CHAPTER 69— Back to the academy
Half the sun had already drowned in the west, painting the ocean in bruised shades of violet and crimson.
At the isolated, jagged corner of a small island, a young man no older than twenty stood completely still, a delicate fishing rod balanced effortlessly in his hand.
With a smooth, practiced flick, he reeled in another silver catch and dropped it straight into a wooden water bucket already teeming with thrashing fish.
To anyone happening upon the scene, he might have passed for a local fisherman passing the evening hour. But the pristine, high-tier uniform he wore and the ethereal pressure radiating softly from his posture shattered any such illusion entirely.
Thud.. thud.. thud...
A heavy, synchronized rhythm of footsteps crunched against the wet gravel behind him.
Yet, the young man didn't flinch. His eyes remained fixed on the rippling surface of the water, entirely unbothered.
"Did you get it?"
He asked without turning back. his voice calm, cutting cleanly through the crash of the waves.
Behind him, Denin, Junim, and Nitin stood at rigid attention, their backs as straight as ramrods.
The salt air and fading light could not completely hide the raw, swollen redness around their eyes—the lingering, unmistakable traces of a grief that had not yet cooled.
"Yes. Master." Denin answered, his voice tight.
He reached into his small bag and withdrew a pulsing, crystalline object that hummed with a fierce, iridescent hue that constantly shifted between colors like liquid aurora trapped inside a crystal.
"The Aether rune, we got it."
The man gave his fishing rod a gentle, practiced twitch, sending the fine line slicing back beneath the surface of the tide.
"Where is Seris?"
The three of them bit their lip. Nitin stepped forward instinctively, but Denin raised an arm, cutting him off.
Denin swallowed hard, his jaw locking as he stepped past his comrade.
"Seris..." Denin bit his lower lip until the skin broke, the metallic taste of blood blooming on his tongue.
Then, he raised his voice, shouting it out to the crashing waves as if demanding the entire world to bear witness.
"Seris has attained Martyrdom."
The surrounding air seemed to freeze, suffocated by the heavy, echoing weight of the declaration.
For a long, agonizing moment, their master remained utterly still. Then, slowly, he let out a long, weary breath.
"Sigh..."
With a flick of his wrist, he unceremoniously cast the expensive fishing rod aside, letting it clatter against the rocks.
He reached down, gripped the handle of the water bucket filled with his catches, and tipped it over, spilling the water and the thrashing fish back into the churning ocean below.
He tossed the empty bucket away.
With his other hand, he drew his wand, resting his palms together around the shaft, bringing it level with his forehead. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.
"Let the Martyr attain Moksha."
Denin, Junim, and Nitin instantly followed suit. They pulled their wands from their belts, interlocking their fingers against the wood, raising them to their foreheads, and lowering their heads in a silent, desolate vigil.
A prayer for the fallen.
Slowly, Denin cracked his eyes open.
A single tear slid down his cheek, but it carried no warmth of sorrow.
It was a tear forged in absolute fury, burning with an unquenchable thirst for revenge.
Reflected deep within his bloodshot pupils, clear as day, was the lingering image of a boy holding a blood-soaked axe, standing tall over Seris's broken body.
---
The Grand Aetherion Academy stood as it always had—a monolith of marble and magic. Yet, the air felt different.
The reason of their excitement was rather simple.
The crowd of students buzzed with nervous energy and youthful excitement, a cacophony of voices trading boasts and complaints about the field test.
Everyone seemed to be consumed by a single, burning desire to get to see the materials they gather transform into their new wand.
"What do you mean, it will take some time?"
The collective groan of a dozens of students reverberated off the metallic, high-ceilinged workshop.
They were crowded around the intake counter of the Arctic Mage-Smith Unit, a legendary corps of master craftsmen invited specifically to forge custom wands and staves from the Materials harvested during the trip.
Standing behind the counter, Master Orven Draegor stroked his meticulously groomed beard, flashing a bright, unapologetic grin.
"Wand and staff creation is not a factory process, students," he purred. "It is an art. It requires passion, precision, and—above all—patience."
Some students groaned, their shoulders slumping as Orven started giving a speech about crafting.
"So how much time will it take?"
Finally one student asked. Eyeing the stacks of Runes, monster cores and Mana woods in students hands.
"Dont worry students."
Orven didn't answer directly. Instead, he spun around with a theatrical flair, gesturing grandly to his team of smiths standing behind him. Without missing a beat, the smiths snapped into elaborate, flexing poses as if they were contestants in a high-fashion model competition.
"My great Artic unit is one of the finest smithing unit of the Magineering castle. You will have your new wands and staffs in your hands before you know it."
The students stared in deadpan silence. The dramatic tension evaporated instantly.
Cough, cough.
Orven cleared his throat, his face flushing slightly as he turned back to the counter.
"Right, well. Let's maintain some professional dignity. Form a single-file line and submit your materials here. I personally guarantee that my Arctic Unit will forge weapons worthy of your efforts."
With sighs and grumbles, the line began to move.
The students began to submit their materials in the counter while Unit members scribbled names onto parchment tags, sealing them securely to the various Runes, cores, and Mana woods piled onto the steel tables.
The unit members were writing the names and sealing the tages on each student's material.
Master Orven inspected the incoming materials with an expert, highly critical eye, murmuring notes to himself.
Suddenly, his movements froze. His eyes bolted wide open as a particular object caught his attention amidst the pile.
"Wow!"
He reached out, his calloused fingers lifting a glowing, dark-purple orb. Reaching into his front pocket, he whipped out a magnifying research monocle and snapped it over his right eye.
"Who brought this Material?"
Orven murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes gleamed with academic obsession.
He looked up, scanning the line until his gaze locked onto the student standing right in front of him.
"Student. Is this yours?"
The student who was standing infront of Orven nodded.
"Yes."
A brilliant, wide smile split Orven's face.
He leaned closer to the counter, still utterly transfixed by the swirling, mana trapped within the sphere.
As he adjusted his monocle and looked at the student properly, his brow furrowed in sudden recognition. The sharp features, the poised, unbothered posture—it was a well known face of the new generation of mages.
"Wait? Aren't you Ashwin Skyris."
Ashwin gave a single, dismissive nod, as if stating the weather.
At that reaction Orven's smiled widened even more.
"Hahaha... As expected from one of the brightest gem of this generation."
He rolled the orb between his palms, his professional curiosity peaking.
"You've brought a truly fascinating Material here. This has to be the mana core of a
remarkably high-ranking beast..."
Orven paused, his fingers stopping mid-roll. He brought the orb closer to his nose, sniffing the residual air, and squinted.
"Hmm. Interesting. This core oddly resembles a human core structure. Whose mana core is this, exactly?"
"It's the core of a dark mage"
"...!"
Clatter.
The core slipped straight out of Orven's fingers, hitting the padded metal desk with a dull bounce.
The master smith lunged forward in a panic, snatching the sphere out of the air before it could roll off the table. He slammed both palms onto the counter, his eyes bulging behind his monocle.
"THE CORE OF A DARK MAGE!!!!"
Ashwin merely offered a faint, indifferent shrug, casually launching into a brief, clinical explanation of how the core had been acquired, leaving the master craftsman paralyzed in shock.
A short distance away, near the exit of the workshop, Ritvik stood alone, anxiously spinning on his boots.
He craned his neck, scanning the shifting sea of uniforms for a familiar mop of messy hair.
"Oh! Sarina."
Sarina emerged from the crowd, dusting off her sleeves after officially submitting her own batch of materials. She frowned,
noticing his erratic movements.
"What happened why are you twisting your head like an owl?"
"Have you Seen Rowan?"
"Rowan?"
Sarina shook her head.
Ritvik slammed a fist against his open palm, a curse slipping past his teeth.
"Damn!"
"What happened?" Sarina asked.
Ritvik let out a long, shuddering sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Sigh...Nothing. we were together up until now but then, He suddenly disappeared."
Both of them turned in a slow circles, their eyes darting through the crowded hall, searching for Rowan among the crowd but unlike what they thought. Rowan wasn't there.
"Where did he go?!!"
---
Far down the endless, winding corridors of the Class B dorms, the atmosphere was dead and quiet.
Rowan walked with a mechanical, agonizing slowness. Every step felt like dragging an anchor through deep mud, his boots scraping softly against the polished floor.
There didn't seem any engery behind those steps no strides no causal whistle No lingering frustration from lessons.
It looked like an oppressive, suffocating weight was pressing down relentlessly on his shoulders.
It felt as though the gravity of the entire academy had shifted entirely to crush him.
After what felt like hours of wandering through a labyrinth of identical doors, he finally stopped.
Room 32(B)
His fingers hovered over the brass handle before pressing down with a soft, metallic click.
Clinck!
He slipped inside, sliding through the threshold like a ghost.
His head remained bowed, his eyes glazed and entirely devoid of light. With a slow, trembling hand, he pulled the heavy wooden door shut behind him, turning the interior lock until it settled into place with a definitive, isolated snap.
His back hit the wood. He slid down, centimeter by centimeter, until his knees hit the cold floorboards of his room.
Dragging his knees up to his chest, Rowan buried his face completely between his hands, shutting out the rest of the world.
---
CHAPTER ENDS