The familiar campus air let Rod finally exhale.He'd only been at the Academy three days, yet it already felt… natural.Maybe because most of his past decades had been spent in places like this—Kinworth was different in form, but the essence was the same.Accept its quirks and you adapt fast.
He sprinted back to the dorms. It was still class time; the whole building was nearly empty.Across the vacant common room, up the right-hand stair.His room was on the third floor—Team Ten's entire block was there, which was why Cassandra could drag the whole squad to pound on his door.
Rod opened the newly repaired door, flopped onto the bed, crossed his thumbs, and made the lightning sign.In the next instant, his vision blurred; his soul lightened, lifting as if into the air.
When it cleared, pale mist flowed around him.Before him stood the three-meter cyan obelisk; behind and to the side, the black altar.His fourth time here—and it still stunned him with its strangeness.
But urgency beat wonder. He had a theory to test.
He ran to the obelisk. The soul-flame from last time wasn't on that face.He touched all four sides—no change.
"…No way. Was I wrong?"
Then he glanced at the altar. In the palm of the outstretched stone hand floated six soul-flames.Five were tiny. When he focused, words rose in his mind:
[Dust-Like Soul]—Fragment of a wraith from the Dead-River.
The text was in Common, in his own voice—easy to parse.All five looked the same: wisps of pale flame threaded with pinpricks of black.
Right. The balloons I popped—the "dead-souls" Laurent mentioned.So soul devouring was real.
His gaze slid to the sixth flame.
[Tainted Soul of Sotil Rade]—A polluted fragment from Sotil Rade.
As I thought. Rod's hands clenched.His soul is with me. Not "Bas"—his real name is Sotil Rade.If he could mine this soul for secrets, pick up the severed trail… maybe he could find the true culprit.
Excitement flared—then stalled.He had no idea how to read a soul.
He tried touching it—his fingers passed through.He tried speaking to it—no answer.It was a mirage: no interaction, no handles.
He tried everything, and found one thing that worked: stare, and listen.
A thread-thin sound surfaced:
"No. 13, Baker Street…""Alyx…"
They echoed from deep within Sotil Rade's soul—like the refrain its being was built on, repeating without end.Two fragments only—disappointing, yet better than nothing.
He tested the other five. Only madness answered—garbled shrieks, static that made his head pound and stomach turn in seconds.
"Grass," Rod swore—naming a plant.
You didn't just eavesdrop on souls in a world like this.Steady. Careful. He drilled it into himself.
He studied the six flames and planned his next move.For now, he wouldn't report this.First, the source would be impossible to explain.Second, without clarity, better not shove the case forward blindly.If possible, he'd verify Baker Street No. 13 and Alyx himself—then decide.
He glanced at the obelisk. If this is all I can extract for now, maybe I can see whether these souls actually ignite a star… A little more power couldn't hurt.
He hopped down from the altar and approached the obelisk.Palm to stone—the deep starfield returned, countless dim points pulsing on black.At center, Devourer of Darkness glowed dark red like an ominous eye. Nothing else had changed.
But when he focused, he felt the altar—linked to him.A strange tether: the black altar waited under his will.
He had the sense he could throw the altar's souls into any star he chose.
He tried the dark-red star—and a clear rejection pulsed through his mind.
"…Not that one."
When he shifted to other wavering lights, the prohibition faded.
So it's possible.
He picked one—near the Devourer's upper right, a faintly blue star.Unfocused, it was a dim sparkle; focused, it became a black aperture with a clean boundary, carved out of the background.
Rod willed it—and the six soul-flames leapt from the altar, slid into the obelisk's sky, and like meteors fell into the aperture.
The black star did not ignite.The six tiny fires settled quietly inside, taking up only a corner.
Not enough, he thought.It needs more souls.
How? From where?
He didn't have an answer yet. He leaned in to examine further—when that familiar tug seized him. The world smeared; the drop returned.
Damn.Someone was pulling him out.
When vision cleared, Cassandra's lake-blue eyes filled it—gold hair brushing her cheek.
"You finally woke up?"
She huffed, straightened, and drew her face away."You sleep like the dead."
Rod slipped his hands down, hiding the gesture. Thank the Flame he'd been under the covers; that cultist-looking sign would've only made things worse.
He glanced past her—several clearly senior students stood behind.
One, wearing a red armband, stepped forward. "Rod, we're from Student Affairs. Please come with us."
A jolt of worry. Don't tell me I'm expelled."What happened?"
The armband smiled kindly. "Don't worry. Just a test. Time's tight—we'll explain on the way."
Rod looked at Cassandra.She misread the look, lifted her chin, and said loftily, "Relax. It's not a bad thing."
"No," Rod said. "I meant—how did you get in?"
Cassandra's lips quirked; mischief flashed in her eyes."I have a key."
"From where?"
"When they fixed your door, I had a copy made. You won't shut me out again."
The ambiguous line detonated like a rumor bomb.
On the way to Student Affairs, one senior sighed under his breath, full of envy:"Kids these days… really know how to play."
"Maybe we'll witness the first freshman maternity leave in Academy history," another murmured.