiety mixing in the air like static.
Hovering above them was a transparent dome of energy that reflected the morning sky. At its center stood Dr. Carmilla Crimson — tall, poised, her red hair cascading down her back like a river of blood against her white coat. Her eyes, sharp as rubies, glinted with intellect and authority.
At only twenty-eight, she was the youngest professor in the Academy's Combat and Subjugation Division — and rumored to be a descendant of the Crimson Archmage line.
"Good morning, my students," she began, her voice carrying effortlessly across the courtyard. "Today, we begin your first practical dungeon subjugation."
A wave of murmurs erupted. Excited, nervous laughter, snippets of gossip.
Carmilla raised her hand, and the crowd quieted.
"This dungeon is one of the Academy's own — safe, monitored, and ideal for freshman-level testing. But remember — complacency kills faster than monsters. Treat this like your life depends on it, because one day, it will."
The students straightened.
Carmilla smiled faintly, a professional yet distant expression. "You'll form into groups of five. Each group must contain at least one Support, one Frontline, one Caster. Cooperation is key. Coordination is your survival."
Mark stood near the back, expression unreadable. Around him, students were already gathering into groups. Claira, standing near the middle, glanced back at him several times.
"Hey, Mark!" one of the students called out. "Want to join our party?"
Mark shook his head lightly. "No. I'll pass."
The boy frowned. "Dude, it's not optional. We're supposed to form groups."
Mark didn't reply. His gaze drifted upward to the pale sun. The wind moved softly through the courtyard, stirring the dust.
Carmilla noticed. Her crimson eyes narrowed.
"Mr. Francis," she said suddenly, her voice slicing through the murmurs. "Why are you not joining a group?"
Every head turned. The courtyard fell silent.
Mark looked at her — calm, almost serene. "Poems," he said slowly, "do not require a chorus to sing. They shine in their own silence."
Carmilla blinked, caught off guard. The words rolled off his tongue with poetic weight, and for a moment, even the System itself seemed to hum in resonance.
Somewhere among the crowd, someone whispered, "He's doing it again…"
Another student snickered. "Always talking like that. Total freak."
"Yeah," another girl muttered. "Who answers the professor with poetry?"
Laughter rippled quietly, venom disguised as amusement.
Mark ignored them. His eyes remained on Carmilla.
She studied him — his posture, his tone, the cold intensity behind his words. Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing for a moment. Then, she smiled faintly, a mixture of curiosity and warning.
"Very well, Mr. Francis," she said finally. "But remember, even a shining poem can burn itself to ash if it refuses harmony."
Mark inclined his head. "Then I will burn beautifully, Doctor."
The crowd broke into whispers.
Claira bit her lip, watching him from her group. She knew Mark wasn't like the others — he never was. He'd been distant ever since his awakening, since the day his eyes changed. There was something darker now, a gravity around him that pulled everything in.
As the groups finalized, the courtyard filled with noise again.
"Hey, Claira, who's that weirdo?" a tall boy in her group asked. "The one quoting poems every time he opens his mouth."
Claira frowned. "He's not a weirdo. He's just… different."
"Different?" another laughed. "He's insane. Who brings a notebook to a subjugation class? Does he plan to write poems at the monsters?"
Laughter erupted.
Claira's hands tightened around her staff. "Enough," she said quietly.
But they didn't stop.
"Bet he'll write a poem about dying first."
"Or maybe he'll ask the monsters to collaborate."
The words were knives disguised as jokes.
Mark, standing alone near the edge of the courtyard, could hear every word. He didn't flinch. He opened his notebook instead, flipping to a blank page.
His pen scratched softly as he wrote, each stroke deliberate.
> "Mockery — the applause of the ordinary."
"Let them laugh. I am not a name for their tongues to chew."
His handwriting shimmered faintly. Words like these were not merely ink. They were intent — power condensed in meaning.
Carmilla clapped her hands once, calling attention. "That's enough chatter. Teams are ready?"
"Yes, ma'am!" the groups echoed.
Mark stood silently. Carmilla's gaze swept over them, then stopped on him again. For a second, their eyes met — ruby against ink.
"Mr. Francis," she said, tone half stern, half curious. "You insist on going solo. I won't stop you. But understand — if you're incapacitated, I won't risk other students for your retrieval."
Mark smiled faintly. "Then my only audience will be death itself."
A murmur rippled again through the students.
Carmilla exhaled softly through her nose, suppressing a smirk. "Just don't make me write your obituary in rhyme."
She raised her wristwatch — a mana-linked device. The courtyard's center flared as the dungeon gate began to manifest — a swirling vortex of blue and black light, humming with power. The air around it distorted, bending like heated glass.
A field dungeon — the Academy's own artificial creation.
"Portal synchronization complete," Carmilla announced. "You will enter by groups. Each team's progress will be monitored. Don't wander beyond your designated sector."
The first team stepped forward. The portal swallowed them whole, light rippling outward as they vanished. Then the next group. Then another.
One by one, the courtyard grew quieter.
Claira's team was next. She turned, glancing at Mark once more. He stood still, notebook in hand, the faint aura of the Black Diamond Orb shimmering faintly around him like a second shadow.
"Be careful," she mouthed silently.
He nodded once.
Then her group disappeared through the gate.
Finally, Carmilla's gaze returned to him.
"You're up, Mr. Francis."
Mark took a deep breath. The portal pulsed before him, its edge humming like a living thing. The air smelled of ozone and old stone — the scent of another world waiting beneath this one.
He closed his notebook, tucking it into his coat.
The Black Diamond Orb materialized at his side — small, dark, and alive, rotating lazily in the air.
He whispered softly, almost reverently, "Time to write another verse."
The orb pulsed once, like a heartbeat.
Mark stepped forward.
As his foot crossed the threshold, the world bent — color dissolving, sound vanishing, gravity folding inward.
And then he was gone.
The last thing Dr. Carmilla saw was his faint smile as the portal devoured him whole.
The courtyard fell silent except for the lingering hum of the gate. The remaining students stared, some mocking, some uneasy, others silent.
Carmilla turned away, murmuring to herself, "A poem that walks into hell to find its rhyme… Let's see what you become, Mark Francis."
The humming of mana reactors filled the Liberia Academy Monitoring Chamber, a cavernous hall buried beneath the eastern tower. The walls were lined with crystal consoles, each displaying hundreds of shifting mana-feeds that showed the perspectives of every dungeon team. Magical runes pulsed along the floor, casting a faint azure glow that danced on the metallic surfaces.
Dr. Carmilla Crimson stood at the center, arms folded across her chest, her long crimson hair draping down like a living flame. Her presence commanded the room — confident, precise, and wrapped in an aura of icy intellect. Around her, several assistants worked feverishly, adjusting runic projectors and calibrating the visual synchronization between the dungeon and the monitors.
"Stabilize feed channels two through five," Carmilla instructed, her tone calm but authoritative. "I want every team's vitals displayed clearly. No distortions."
"Yes, Professor Crimson," replied one of the assistants, a young man with square glasses and trembling fingers. He tapped several glowing runes. The mana streams on the monitors steadied, and the flickering images resolved into clarity.
On the largest crystal wall, dozens of screens showed live feeds — shimmering portals of color and chaos. Teams of freshmen moved cautiously through the dungeons' stone corridors, their mana lights illuminating the darkness.
One screen displayed Claira's team, moving efficiently, her voice echoing softly through the mana feed.
"Formation C. Watch the ceiling. Meta-beasts prefer ambush from above."
Carmilla smiled faintly. "Efficient. She's improving."
"Dr. Crimson," said a woman beside her, "should we begin monitoring mana fluctuations in the deeper layers? The last time the Academy dungeon reached floor seven, the resonance was unstable."
"Yes, begin that immediately," Carmilla replied, her eyes flicking across the monitors. "If a rift begins to form, I want advance notice. We don't need another incident like last year."
At that, a hush fell briefly over the assistants. The memory of the 'Bleeding Gate Incident' — when a mana rift had devoured an entire team — still haunted every academy division.
"Understood, Doctor," the assistant replied softly, resuming her work.
Minutes passed. The chamber buzzed with the mechanical rhythm of analysis, the soft murmurs of assistants reporting data, the faint crackle of mana lines.
Carmilla sipped her coffee — black, unsweetened — eyes scanning the endless monitors. "Report on solo participant, Mark Francis."
An assistant turned nervously. "Subject Francis entered dungeon five minutes ago. Feed channel ninety-nine. Vital signs… stable. Mana signature — high but… erratic."
Carmilla turned her gaze toward the monitor marked 99. The screen flickered briefly before stabilizing.
There he was.
Mark Francis stood alone in the vast, hollow expanse of the dungeon's first floor — a cathedral of stone and shadow. Jagged stalactites hung like the fangs of a slumbering god, dripping water into dark pools below. The faint blue light of his Black Diamond Orb hovered near his shoulder, pulsing with quiet rhythm.
"He's just… standing there," murmured one of the assistants, confusion lacing his voice.
Carmilla narrowed her eyes. "Zoom in."
The screen expanded, filling the main wall. The image sharpened — Mark's calm, detached face, the faint reflection of the orb's glow in his eyes. He wasn't preparing for combat. He wasn't exploring. He was simply waiting.
The room filled with quiet whispers.
"Is he… meditating?"
"Maybe his system bugged. His vitals are stable though."
"Look at his mana levels," another assistant whispered, pointing to the side graph. "They're rising. Rapidly."
The mana line spiked upward like a heartbeat going wild.
Carmilla set her cup down, her expression hardening. "Something's building. Increase mana-spectrum sensitivity. I want to see the fluctuations."
"Yes, Doctor."
The runes shifted color — blue to crimson to gold — displaying overlapping rings of magic around Mark's body.
"What in the…" one of the assistants gasped. "He's generating multi-layered mana fields — without a chant, without any incantation!"
"That's impossible," said another. "He's only level ten."
Carmilla's gaze darkened. "No, not impossible… not for a Versebearer."
The murmurs grew louder. A low tension began to hum through the chamber like the calm before a storm.
Then, on the screen, Mark moved.
He raised his right hand slowly — not dramatically, but deliberately. Every motion seemed heavy with intent.
And then, with a voice that resonated even through the mana feeds — deep, poetic, heavy with soul — he spoke.
"From my soul, I summon thee."
The words rolled like thunder wrapped in silk. The dungeon trembled faintly as the Black Diamond Orb pulsed violently, its surface cracking open like a black star. Streams of voidlight spiraled around Mark, weaving into sigils that defied logic and reason.
In the monitoring chamber, every mana graph spiked into chaos.
"What the hell—?! Mana surge at sixty thousand units!"
"That's beyond academy limits!"
"Stabilizers can't keep up!"
Carmilla's eyes widened slightly. "Silence. Observe."
The assistants obeyed, holding their breath.
On the monitor, the orb's light condensed again — denser, sharper, focused. Then Mark's voice cut through the static once more, calm and resolute.
"Morph into quills… and multiply into a thousand."
The dungeon exploded in light.
The Black Diamond Orb fractured, splitting into countless shards of black crystal — each reshaping, reforming into floating quills of obsidian and silver. They shimmered like blades, sharp enough to pierce the air itself. One became ten. Ten became a hundred. A hundred became a thousand.
They hovered behind him like the wings of a fallen seraph, glimmering in deadly perfection.
The assistants in the chamber fell silent — mouths open, eyes wide.
One finally whispered, trembling, "He… he's creating physical constructs with pure mana compression. No spell matrix… no chant… nothing."
Another muttered, "That's not possible. It's rewriting reality in raw form."
Carmilla stepped closer to the screen, her voice low, awed, but tinged with something else — fear. "He's not casting magic… He's writing it."
The words echoed through the chamber.
Then the silence shattered — as the dungeon feed erupted into chaos.
From the shadows, dozens of Meta Beasts emerged — grotesque creatures of crystal bone and smoke. Their forms writhed with distorted flesh, eyes burning with unholy light.
Normal students would have panicked. Normal adventurers would have drawn weapons, prepared defenses.
But Mark didn't move.
He simply whispered — his voice soft, but it carried through the feed like a pulse of doom.
> "Ink of the abyss, write upon the flesh of the world."
The thousand quills ignited.
Then — movement.
They launched forward all at once, a black rain of death. The dungeon walls split under their force. The Meta Beasts shrieked, but their cries were brief — one-sided, merciless. Quills pierced through carapaces, shredded wings, tore apart shadow and bone alike. The floor became a canvas of crimson and darkness.
Every strike was silent poetry — precision, rhythm, execution.
The monitoring chamber trembled with the energy feedback.
"Mana overload!" cried one assistant. "The dungeon's barrier can't handle that output!"
"Stop him!" shouted another. "He'll collapse the entire instance!"
Carmilla slammed her hand on the console. "No one interferes!"
Her voice cut through the panic like a blade.
"Dr. Crimson—!"
"I said observe!"
The room froze again.
Carmilla's eyes never left the screen. Her heartbeat was calm, but her mind raced. She could see it — the power, the control, the madness flickering in the boy's movements. His lips moved, whispering verses too faint for the microphones to catch.
Every line of his poem became death incarnate. Every emotion became destruction.
On the screen, the quills swirled back toward him, hovering in a circular formation like a halo of obsidian feathers. The Meta Beasts lay scattered — dissolving into mist.
The mana readings finally began to drop.
Silence returned to the chamber.
Everyone stared — pale, trembling, lost for words.
Then an assistant whispered, "That… wasn't a battle. That was a massacre."
Another added shakily, "He didn't even move his feet."
Carmilla remained silent for a long time, eyes still on the image of Mark standing alone amidst the wreckage. His expression was unreadable — calm, detached, like a man who had simply completed a mundane task.
Finally, she exhaled slowly. "Replay the last sixty seconds," she ordered quietly.
The footage looped. The assistants obeyed, though some hesitated. The images repeated — the summoning, the morphing, the annihilation.
Carmilla studied every frame, every gesture, every flicker of light around him. Her analytical mind pieced together what her instincts already knew.
"This is not raw talent," she murmured. "This is obsession refined into form."
Her lead assistant swallowed hard. "Doctor… what is he?"
Carmilla didn't answer immediately. She closed her eyes briefly, listening to the lingering echo of his final words.
"From my soul I summoned thee…"
When she spoke again, her voice was low, deliberate.
"He's a poet who doesn't write about destruction. He writes it into being."
The assistants exchanged uneasy looks.
One of them hesitated before asking, "Should we… report this to the Dean?"
Carmilla's gaze flicked toward him, sharp as a blade. "Not yet. He's under my supervision. This data doesn't leave this room."
"But Doctor—"
"Not yet." Her voice was final, cutting.
The assistant nodded quickly, shrinking back to his console.
Carmilla turned back to the screen. Mark was still there, motionless, surrounded by the fading motes of his quills. The air around him shimmered with residual mana distortion — reality itself bent from his poetry.
She leaned closer, her expression unreadable. "What are you trying to become, Mark Francis?"
The feed flickered briefly — interference.
Then Mark moved again. He lifted his head slightly, as if aware of the unseen eyes watching him through the ether.
And for a fleeting second, he smiled.
Every assistant in the room felt their hearts tighten. The smile wasn't friendly. It was distant, haunting — the smile of someone who had found beauty in ruin.
Then the feed went dark.
"Feed loss! Dungeon channel ninety-nine just disconnected!"
Carmilla straightened. "Reestablish it."
"We can't! The signal's completely severed — mana link cut off from the inside!"
"Then he's moving deeper," Carmilla murmured.
Her crimson eyes glowed faintly under the light of the crystals. Around her, panic spread through the assistants — questions, warnings, numbers flashing red.
But Carmilla simply stood there, silent.
In her mind, she saw it — the lone poet walking through the wreckage of the dungeon, the thousand quills orbiting him like the crown of a fallen god.
And deep down, beneath her calm exterior, she felt something she hadn't felt in years.
A chill.
---
As the alarms faded and the feeds stabilized, the chamber fell into uneasy silence once more.
One assistant whispered, almost to himself, "That… wasn't a student."
Another replied, voice trembling, "That was a calamity waiting to rhyme."
Carmilla turned away from the monitors, her coat fluttering behind her.
"Record everything," she said. "Every rune, every word, every pulse of mana. From this moment forward, all data concerning Mark Francis is classified under Black Code Protocol."
"Yes, Doctor."
She walked toward the exit, her footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor. Before leaving, she paused — glancing once more at the darkened monitor that once displayed him.
"Mark Francis…" she whispered. "The world won't know whether to fear you or worship you."
The lights of the chamber dimmed as the door closed behind her.
And somewhere, deep within the dungeon, the faint echo of poetry bled into the darkness — verses not spoken aloud, but carved into existence.
"I write not to be remembered,
but to erase the memory of all that breathes.
Let ink become abyss,
and abyss, my truth."
The screen flickered one last time — static, like the whisper of dying stars.
And then, there was silence.