PART 1: WHISPERS OF THE VOID
The problem with chaining a monster was that, along with its claws, you also lost its strength.
Phantsin Dawnfire stood at the magical firing range, his right arm extended. Thirty meters ahead, an enchanted straw dummy awaited the impact.
"Focus on mass transfer," an Ignis Magister instructed, pacing behind the line of students. "Overwhelming Force isn't just about shouting and pushing. It's about condensing the heat until the very air detonates. Fire!"
To Phantsin's right, Vlad Blackthorn raised his hand. A dart of Shadowfire, dark and lethal, shot forward and pierced his dummy's chest, freezing the straw and reducing it to black ash in a heartbeat.
Phantsin gritted his teeth. He called upon his core, pushing his will against the frigid barrier of the Star Iron ring on his index finger. The ring siphoned his mana like a bone-dry sponge. It took a Herculean effort just to squeeze out a single spark.
A fireball the size of an apple, pale red and trembling, manifested in his palm. It drifted lazily through the air and crashed against the dummy, barely singeing a couple of loose strands of straw before extinguishing with a pathetic hiss.
A ripple of laughter swept through the line of Ignis students.
"Careful, Dawnfire, you almost burned a blade of grass," Vlad mocked, adjusting the immaculate cuffs of his shirt. "Seems the Mad Dog has lost his teeth. Or maybe that whole explosion last year was just the accident of an incompetent novice."
Phantsin lowered his arm, ignoring the stares of pity and disdain.
He didn't answer. He couldn't afford the luxury of pride. But Vlad was right about one thing: Phantsin had lost his teeth. If he were to face a real demon in this state, or an assassin, the iron ring would guarantee his death long before the Void could even attempt to save him.
He needed power. Not magical. Physical. If he couldn't be a cannon, he had to become a siege mace.
By nightfall, The Athenaeum was like a slumbering beast.
The immense library of Arcanum Bellator was shrouded in silence. The floating Aetheric Lamps had dimmed to a soft, bluish glow to conserve energy, casting elongated shadows between the endless oak shelves and leather-bound tomes.
At an isolated table on the third level, Phantsin Dawnfire rubbed his eyes, irritated by frustration and a distinct lack of sleep.
Dozens of books were piled in front of him: Theory of Compensatory Artifacts, External Mana Channeling, Relics of the Iron Age. He wore his standard black jacket unbuttoned, the red Ignis tie loosened around his collar.
Resting his elbow on the table, he glared at his right hand—the one bearing the Star Iron ring.
They were two months into their Second Year, and Phantsin was drowning. The tactical classes and spars in The Great Crucible were growing increasingly brutal. His squadmates were getting faster, stronger, more precise. He, on the other hand, was a lead anchor. The ring suffocated his magic to the point where igniting a flame on his blade required the same effort as lifting a wagon with his teeth.
He survived taking hits thanks to his high pain tolerance, but that wasn't enough. He couldn't protect Eliana, or Lyla, or anyone else if he remained the weakest link. He needed power. A power that didn't rely on his strangled mana, nor one that would unleash the Void demon lurking within him.
Phantsin tried to lift a heavy tome of Dwarven Enchantments using a basic levitation spell. The crimson spark at his fingertips flickered, trembling beneath the weight of the ring's restrictive runes, and died with a hiss. The book slammed back down onto the table.
"Damn it," Phantsin hissed, striking the wood with a closed fist.
"You're making too much noise, Alpha. The librarians can smell the anxiety."
Phantsin looked up. Perched atop a ten-foot bookshelf, almost entirely camouflaged in the darkness, was Rikka.
The wolf-girl peered over the edge of the wood. Her amber eyes gleamed in the gloom, keeping watch over the lower aisles.
"It's not anxiety, Rikka. It's uselessness," Phantsin muttered, shoving the book closed. "Everything here requires the user to inject their own magic into the artifact. With this ring, I have less available mana than a five-year-old with a magical cold."
Rikka leaped from the shelf. She landed on the marble floor without a single sound, courtesy of her soft-soled boots. Approaching the table, she glared at the black ring on his finger. Her ears flattened slightly; she hated that ring just as much as he did. It smelled like a cage.
"Take it off," Rikka suggested with animalistic simplicity. "If the chain chokes you, bite it."
"I can't. If I take it off, the other thing comes out. And the other thing doesn't care about consequences, Rikka."
"Willpower is an admirable tool, Mr. Dawnfire, but often, it proves... insufficient."
Phantsin sprang to his feet, instinctively stepping between the new voice and Rikka. The wolf-girl dropped her center of gravity, drawing half an inch of steel from her boot, and let out a low, rumbling growl.
From the shadows of the Ancient History section, a tall, skeletal figure emerged.
It was Magister Grimshaw, the Lead Archivist of The Athenaeum and Professor of Defense Against Abyssal Entities. He wore robes of a gray so dark they seemed to swallow the light from the nearby lamps. His face was sharp, almost cadaverous, with sunken, feverish eyes that radiated a predatory intellect.
"Easy, miss," Grimshaw said, regarding Rikka with a dry smile. "Canines are not permitted in the library, but I shall turn a blind eye if they keep quiet."
"What do you want, Magister?" Phantsin asked, his body tense.
Grimshaw approached the table, dragging his left leg ever so slightly. He surveyed the titles Phantsin had been studying. His smile widened—a fissure in a face of stone.
"Looking to compensate for your shortcomings, I see. The illustrious Ignis cannon has run out of powder." Grimshaw pointed a long, bony finger at the Star Iron ring. "An impressive restrictive relic. It halts the flow of your mana. A perfect prison. But as a result, you are being broken in training, aren't you?"
Phantsin clenched his jaw.
"I'm merely looking for a tactical advantage, sir. An external catalyst."
"You are looking in the wrong place, my boy," Grimshaw whispered, leaning over the table. His conspiratorial tone made Rikka's ears twitch with discomfort. "Dwarven toys and noblemen's rings require the user's magic. You need an artifact that asks nothing of you. One that has its own will. Its own... hunger."
Phantsin frowned.
"That sounds like dark magic."
"Survival," the Archivist corrected. "A century ago, during the Great Demon War, Valoria was losing. Our magic was weak against the Void. So the scholars of the time—the true geniuses—attempted to forge a weapon capable of fighting monsters on their own terms. A prototype of symbiotic armor."
Phantsin felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature.
"Symbiotic?"
"They called it the Aegis," Grimshaw whispered, his eyes gleaming with academic fanaticism. "A cuirass of iron and shadows, which required no mana from its host; it fed on damage, on combat, on the blood spilled around it. It was deemed too unstable. Too... cruel. So they sealed it away, and erased its very existence from the history books."
"Why are you telling me this?" Phantsin asked.
Grimshaw straightened, adjusting his dark robes.
"I have watched you struggle to catch up to your peers. I have seen how you'd rather let Grok Stonehide shatter your bones than allow your squad to suffer. You have the willpower to bear a curse, Phantsin Dawnfire. It would be an academic waste not to put that theory to the test."
The Magister slid a heavy, rusted brass key across the wooden table.
"The lower levels of The Athenaeum. The Forbidden Archives. There is a section dedicated to the eradicated demonology of the First Era." Grimshaw turned, walking back into the darkness of the aisle. "The blueprint to the tomb of the Aegis is there. Sector Seven. Row four."
"If I'm caught in the Forbidden Archives, the Inquisition will expel me... or hang me," Phantsin warned the professor's retreating back.
Grimshaw paused for a fraction of a second, looking over his shoulder.
"And if you don't find power, boy, you will die in The Great Crucible as the weak link of your own chain. The key is yours. The consequences, too. Have a productive night."
The Archivist vanished into the shadows, leaving only the fading echo of his footsteps.
Phantsin stared at the brass key on the table. His heart hammered against his ribs.
Aegis.
A weapon that wouldn't drain his mana. A weapon that could give him the Overwhelming Force he needed to protect Flower and his squad, without ever having to remove the Star Iron ring.
"It's a trap, Alpha," Rikka grumbled, stepping closer. She eyed the key as if it were a venomous snake. "That man smells like a rotting grave. He wants to use you to fetch his bone."
"I know," Phantsin nodded, picking up the key. It was ice-cold to the touch. "He knows I'm desperate. And he's right."
Phantsin looked at the wolf-girl. He saw the bandages wrapped around her arms, remembered Eliana's broken arm, and Zephyr's scorched wings. He couldn't afford the luxury of pride or the safety of the rules.
"I'm going down there, Rikka."
Rikka sighed—an exasperated but profoundly loyal sound. Her ears perked up, returning to high alert, and she drew her second hardened-wood dagger.
"If it's a trap, I bite first," she declared, adjusting her purple Umbra sash. "Let's go find your armor, Alpha."