The hallway was quieter than it should've been, eerily so. The usual bustle of students had faded to a ghostly hush, as if the very air was holding its breath.
Arthur stepped out of Class S-1, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black robe. Despite the calm exterior, his mind churned with the weight of what had just happened. The stunned silence that had fallen over the classroom, Velithra's piercing, unreadable gaze, the low murmurs of disbelief and awe from his classmates—they swirled through his thoughts like dust settling slowly after a storm.
"Well, maybe I really am the first to graduate this fast," he murmured, a small, almost bitter smirk tugging at his lips. Part pride, part disbelief.
"Correction," came the smooth, ever-present voice of Elaris in his mind. "You're the first to graduate this fast because of me."
Arthur let out a short laugh and rolled his eyes. "Do you ever get tired of being so smug?"
"Nope," Elaris replied without hesitation.
Arthur sighed, pushing off a sudden wave of loneliness that always came with Elaris's presence—a constant reminder that despite his power, he was still alone in many ways.
"Training classes are still going on," he said aloud, voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "From what I can tell, I can't meet my seniors just yet. I'll try to reach out to him this weekend."
There was a pause before Elaris responded, voice softer this time, almost cautious. "That's a good plan. But… what if he rejects you? He's suffered a lot in these years. You can't know how he feels."
Arthur's jaw clenched, eyes narrowing with quiet determination. The thought of rejection stung, but he pushed it aside fiercely. "No. He won't reject me. I'm going to transfer a little of my power to him."
Elaris's voice trembled with a hint of worry. "Isn't that dangerous? Even for you?"
Arthur nodded slowly. "Yes. It could drain me, maybe worse. But even a little of the divine essence I carry can change him. If not completely, it'll be a start—a chance for him to begin reforming."
For a moment, the silence between them stretched out—thick with unspoken fears and hopes.
"As you wish," Elaris finally said, with quiet resolve. "I'll help you as best I can."
Arthur tapped the golden mana bracelet on his wrist. Warm light spilled from it, engulfing him in a soft glow. His body hummed with energy as he prepared to teleport away—back to his private training area, to the solitude where he could wrestle with the burdens of power and purpose.
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Erinoguard Academy was vast—more a miniature world than a school. Its landscape stretched across mountains veined with crystal mana lines, rivers that shimmered with latent magic, and forests so ancient even the dragons whispered their names with respect.
Far away from the floating spires and stone halls of the student quarters, along the jagged ridge of the Shadewind Mountain Range—a forbidden sector rarely visited even by instructors—a lone figure knelt beside a slab of smooth granite.
The man was unremarkable at first glance: black hair falling to his shoulders, dull brown eyes, dressed in plain robes. But the calm, methodical way he carved glowing runes into the stone betrayed something deeper—an unnatural precision, a predator's patience. Each stroke of his mana-carved tool hummed with controlled intent.
He wasn't alone for long.
A ripple in the air, subtle and silent, and then—a figure in black appeared behind him. Masked, cloaked, and radiating a sickly, suffocating pressure. The newcomer's presence felt like a vacuum in the world, as though the very mana around him dared not breathe.
The masked figure spoke, voice hoarse and razor-thin.
"It begins in a week."
The man didn't look up. He finished a rune, paused, and finally replied with a sigh.
"We'll need to adjust the plan slightly."
The masked one tilted his head, interest piqued.
"Why?"
"An unexpected variable has appeared."
The man stood, dusting off his hands. His gaze drifted south, toward the heart of the Academy.
The masked figure's tone sharpened. "His rank?"
"Peak Rank 2 "
A scoff. Cold, amused.
"That's all? Then kill him. It'll be… efficient."
The man turned at last, his brown eyes no longer dull, but simmering with restrained malice.
"He's not just anyone. He's Arthur Valerian."
A beat of silence.
Then, low and venomous:
"That fucking family."
The words dripped with old hatred, the kind forged in war and sealed in blood.
The masked figure folded his arms. "So what now?"
"Change the target." The man began drawing a glowing symbol in the air, complex and ancient.
"Kill someone from Class S-1. Someone he's not close to. Someone visible, talented, young. Make it painful. Make it loud."
The masked figure gave a slow nod. "Difficult. But doable."
"That's the point." The man's smile was crooked now, joyless and cruel. "We want him to feel helpless. If we can't cut off the head, we'll poison the limbs."
"Understood."
Without another word, the masked figure stepped back—and vanished, like smoke returning to the wind.
Alone again, the man walked to the cliffside, the wind tossing his hair like whispers from the forest below. He raised the rune-covered stone, now burning with crimson glyphs, and hurled it into the trees.
The silence shattered.
BOOOOM.
A thunderous shockwave ripped through the ancient forest. Trees snapped like twigs. A plume of black smoke rose into the morning sky. Birds screamed as they scattered. Flames bloomed.
The man stood still, watching it burn. Not with satisfaction—there was no joy in his expression. Only a bitter calm. A predator's patience.
"Let the child come," he muttered, turning away.
"Let him walk blindly into a game played long before he was born."
And with that, he stepped into shadow—and was gone.