Syndra smiled faintly, placing her slender palm on Kayle's body as dark energy surged from her hand.
"One body, two souls... It's not hard to transform just one."
"Don't worry so much," she added.
"The soul of a Celestial is difficult to alter by normal means. All we need to do is awaken the one that's been dormant for centuries."
Ryan's face was focused as he carefully recorded each note, stroke by stroke, in his research journal.
Just a few days ago, Morgana had revealed something interesting.
After Kayle was the first to draw the holy sword, it was as if she had become different.
Divinity had overtaken her humanity in an instant.
Yet when Morgana drew the other sword, she remained entirely herself—unaffected.
"To awaken her," Syndra continued, "we'll need to supply energy that can rival the soul of a Celestial. And since she's chosen to sleep, that makes things more complicated than if she'd been subdued."
She glanced up at the dim, dark orb hovering above.
Its energy had been completely drained, consumed by Morgana's celestial power.
"My sister... she's pushed herself for this."
Ryan nodded. "We're almost there with our research on the Celestials. Now it's just a matter of waiting."
He finished the last sentence on the page, closed the notebook, and opened a fresh one, continuing without pause.
In the library atop the Mage Tower, an extra bookshelf now stood, crammed with volumes, each filled with their findings on Celestials.
But the full nature of a Celestial still eluded them.
Kayle was only a partial manifestation—more of a prototype shaped by mortal descendants, not a true Celestial.
The astral form...
Ryan's eyes lit up with curiosity and anticipation.
That was the key to the Celestial mystery.
While the magic department held its demonstrations, other departments were also in full swing.
In the war department, Draven had turned the training grounds into a gladiatorial arena, inviting anyone to team up and face him in combat.
"What chaos," Quiletta muttered, arms crossed, standing upright in a red-and-black outfit at the edge of the ring.
Beside her, a short, wild-eyed figure was screaming hoarsely.
"Oh! Come on! Tear that mustache off!"
Somehow, Kled had found his way to the demonstration, showing up the moment Draven entered the ring.
Every time someone got hurt, he screamed the loudest, absolutely thrilled.
"Pfft! Attacks from below are trash—real men strike upward! It's all about the flair!" Kled shouted as he watched a burly fighter get launched into the air by a clean uppercut.
He wasn't one to slash randomly. His blade always struck from the bottom up at the weak points.
"Get someone to heal him," Quiletta sighed, rubbing her temple and signaling the nearby medics.
Another round of 9-on-1 had ended in a resounding defeat—Draven standing victorious once more.
The former showman had become an executioner on the battlefield and was thriving.
Time really did fly.
"Hahahaha! Who's next? C'mon, give me more!" Draven boomed, planting both spinning axes into the ground as he laughed with his hands on his hips.
He was having the time of his life. Though part of him wondered what those Ezreal brothers were up to.
Probably sitting somewhere small, sipping tea and philosophizing about the cosmos.
Still, for all their talk, at least they were entertaining.
Elsewhere, over at the History Department, Ezreal sat outside the cafeteria, visibly miserable.
His expression was stiff, as if he were sitting on needles, completely uninterested in being there.
Inside the department's lecture hall, rows of people had gathered. Young students.
White-haired scholars. Historians of Noxus. And aspiring ones, too.
At the front, where a professor might usually stand, there was instead a tea table.
Ezreal sat at it, across from a beautiful, fair-skinned woman with a poised presence.
Ezreal awkwardly raised his glass and took a sip, trying to cover up his growing unease.
The moment the bright red wine hit his throat, a fiery pain seared through him. His eyes widened involuntarily.
"Professor Ezreal," the woman across from him said with a calm smile, her breath warm as she leaned slightly forward.
"Your previous answer was quite interesting. By the way—do you know the origin of the wine you're drinking?"
Ezreal stiffened. He quickly set the glass down, grasping for a reply.
"Uh... Soulflame. The tavern on the west side of the city sells it for twenty gold coins."
There was a hint of bitterness in his voice. He'd ordered it once for the Draven brothers.
They downed it like juice.
"Professor Elise, would you mind giving us a little historical context?" he added, forcing a knowing look.
Ten minutes ago, he hadn't taken her very seriously—just another young, beautiful professor.But now?
Who is he? Ezreal, scholar of Noxian dynasties, Piltover lineage, Shuriman tombs, and Zaunite revolutionaries!
Surely he couldn't be shown up by a fresh-faced historian even if she was—well, stunning.
"We were just talking about the great houses of Noxus," Elise replied, her lips curling in amusement.
"And this wine happens to be tied to one of them."
She had just returned from the Shadow Isles, not expecting to stumble into such an amusing conversation.
This bright-eyed young man wanted her to mix wine and history? Adorable.
At first, their debate had been fairly balanced. Elise knew Bilgewater and the Shadow Isles inside out.
Ezreal, on the other hand, was well-versed in Piltover, Shurima.
But now...
"The great houses?" Ezreal echoed, trying to fake confusion.
"The Swain family? The... Kythira family?"
In truth, he was floundering. Once the topic shifted to Noxus, he realized he was out of depth.
How could anyone know so much detail about centuries-old noble houses?
The fall of House Kisera due to internal betrayal.
The rise and decline of the Zaafan family following political upheaval. Even House Swain's eventual dominance.
He only knew fragments from dusty tomes. And worse, his audience was enthralled.
A few gray-haired historians in the crowd even cheered Elise on.
Ezreal sank deeper into self-doubt.
'She doesn't even look that old!'
...Well, parts of her did look rather mature.
He stole a glance at her and silently offered a compliment.
Elise swirled the wine in her glass with delicate fingers, her smile playful.
"Soulflame... was once a poison. Its name refers to a fire that burns the soul, leaving it to suffer eternally."
Ezreal blinked. "That's... intense."
He subtly pushed the glass a few inches away.
"It was first used hundreds of years ago," Elise said, her voice rich with storytelling flair.
"At a noble banquet, a husband plotted to murder his wife."
Ezreal's brows rose.
"What a monster."
He was starting to see why the Council had appointed Elise as a professor.
Her storytelling was almost too vivid—like she'd been there.
The edge in her voice and the slight weight behind her words almost felt like the victim was speaking through her.
Even if Ezreal had lived it himself, he couldn't have described it so well.