Chapter 872: God's above....
Toren let out a rough exhale, dragging a hand through his hair with the energy of someone trying to untangle a thought too large for his skull.
"Gods above," he muttered, voice tight with reluctant exasperation. "I really don't like things like this."
He looked up at the others, eyes wide, hands thrown in a helpless half-gesture.
"Why are we—us, of all people—getting tangled in this mess? Factions? Bloodlines? Political war disguised as etiquette? I didn't come here to duel philosophies, Luc. I came to train. To survive."
His voice caught, not quite broken—but thin. Almost boyish in the quiet. Almost tired.
Lucavion didn't flinch.
He just shrugged.
"That's life," he said simply.
Two words. So casual. But behind them—steel.
Toren stared at him for a second longer, then just laughed once, low and bitter, running a hand over his face. "Well. That's shit."
Before any of them could respond, a presence cast itself over the garden like a sudden eclipse.
Kaleran.
The Vice-Head's robes moved without sound, the black and silver stitching absorbing the moonlight like memory swallowed into ink. He didn't announce himself. Didn't clear his throat or call for attention. He simply was—already there, already watching.
Lucavion turned toward him last, the way someone turns to face the weight pressing into the base of their spine.
Kaleran's gaze was trained on him.
Not unkind.
Not forgiving.
Just… deep.
As though he were reading not the expression on Lucavion's face, but the spaces between his breaths.
The others straightened instinctively. Mireilla's arms dropped to her sides. Caeden squared his stance. Even Elayne stilled completely, fan forgotten at her hip.
Kaleran's voice, when it came, was not loud.
But it left no room for mishearing.
"I told you," he said quietly, "to keep your head low. To hold your tongue until it mattered. To survive with grace, not fire."
His gaze didn't move.
"And you listened to none of it."
The words weren't a shout. They weren't even disappointed. They were observational. Like he was reading a report aloud—except the report had teeth and had just detonated a political powder keg beneath the banquet floor.
Lucavion met the look unflinching. His stance didn't stiffen. His arms didn't rise to defend. Instead, he gave a slow, almost lazy smile—one that curved just a bit sharper than amusement.
"Correction," Lucavion said, voice smooth as silk unwinding over broken glass. "I listened. I just didn't agree."
Kaleran blinked. Once.
Lucavion shrugged, coat shifting like shadow under starlight.
"You warned us to survive. I've done that. But survival doesn't mean compliance."
He stepped forward once, his voice dipping low—but still audible, like a private truth meant to echo.
"I won't bow to the wrong truth just because it's easier to swallow. Not for the nobles. Not for the Council. And not even for you."
Toven let out a quiet breath behind him. Mireilla's jaw ticked. Elayne's brow furrowed—not in disapproval this time, but thought. Caeden didn't move at all.
Kaleran exhaled slowly.
And for a flicker of a moment—just long enough to register—he looked tired.
Not frustrated.
Not even angry.
Just… old, in a way that had nothing to do with years.
"Is that how it's going to be then?" he asked, quieter now.
Lucavion's smirk didn't fade. "If I'm right," he said, "I won't back down."
A beat.
Then, from Kaleran:
"…Sigh."
The sound came like something dragged up from the depths of a man who had seen too many students ignite, too many prodigies burn bright and vanish like smoke in a war too large for them.
But he didn't reprimand him.
Didn't scold. Didn't threaten.
He just looked at Lucavion as if seeing something… inevitable.
Then his eyes slid to the rest of the group.
Kaleran's eyes drifted from Lucavion to the others—not with reprimand, but with the weariness of a man who had already read this chapter a dozen times before it was written.
They didn't meet his gaze the same way they had a month ago. Not with the deference of students, not fully. Something had shifted. They were still young, yes. Still volatile and unpolished. But there was weight behind their postures now. And behind Lucavion's… something heavier.
Kaleran exhaled quietly and turned slightly, folding his arms behind his back.
He didn't speak.
Not yet.
Because this part was already familiar.
He'd been placed over the commonborn entrants for a reason—no one else wanted the job. And no one else had the bandwidth to manage it without snapping or condescending. Most assumed the commoners would break on their own, or fall in line. Easy, predictable.
But Lucavion?
Lucavion wasn't predictable.
'You weren't supposed to be this loud,' Kaleran thought, the corner of his jaw tightening. 'Not this early. Not this precise.'
This wasn't just a hotheaded student with a grievance. Lucavion was something different—strategic, deliberate, infuriatingly correct… and utterly uninterested in appeasement.
'House Varenth was already a problem,' he continued inwardly, eyes flicking toward the distant towers of the academy. 'And you lit that fuse without hesitation. Not recklessly—but like someone who knew what kind of war would follow.'
And then came today.
The banquet.
The speech.
The sting.
Directly in front of the Lorian envoys, in front of the Crown Prince's inner circle, Lucavion hadn't merely defended himself—he had declared. A challenge. A stance. The kind that left no retreat.
'And now you've officially crossed Lucien's line. Not as a name on a record. Not as a candidate. But as a symbol.'
That was the problem.
Because symbols didn't die quietly.
Kaleran's lips pressed together.
'This is going to be a pain in the ass.'
He didn't sigh again—though it was close. Instead, he stepped forward and spoke, low but firm.
"I was assigned to oversee you after the exams for a reason," he said. "Because I understood what they didn't. That you wouldn't all fit neatly into boxes. That some of you…"—his eyes slid to Lucavion again—"…would refuse the boxes altogether."
He let that linger.
"But understand this. Every time you push back—every time you strike a noble, or outmaneuver a faction, or name the corruption no one else dares to—" his voice dropped a fraction, "—you don't just draw attention."
He paused.
"You invite precision."
The word fell like a stone into a still pond.
Mireilla looked down. Toven shifted again, arms loosely crossed. Caeden's jaw flexed.
But Lucavion?
Lucavion just listened.
Still.
Quiet.
Watching.
Kaleran let the silence hold for a beat longer, then turned, his coat brushing softly against the stone underfoot.
He was tired.
But not defeated.
'If you're going to challenge the bloodlines, Lucavion… at least know what you're really fighting. They aren't kings. They're roots. And they don't just die when you cut the stem—they rot everything around them first.'
He walked two paces, then stopped again.
Didn't look back.
Just said:
"I won't protect you from what you've chosen."
Then—
"But I'll make sure it's a fair fight."
That was the only promise he could give.
And even that… might cost him more than he was willing to admit.
Chapter 873: Strange man
The words hung behind them, heavy as iron but clear as dawn. A line drawn—not between enemies, but between what was permissible and what was worth the fall.
Kaleran didn't wait for assent. He simply turned, the silver-etched edge of his robe whispering against the garden stone as he moved back toward the path. The others followed, slow at first—uncertain whether they were dismissed or summoned—but his pace was not that of someone retreating. It was directive. Leading.
Lucavion fell into step last, the moonlight catching only the curve of his jaw and the set of his mouth—neither smug nor sorrowful. Just… decided.
They walked in silence for a time.
The gravel beneath their boots crunched in rhythm. Lanterns flickered on the pathway—hovering just slightly above the ground, enchanted flames pulsing in a soft, regulated pattern that matched the beat of the main tower's clock. A cadence of the Academy's ever-watching breath.
Toren finally broke the quiet with a mutter. "Well… this is cozy."
Caeden gave a short grunt. Mireilla didn't look at him, but her lips twitched—wry, unreadable. Toven trailed a step behind, casting glances between Kaleran and Lucavion like he was watching the beginning of a siege and still wasn't sure which side would crumble first.
Elayne was quiet.
Not withdrawn. Just watching the way Lucavion's hands flexed now and then at his sides. The tension had shifted—not vanished.
Their carriage came into view.
It wasn't ornate. Not like the nobles' gilded monstrosities that had lined the eastern wing during the banquet. This one was steel-bound wood, cleanly made, with a single rune-glow along the upper frame—sturdy, anonymous, functional. The kind meant to carry people, not presence.
Kaleran gestured with a tilt of his chin. "This one's yours. Direct route to the dormitory quadrant assigned to your group."
The carriage door opened with a creak—not loud, but deliberate. As if the wood itself had waited to exhale until now.
One by one, they stepped inside. The interior was dim, lined with dark velvet and inlaid with runes too faint to read but too precise to be decorative. The moment Lucavion's boot hit the carriage floor, a low hum vibrated through the soles of their feet. A pulse. A breath.
Then—
The world outside flickered.
Not the usual shift of scenery one might expect from motion, nor the jolt of mana-laced acceleration. This was different. The instant the carriage door closed, the light outside warped. Not darkness. Not quite.
It was… veiled.
The lanterns that had lined the path were gone, replaced by hanging orbs suspended in vast space—too many to count, and too far apart to illuminate anything directly. Like stars lowered to earth. Their light rippled across invisible structures—arches of nothingness, walkways that shimmered with echo-light only when stepped upon, stairways leading into folds of architecture that folded back against themselves.
None of the five spoke at first.
Then came the sound.
Not noise, exactly. A whisper of a melody, made not by instruments but by refracted mana bending across surfaces. Like a wind chime played by memory itself. It wasn't a song one could follow—just the impression of one.
The carriage was moving now.
Though the wheels made no sound, and the ground—if there even was ground—was unseen. Around them, images flickered. Not reflections. Scenes.
In one window, a forest stood upside down, its trees blooming upward into fog.
In another, a great library curved into a spiral, its books floating like birds, pages turning themselves.
Through the next—nothing but an endless hall of mirrors, each reflecting not themselves, but a different moment in time: a younger Mireilla laughing with her feet on a windowsill; Caeden bleeding from the hand with a broken blade; Toven crouched in an alleyway, clutching something he wouldn't let go.
None of them spoke.
Not yet.
It was Elayne who moved first—slightly, leaning forward, as if peering into one of the windows might grant her understanding. But the moment she did—
The lights vanished.
Everything stopped.
The carriage was no longer moving.
There was no sound.
Only stillness.
Then—
A knock.
Three times.
Not on the carriage door, but on the air beside it.
The handle turned.
The door creaked open again.
And there he stood.
A man—if one could call him that—draped in layered fabric that looked half-sewn from mothwing and patchwork parchment. His beard was uneven, one eye was glazed over with cataract, and his shoes didn't match—one a military boot, the other a slipper embroidered with sigils so old they had become meaningless.
He did not step forward.
He simply looked at them, one by one.
Then—
"Your question," he said, voice hoarse and patient, as though replying to something someone had asked hours ago, "isn't wrong. Just premature."
Lucavion blinked once. "What question?"
The man ignored him.
His gaze turned to Caeden. "No. The displacement isn't meant to confuse. It's meant to separate."
To Mireilla. "No, it's not real time. It's slant-time. Adjacent. You've already passed the dormitory once—you just didn't notice."
Toven tilted his head. "Who the hell are you?"
The man raised a finger—not to shush, but as though requesting their patience, like they were the ones interrupting him.
"It's the Dormitory Fold," he continued. "One of the seven internal folds of the Academy. Not marked on any map, because maps can't hold topologies written in evolving dimensions."
Mireilla raised a brow. "You could try explaining instead of narrating riddles."
The man actually looked pleased by that.
"There are doors in this place that only open if you forget you're trying to open them. Rooms that exist only while you're inside them. And this dormitory quadrant? It shifts with your mood. If you're angry, your window overlooks a battlefield. If you're afraid, the walls grow thicker. If you're curious…"
He turned then—slowly, with a smile that held far too many teeth.
"…you meet me."
Lucavion's hand drifted casually toward his blade, but not in a hurry. "Why?"
The man chuckled softly. "Because I'm the answer. Or maybe I'm the question. Depends which of you cracks first."
Then he gestured.
And the wall behind him melted.
Not crumbled—melted. Into thread-light and shimmer. Revealing an open pathway through stone and root and light that bent at unnatural angles.
At the end of it stood a door.
A simple door.
With five names etched in its wood.
Lucavion's name was already glowing.
"I wouldn't wait," the man said quietly. "Curiosity doesn't like to be postponed."
The man's voice, until now patient and dry as parchment, took on a strange cadence—less amused, more… intent.
He turned.
The others shifted as his gaze landed on Lucavion—not lazily, not idly, but with precision. Like he was reading something that wasn't visible. A language written between the folds of skin and shadow.
His one good eye gleamed. The glazed one seemed to swirl faintly, as though something behind it stirred awake.
"And you…" he said, the space between each word stretched just enough to unsettle.
The pause lingered. Too long.
Then—
"What the hell are you?"
Chapter 874: Strange man (2)
"And you…" he said, the space between each word stretched just enough to unsettle.
The pause lingered. Too long.
Then—
"What the hell are you?"
Not who.
What.
The question cracked like a whip through the suspended quiet.
Lucavion didn't react at first.
His weight shifted just slightly on his heels, a motion more reflex than posture. The others felt it—Elayne's eyes narrowed, Caeden's brow furrowed. Mireilla, for once, said nothing. Even Toven didn't try to fill the silence.
Lucavion's voice came low, calm, nearly amused.
"Does that line work on all your guests?"
The man's smile didn't widen. It deepened. Like a fissure splitting along his cheekbones—something not entirely meant for faces.
"No," he said softly.
The man didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
Just stared.
One eye cloudy, the other glinting too sharply for this world.
His head tilted, birdlike, as if Lucavion were a crack in glass he was trying to read through.
"No," he said again—softer this time, the word sinking like a stone into water. "Not a guest. Not even a trespasser."
He stepped forward once. Barely a shift. The others tensed—but Lucavion didn't move.
"Just what the hell are you?"
Lucavion's lips tugged into a smirk, slow and crooked. His voice, when it came, carried no urgency.
"I think you're confusing curiosity with obsession. Are you testing me? Or is this supposed to mean something?"
The man's head jerked, a twitch more than a nod.
"No. Not a test."
A long silence.
Then—
"Your energy…" His voice frayed slightly at the edge, like paper left too long in flame. "What is that imprint?"
Lucavion's brow arched. "'Imprint'?"
The air around them tightened.
The man's shape shimmered—just once, then again, like a ripple on a surface that shouldn't bend.
Something was wrong.
His silhouette flickered. His arms jittered a half-second out of sync with his voice, like reality itself was failing to anchor him. His robes wavered, first mothwing, then shadow-thread, then something not cloth at all.
"You carry something…" the man rasped, one foot shuffling forward, even as his figure blurred. "Something wrong—old—"
The orbs above dimmed.
Elayne's hand slipped toward her fan. Caeden had already shifted his stance. But Lucavion simply watched.
A low hum buzzed through the air.
"Abyss…" the man whispered, voice crumbling as the edges of his mouth began to distort. "Why… do you have the… imprint of the Abyss…?"
The last word cracked—glitched—like a record snapped in the middle of its note.
Lucavion's smirk faded a fraction.
"…Abyss?" he repeated quietly. "You've got the wrong script, old man."
But the man didn't hear him.
Or if he did, he no longer cared.
His arm lifted—shaking—as if reaching through mist, fingers twitching toward Lucavion's chest. Mana gathered at the tips, uneven and desperate, flickering in wild, uncontrolled arcs.
And then—
static
A sharp distortion split the space between them. His hand passed through nothing. The mana sizzled against the air, then collapsed into sparks that blinked out before they hit the ground.
The figure staggered.
His features warped now, face buckling inward, the seams of his form breaking apart like he was a projection stretched too thin.
"Can't…" he croaked. "Not… stable…"
His voice fractured. Words came half-formed, half-lost.
"—not meant to—see—this deep—"
Lucavion took one step forward, eyes narrowing.
"What did you see?"
The man's eye snapped toward him—what was left of it.
"You…" The syllables trembled like they were being yanked from another plane.
"You are… from…"
The ground shivered.
And then—
He was gone.
No scream. No flash. Just absence.
As if he'd been erased mid-breath.
The carriage behind them groaned. The lights returned—dimmer than before.
Silence.
Then—
"...Right," Mireilla muttered. "So that's normal."
Toven let out a slow breath. "Okay. Nope. Nope. I vote we don't talk about any of this. Ever."
Caeden was the first to break the silence.
"Lucavion," he said, low and steady, "you alright?"
Lucavion didn't answer immediately. He let the question hang, then tilted his head back slightly and exhaled a short breath through his nose—half sigh, half laugh.
"Please," he muttered with a crooked grin, "I've seen things scarier than him before I turned fifteen. That?" He flicked a hand toward the space where the man had vanished. "That was barely a medium-sized crisis."
Elayne raised a single brow. "And you've never met him?"
Lucavion looked at her.
Flat. Calm.
"No."
Toven narrowed his eyes. "You sure? Because the way he looked at you…"
"I'm sure," Lucavion said. "Never seen his uneven face or mismatched shoes in my life."
"Hmm…" Mireilla's voice was suspiciously light. "Really?"
Lucavion didn't smirk this time. His gaze sharpened just slightly.
"I don't lie," he said simply.
A beat passed.
That, oddly, settled the matter more than any denial could have. The way he said it—without defensiveness, without embellishment—left no room to prod.
Still, the silence that followed wasn't empty.
They were all thinking the same thing. That word.
Abyss.
Toven crossed his arms. "So. Uh. That thing he said. About… the imprint. About the Abyss." He gestured vaguely. "You got any… clue what that was about?"
Lucavion rolled his shoulders with the ease of someone too practiced at not caring.
"I shrug professionally," he said. "So…"
He shrugged.
Toven blinked. "That's it?"
"Would you rather I faint and cry for help?"
"Would be something."
Lucavion gave a faint grin. "Sorry. You'll have to settle for shrugs and mystery."
Caeden gave him a long look, but didn't press. Elayne, though quiet, kept watching him—not for weakness, but for cracks. There were none. At least not visible ones.
Mireilla shook her head and turned toward the door. "Right. Well. If another blurry prophet starts screaming about cosmic horrors, I call dibs on punching him first."
Toven followed with a grumble. "If my room starts whispering, I'm sleeping outside."
Elayne was the last to move, but her eyes lingered on Lucavion for just a second longer.
He met her stare without blinking.
And then—without a word—they stepped through the arch together.
Contonue as after they get out, they will partially view this epeirenc as stange adn detached from reality yet at the same time they will somehow see the truth in the man's claims. Show them partially. Tehn they will soemhow start to believe that encoutner more.
The corridor beyond the arch shimmered like liquid glass before solidifying under their steps. At first, the floor felt normal—smooth stone, faintly warm from mana—but as they moved deeper, the architecture bent in ways the eye couldn't quite follow.
A hallway that should've been straight bowed subtly outward, stretching wide, then narrowing again as if the building were breathing. Stained glass windows lined the walls, but the light they cast didn't match the colors above. One shone lavender but painted the floor in crimson. Another showed a saint with outstretched wings, but the shadow it left was a horned figure crouching low.
Mireilla walked with her arms loosely crossed, eyes scanning the shifting structure around them. "This place is… weird."
"No," Caeden murmured, trailing a hand along the wall. "It's layered."
Elayne glanced back at the archway. "Did anyone else feel like we weren't… entirely there? When that man was speaking?"
Toven rubbed the back of his neck. "Like a dream that someone else had and you just accidentally fell into."
They turned the last corner, and just like that—
Normalcy.
The world snapped into place with unsettling ease. No more shimmering stone, no more bent light or whispering silence. The hallway straightened, its arches clean and symmetrical. The stained glass stilled—just colored panels now, mundane and unmoving.
Ahead, the dormitory courtyard came into full view.
Chapter 875: Dorms
The dormitory courtyard came into full view.
It was… ordinary.
Disarmingly so.
Flagstones arranged in a perfect hexagonal pattern, low lanterns humming with stable rune-light, and four grand dormitory spires marking the corners of the sector. Neatly trimmed hedges framed each walkway, and small mana fountains burbled politely in garden squares. The sky above shimmered faintly with the containment dome's protective magic, casting a warm dusk hue across the scene—synthetic, but soft.
And there—students.
They came in twos and threes, trickling in from carriages that lined the courtyard's outer ring. Polished wood, etched family crests, silken trim fluttering with each departing figure. Some laughed, still drunk on the lingering sweetness of the banquet wine. Others adjusted their robes, brushing off crumbs or glitter or the weight of whatever political maneuverings had chased them through the ballroom hours before.
Toren's voice came low as his gaze scanned the crowd. "That's Lady Veyra from House Elvann."
"The one you flirted?"
"What are you trying to make me look like? I am no such a man."
"….."
Mireilla's eyes had already caught three others—nobles whose names she'd learned out of necessity, whose eyes had skimmed over hers just long enough to register her as something below their tier but inconveniently present. "Looks like we're not quite as segregated as they made it sound."
Elayne's tone was thoughtful. "No. They're not keeping the commoners away. Just… grouping us."
Lucavion didn't comment. His gaze moved slowly over the arrivals, measuring, remembering. He didn't need to name them—he already knew which ones had smiled at him too widely. Which had stiffened when he passed.
The nobles took up the southern wing, as expected.
Ornate staircases, vine-grown balconies, even a few floating lanterns that trailed after students with personalized glows. Subtle magics, status symbols disguised as charm.
And the rest—their group included—were directed toward the northeast spire.
Simpler.
Not cold, not neglected. Just… practical. The stonework was clean but unadorned. The doors opened with a whisper of runes rather than a song of heraldry.
A single steward stood near the base of the entryway, her robes plain, her mana signature carefully muted. She gave them a nod and a flick of her fingers. The sigils on the doors responded, glowing briefly to confirm access.
"Room assignments will have been keyed to your names," she said without ceremony. "Enchanted parchment inside will provide a brief of tomorrow's schedule. Orientation begins third bell."
Then she stepped aside.
That was all.
Toven huffed. "Wow. Really rolling out the carpet for us."
Mireilla grinned faintly. "You expected trumpet fanfare?"
"I expected breakfast."
"I expect you to snore."
They crossed the threshold one by one.
Inside, the dormitory hall was quiet. The walls were lined with dim floating lights shaped like half-moons, and the air smelled faintly of sage and sunroot—cleansing spells embedded in the ventilation, no doubt. Their footsteps echoed lightly across polished black stone, and ahead, the hall branched into five routes, each leading deeper into individual quarters.
Their names shimmered briefly above doorways as they passed.
Lucavion stopped at his. It didn't announce itself—it didn't need to.
The door recognized him before he touched it.
He lingered for a moment, eyes trailing back down the corridor as the others moved to their rooms.
Behind them, outside, the courtyard continued on. The nobles chatted, their laughter just a little too forced now. The containment dome above flickered once, catching the light of some high-altitude spell that no one seemed to notice.
The Academy settled around them again.
Lucavion stepped into his quarters and shut the door behind him with a soft click. The sound seemed too gentle for the weight it carried—like the last sigh of ceremony before everything returned to silence.
The room was modest, but not unpleasant. Smooth blackstone floors extended beneath faintly glowing lightstrips embedded into the walls. Aether-infused glass allowed a view of the dome-sky outside, catching the soft shimmer of containment spells as the artificial dusk deepened.
His eyes swept the space. A shelf beside the wall—not stocked, but expectant. A desk with a rune-quilled note waiting, probably his schedule. A wardrobe that hummed lightly with preservation charms. And at the center, a plush dark-blue couch far too luxurious for something meant to be 'practical.'
He didn't hesitate.
Lucavion threw himself onto it sideways, not bothering to undress. The banquet suit—silken, crisp, expensive—folded and creased beneath him as if it had already outlived its purpose.
'And it has. Theatrics are over.'
He lay still, one arm thrown across his forehead, the other trailing off the side as he stared at the ceiling.
The ceiling didn't stare back. Polished obsidian tile. Reflective enough to catch his outline. Dim enough to keep it blurry.
'This place… it's not bad. A little too polished to be disdainful. A little too humble to be flattering. Almost like they tried to thread the line between noble disdain and common expectation.'
He shifted slightly, exhaling into the silence.
[You're going to wrinkle that suit beyond salvage, you know,] Vitaliara's voice drifted into his mind—dry, unimpressed, and uninvited.
Lucavion didn't even flinch.
'Let it wrinkle. Let it die.'
He stared at the ceiling a moment longer, fingers twitching faintly against the edge of the couch. 'It served its purpose. One night of idle flattery and staged smiles. No one's going to hang it in a gallery.'
[It's silk.] Her tone curled, half scandalized, half chiding. [Mana-threaded, if I'm not mistaken. You let them tailor you into something presentable, then immediately collapse on it like a drunken lordling. I thought you were above such things.]
"I am above it," he muttered aloud, not bothering to keep the thought silent. "That's why I'm lying down."
[Hmph.] She sounded like she might flick her tail in exasperation—if she had one in this disembodied form. [You're going to sweat into it. Or worse—sleep in it.]
"I'm not sleeping," Lucavion replied with a sigh. "I'm observing the ceiling."
[How profound.]
He smirked faintly. 'At least it doesn't talk back.'
[It might, if it were as concerned as I am about your lack of self-preservation.]
Now that earned a real snort from him.
"I survived a blood cult, three assassination attempts, and Aldric's spear. I think I'll live through a poorly chosen nap."
[You're overplaying the "blood cult" part, you know,] Vitaliara drawled in his mind, the word blood dragged out like she was mimicking a cheap stage play. [They were a bunch of random bandits with delusions and matching robes.]
Lucavion let his head roll slightly to the side, cheek pressing into the couch cushion. "And here I was, thinking the stabbing felt very organized."
[Well, I didn't say they weren't dangerous,] she admitted with that usual blend of reluctant honesty and pointed sass. [But you made it seem like they were something… grander. Some ancient threat. Rituals, prophecy, dark altars and fate. Instead, it was just a half-starved priest with a blood fixation and a basement full of rats.]
He closed his eyes, smile faint and unapologetic.
"I never said any of that. I described the knife. You're the one who embroidered the prophecy."
[Embroidered—?!] She sounded appalled. [You called them cultists of the fallen moon.]
"Which was what they called themselves," Lucavion countered, voice light. "I didn't add the dramatic echo."
[You had lightning behind you when you said it.]
"That was atmospheric coincidence."
[It was raining indoors.]
He chuckled, a low sound that rumbled softly from his chest. "Oh no. I used weather to enhance my credibility. What a scandal."
[Don't be smug.]
"I am smug."
[Yes, and I keep hoping one day you'll evolve into something more… emotionally honest.]
Lucavion opened one eye and looked at the ceiling again.
"I'll add it to the list. Right after stopping being insufferable."
Chapter 876: Dorms....
"I'll add it to the list. Right after stopping being insufferable."
[Emotionally honest, my tail,] Vitaliara muttered.
Lucavion stretched one leg lazily over the couch arm and let out a half-yawn. "You say that like you want a heartfelt confession. Do you want me to cry on the rune-lit floor and whisper about my feelings?"
[Only if you want me to evaporate out of sheer secondhand embarrassment.]
He snorted again, drumming his fingers against the armrest. "Good. Because the only thing I feel right now is mildly itchy."
[Then take the suit off, genius.]
"I was going to," he said, finally pushing himself upright with a grunt. "Eventually."
[Eventually implies you were going to sleep in it.]
Lucavion didn't dignify that with an answer. He stood, stretching his arms above his head, the fabric pulling tight across his shoulders before he started unfastening the high collar of the banquet jacket.
The silken weave rustled faintly as he peeled it away. Even rune-cooled as it was, it still clung to him like humidity with opinions.
He grimaced. "Tch. No wonder nobles are always angry. These things feel like they're stitched from strangulation and guilt."
[It's tradition. Presentation. Identity.]
"It's a straightjacket with embroidery," he muttered, slipping the jacket off entirely and tossing it onto the couch without ceremony. Next came the over-layer, the brocade vest, followed by the silver-threaded undershirt.
And then, of course—
"You know," he said, undoing the cuffs with casual fingers, "for someone who lectures me about propriety, you certainly stick around when clothes start coming off."
[Wha—?] Vitaliara's voice flared in his mind, startled. [I am not peeping!]
Lucavion grinned, low and wicked. "Ah, the indignant squeak of a guilty conscience. Classic peeping cat behavior."
[Peep—?! I'm not a—!]
He chuckled as he stepped out of the last layer and stood there in only his trousers, rubbing the back of his neck where a seam had been digging into his skin. "You know, if you were really scandalized, you'd vanish from my mind entirely."
[I should!] she huffed. [But someone has to make sure you don't choke yourself with a shirt.]
"Oh, so you admit you're watching."
[Lucavion.]
"Peeping cat," he sing-songed, grinning.
[Lucavion!]
He turned toward where he imagined her, his smirk still in place. "You're lucky you're not corporeal right now. I'd be ruffling that puffball coat of yours until your dignity disintegrated."
[I dare you.]
He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Too late. The mental image is locked in."
And then—
pop.
She appeared.
White fur, golden eyes, that signature elegant tail curling high with righteous fury. All projected from his mind like she was daring reality to object.
Lucavion raised a brow. "You know," he said with a slow smirk, "that little pout on your face just makes it worse."
She blinked.
He lunged forward.
[No—Lucavion—don't you—!]
He reached down and ruffled her fur with both hands, dragging them back over her head and spine like a man possessed.
She screeched.
[You absolute—!]
He laughed, unrepentant, as her tail fluffed like a bottle brush. "Pfft—gods, you feel like marshmallow lightning."
[Lucavion, I swear—!]
He didn't get to finish the thought.
CHOMP.
"OW—!"
She bit down on his hand, not deep enough to break skin, but hard enough to make him recoil with a curse and a laugh. "Hells, you vicious little pillow!"
[Vicious? You assaulted me!]
"Hehehe…" Lucavion raised his bitten hand like it was a trophy of war, grinning despite the faint red marks on his skin. "Caught."
[Vile.] Vitaliara's tone seethed with affront, but the twitch in her whiskers betrayed her. [Absolutely irredeemable.]
"I do try," he replied smoothly, turning away and stretching with the slow satisfaction of a man who had thoroughly earned his petty victory.
One by one, the rest of the formal layers were discarded. Belt, gloves, the ridiculous embroidered sash. Each hit the floor with a soft rustle or thunk as he made his way across the room.
"Honestly," he muttered, loosening the last of the waist-fasteners, "this entire outfit feels like it was designed by someone who's never had to move."
[It was designed by someone who never intended you to move. Just stand still, smile, and sparkle.]
"Sparkle?" he echoed with mock horror.
[You did sparkle a little. There were starlight threads in the hem.]
"That's slander."
[That's embroidery.]
He rolled his eyes but didn't dignify it further. Barefoot now, and finally stripped down to nothing aside from a certain clothing to cover certain area, he crossed into the washroom. The rune-glass door shimmered as he passed through, the spell-inscribed fixtures coming alive with his presence—gentle warmth rising from the stone floor, mist curling faintly as the steam enchantment activated.
The basin glowed faintly, feeding hot water into the carved marble tub nestled into the corner. Polished obsidian walls reflected him back—sharp, lean, scarred. He glanced once, expression unreadable, then reached to twist open the rune-valve.
Water rushed in with a low hiss.
Behind him, Vitaliara perched herself neatly on the room's outer sill, tail swaying with residual irritation and dignity.
"I'll float," he said, stepping in. "Smugness keeps me buoyant."
[Of course it does.]
He slid into the water with a hiss of breath, the heat washing over him like a wave peeling tension off his shoulders. Muscles unknotting. Breath easing.
He then leaned back against the curve of the tub, the steam curling lazily around his shoulders as he let the tension bleed from his spine. The water had that subtle, silken clarity that only mana-infused reserves could hold—heated evenly, never scalding, never dull. Refined. Too refined.
'Of course it's comfortable. This place probably has enchantments on the water molecules to ensure the steam curls aesthetically.'
His gaze drifted to the cluster of small, glowing glyphs on the inner rim of the tub—embedded into the marble like little runescript petals. One in particular pulsed faintly, a shifting light beneath its surface that didn't match the others.
He frowned.
"Auto-infuse... Core Weave Mode?" he read aloud, tilting his head. "That sounds ominous."
[That sounds like a bad idea,] Vitaliara offered immediately from her perch, nose twitching. [Anything with 'core' and 'mode' in the same phrase is never relaxing.]
Lucavion smirked faintly and, naturally, pressed the glyph.
There was a faint ping, followed by the soft hum of mana circuits activating.
The water began to glow—not brightly, but steadily. It pulsed with a muted golden-blue shimmer, the ripples tightening, condensing around his frame with peculiar precision.
'Interesting.'
For a moment, it was almost pleasant. The mana clung to his skin like warmth with intent, seeping into his muscles with a cool flicker of resonance, a thread of pressure knitting itself into every fiber of his body.
Then it turned.
It shifted.
His breath hitched as a sudden weight slammed down through his limbs—like someone had poured gravity directly into his blood. The mana that had once felt gentle now constricted with mechanical efficiency, pressing into his shoulders, arms, even his ribcage. His biceps tensed. His calves clenched. His back muscles spasmed slightly under the strain.
And he realized—
"…Ah. So this isn't for relaxing."
[What did I just say?] Vitaliara snapped, her golden eyes narrowing. [What did I just say?]
Lucavion grit his teeth as another pulse of mana surged through the bathwater, making every joint in his body feel like it was bearing a weighted vest of pressure magic. "Okay," he hissed through his teeth, "someone in this empire needs to stop naming training functions like they're spa upgrades."
A rune nearby flickered to life:
|Core Weave: Musculature Optimization Sequence—Level 1.
"Oh good," Lucavion muttered. "Level one."
Chapter 877: Thoughts
"Core Weave: Musculature Optimization Sequence—Level 1."
"Oh good," Lucavion muttered. "Level one."
[You activated a combat rehabilitation basin, you idiot.]
"I didn't know it was a combat rehabilitation basin!"
[Because you didn't read the inscription below it!]
"Stop with the nagging," Lucavion muttered, rolling his neck as the glowing bathwater pulsed again. The pressure had shifted—less crushing now, more like… resistance training conducted by a polite ghost.
At first, it had been sharp, jarring. But now?
Now it was settling. Contained. Rhythmic.
The hum of mana wrapped around him like a second skin, woven into the fibers of muscle and bone with deliberate care. It pressed—yes—but no longer with the same overwhelming weight. His body had adapted.
No—endured.
'This thing was probably calibrated for your average Awakened,' he thought, glancing lazily at the still-glowing glyphs. 'A baseline framework. Some middling graduate with soft nerves and glass wrists.'
But Lucavion was not average.
Not anymore.
His body, reforged through trials they didn't document in any Academy syllabus, was denser, faster, more conditioned than most of the empire's ranked Awakened twice his age. Muscles that had been broken and rebuilt under pressure spells, mana flux, physical trauma—and something deeper. Something older.
He let the next wave of mana crush down along his shoulders and didn't even flinch.
In fact… it felt kind of nice.
Not like a bath.
More like sparring with gravity itself and winning.
"Mm," he exhaled, sinking deeper. "There it is."
[You're enjoying this?] Vitaliara sounded both disgusted and mildly betrayed.
"It's calibrated for the weak," he said lazily, eyes closing. "And I'm not."
[Oh, now that's not insufferable at all.]
He didn't rise to it. Just let the water cycle through another pulse, and this time, his body met it with ease—stability. Not resistance, but balance. Like the mana had finally recognized what it was dealing with and adjusted accordingly.
The glyphs flickered in a soft, steady sequence now. More like acknowledgment than aggression.
"I could stay here all night," Lucavion murmured.
[Don't tempt fate.]
"Temptation implies doubt. I'm just relaxing."
[You are the only person I've ever seen call magical muscle compression relaxing.]
"I'm not most people."
She didn't answer.
But from the sill, her golden eyes watched. Quiet now. Not irritated. Just… watching.
Because whether she'd admit it or not—
She agreed.
[That man. Or… thing. Whatever it was.] Vitaliara's voice echoed faintly in the chamber, like her thoughts had found a way to ripple through the steam. [That wasn't normal.]
Lucavion didn't open his eyes. Just let the compression field hum across his spine as he exhaled, slow and deep. "No argument here."
[You didn't recognize him? From the novel?]
That pulled a thought from deeper inside—the quiet space where calculation and memory slept like wolves in waiting.
'I didn't,' Lucavion thought. Not a whisper, not even for her to hear—just a truth folding inward.
There had been no mention of such a figure in the original narrative. No ink-smeared notes in the margins, no foreshadowed chapter tucked between lines. And Lucavion remembered every scene with surgical clarity. Every name. Every death. Every power tier and narrative cue.
Yet that man—his voice, his eyes, the way he'd glitched as if reality had tried to swallow him back—
Nothing.
"I didn't know something like that existed," he finally said aloud, voice calm despite the undertow of unease.
Vitaliara emerged more fully now, perched just beside the glyphwork, her knees drawn up, her hair curling in the mana mist. Her gaze was unreadable, a storm concealed in still water.
[He was made of mana, I think.] Her tone dropped. [Not shaped by it. Made of it. Like a cast with no core.]
Lucavion turned that over slowly. "But he spoke. Thought. Reacted."
[Exactly.] She tapped one claw lightly against the glyph-lit stone. [And yet when he said "Unstable," I felt nothing. Nothing. No source. No core. No link. Just… void.]
He opened his eyes, barely, gaze flicking to her. "So he didn't lie."
[Not about that.]
Silence fell between them again, dense and layered. The mana field pulsed once more—subtler now, as though it too were listening.
[But he did one thing that no construct, no projection, no puppet should be able to do,] Vitaliara murmured.
Lucavion turned his head slightly.
[He identified you.]
His expression didn't change. But the stillness around him did.
[Lucavion… there is no one else I know—nothing in the Academy—who could look at you and see what I see. Who could name it.]
"You think he knew?"
[He said Abyss. But that wasn't what hit me.]
"What, then?"
[Your mana. He recognized it. You weren't suppressing it fully, were you?]
Lucavion gave a faint shrug. "Didn't feel the need to."
[Exactly. That thing didn't need your permission to see. It felt it.]
There was a pause. Not accusatory—just cautious.
[No normal human can sense death mana, Lucavion. Not truly.] Vitaliara's tone was soft now, but not uncertain. [It's not just rare. It's forbidden. Forgotten. The body rejects it, the soul recoils from it. Most mages can't even see it, let alone name it.]
Lucavion's eyes drifted to the ceiling, watching steam coil into soft spirals above. The mana in the basin pulsed again, but it barely stirred him now. He'd long since adapted to its rhythm—made it his.
"So," he said slowly, "how'd he do it?"
Vitaliara didn't answer at first. She traced the edge of a glyph with one fingertip, her nails glinting faintly in the charged air.
[That's what unsettled me. That wasn't some highborn enchanter or academy elder with a fancy bloodline. That thing didn't even have a proper form. It was stitched together with mana like it had crawled out of the seams of a broken spell.]
He exhaled softly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
"And yet it saw me."
[It did.] Her golden gaze met his. [And not just you. It saw what you carry.]
Lucavion's eyes half-lidded again.
The [Flame of Equinox].
A black fire that burned not with heat, but with silence. It devoured noise, light, presence—left no ash, only absence. In all his uses of it, no one had ever been able to name it. Scholars had speculated. Alchemists theorized. But the truth always slipped past them like ink through cracked parchment.
That was why he didn't hide it.
Because no one could trace it.
Because even seeing it didn't mean understanding it.
Most just assumed it was a rare affinity or a corrupted elemental strain—dangerous, yes, but still within the realm of the known. Manageable.
'But he knew.'
Lucavion's jaw flexed.
That… thing hadn't recoiled in fear.
It had identified.
Named.
Abyss.
A word never spoken aloud in the original script. A word that had weight even in silence.
[That's why you've never been careful, isn't it?] Vitaliara said quietly. [With the flame. You let them see because they can't recognize it. You wanted someone to.]
Lucavion didn't respond.
Not at first.
Then—"Maybe," he said, too lightly to be casual.
But both Vitaliara and himself knew that was not just a maybe.
'A clue.'
After all, there were a lot of things that he didn't even know about himself.
Weren't there?
Chapter 878: Thoughts (2)
Lucavion lingered in the basin a while longer, letting the mana's low resonance ripple through his bones. It no longer felt like training. Or even therapy. Just a rhythm—slow, firm, familiar. Like an old companion who knew exactly how hard to press before crossing the line.
The warmth clung to him, not just from the water, but from something subtler. A stillness that hadn't existed earlier. The strange clarity that only came when everything had been shaken, then stilled.
[You're quiet,] Vitaliara murmured.
He didn't answer. Not with words. Just a breath through his nose, long and even, and a closing of the eyes that said enough.
But as with all stillness—it passed.
Eventually, the water cooled. The compression pulses softened. The enchantment dimmed, its job done, perhaps recognizing that the man within it had lost interest.
Lucavion sat up.
His hair clung to his neck in damp streaks, shoulders gleaming faintly with condensation. The steam clung like breathless ghosts around him as he stepped out of the basin and reached for the drying glyph. It flared once, obedient, heat and wind folding around him in a silent burst that left skin dry and airless in seconds.
The towels sat unused.
He walked past them, bare-footed, back into his room.
Vitaliara flicked her tail once on the sill, but said nothing. She followed him with her eyes, not her words.
The wardrobe opened with a whisper of runes.
He didn't pick anything fancy—just fitted travelwear, light and enchanted for comfort. A half-collared tunic of deep ash-grey, sleeveless. Softlined black pants. No crest. No trim. Just functional cloth and silent enchantments.
He tied the sash loose. Let his arms breathe. And as he laced the boots, he let his thoughts finally drift away from compression basins and abyssal names.
Mostly.
Vitaliara stretched once before leaping down with the soft precision of a falling ribbon, curling herself across Lucavion's shoulder without a word. Her weight was negligible—more presence than mass—but her warmth pressed just beneath his collarbone like a reminder: I'm here. Watching.
He stepped out into the corridor.
The Academy's air met him like a second baptism.
Cool. Clean. Dense with intent.
He exhaled—and felt it. The difference.
It wasn't just mana in the air. It was crafted. Filtered. Refined. The kind of magical ecosystem that only centuries of obsessive arcanists and divine-tier enchantment could build. Even the atmosphere here held rules.
'Polished,' he thought, the word lifting from his mind with a flicker of satisfaction. 'Just like the book said.'
Mana here didn't swirl—it coursed. The pressure was heavier than outside the grounds, yes—but not oppressive. No, it forced structure. Breath control. Circulation. The natural pull of ambient mana here didn't allow sloppiness.
He inhaled again, letting the air settle beneath his ribs.
Denser. Sharper. Efficient.
This was why the Academy bred monsters. Not because of lectures or politics—but because every breath you took inside these wards taught your body to adapt.
'I wonder,' he mused, 'how many here even know what they're breathing.'
[The walls here hum,] Vitaliara murmured, golden eyes half-lidded. [I could sleep forever inside this frequency.]
"You'd be the only one getting rest," Lucavion replied under his breath. "The rest of us have politics, professors, and possibly prophetic glitch-men to deal with."
She didn't dignify that with a response.
He descended the last step from the dorm's curved staircase and crossed the outer courtyard walk. Lanterns had begun to lift from the ground again, dancing lazily above stone as night crept deeper into the dome. Not high, not low. Just suspended—like the breath of something watching.
Then he saw them.
Mireilla and Caeden.
Leaning against one of the outer pillars of the north wing, half in the light, half not.
Caeden noticed him first.
His eyes lifted from whatever low conversation he and Mireilla had been sharing, and for a moment—just a breath—he looked like he was still deciding whether to speak.
Then he straightened slightly and gave a small nod.
"Lucavion."
Lucavion didn't stop walking. Just angled his steps toward them with that familiar gait—unhurried, sharp in the joints but lazy in the shoulders. As if the world itself could wait.
Mireilla glanced over, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. Not surprise. Just… calculation.
"Out for a moonlit stroll?" Caeden asked as Lucavion drew near.
Lucavion smirked. "If by stroll you mean letting myself be drowned in compression mana while getting scolded by a shoulder-cat, then yes. Lovely evening."
[Vitality beast,] Vitaliara corrected with absolute offense, not even bothering to raise her head from his collar.
Caeden snorted, though it was more exhale than laughter. "You're in a good mood."
Lucavion stopped beside the pillar, shoulder brushing stone, arms loose at his sides. "A basin that doesn't try to kill me is a rare gift. I'm savoring the moment."
Mireilla tilted her head slightly. "You don't strike me as the 'moment-savoring' type."
He shrugged. "Even poison tastes sweet if you know how to drink it."
Caeden raised a brow. "That supposed to be wisdom or a warning?"
Lucavion's smile curved sharper. "Depends. Are you planning on drinking anything?"
Mireilla laughed once—dry, quick, genuine. "Stars help us all."
For a time, none of them spoke. Just leaned into the silence like a shared breath after something too large to name had passed. The courtyard didn't shift this time. No prophetic figures, no mirrored windows to other lifetimes. Just stone and air and three people who, somehow, still stood after a night that had rewritten the rules behind their eyes.
Then Caeden broke it.
"You think he'll show up again?" he asked, not clarifying who he was.
He didn't need to.
Lucavion looked toward the dome overhead, watching the way the light caught the invisible weave of the containment shield. Then:
"I hope so."
Caeden blinked. "You… hope so?"
Lucavion just shrugged, as if the idea of being stalked by a reality-fraying anomaly was no more troublesome than finding a spider in your boot. "Mysteries like that?" he said. "They don't come around twice. And if they do—well. Might as well make use of them."
Caeden gave him a look. "Use. A glitching, mana-ghost cryptid."
Lucavion turned to him with a slow, lazy smile. "You make it sound ungrateful. We survived. We learned something. I might get stronger. Seems like a win."
Mireilla folded her arms. "You're assuming 'stronger' is worth what that thing costs."
"To someone like me?" Lucavion tapped a knuckle gently against his temple. "It is."
There was a lull.
Somewhere above them, a breeze slid through the dome's upper layers, rustling mana-fused ivy that clung to the upper balconies. The sound was soft—almost like whispering—but not quite.
[You're doing that thing again,] Vitaliara murmured, eyes half-closed. [Pretending like your curiosity isn't hunger.]
Lucavion said nothing. Only exhaled slow through his nose.
And behind them, the air shifted.
Not dramatically. Not with a flare of magic or a sound. Just… shifted.
Like a breath drawn in reverse.
Elayne stepped into view from the shadow of a column. Silent. Unannounced. The ambient light caught the silver trim of her sleeve first, then the sweep of her gaze, cool and unreadable. She said nothing.
Mireilla and Caeden didn't even turn. Still caught in their thoughts. Still unaware.
Lucavion, however, didn't need to turn.
He already knew.
"Elayne," he said softly, without looking. "You always did enjoy arriving like a plot twist."
She stepped forward just enough for her presence to settle against the edge of the conversation.
Caeden startled slightly. Mireilla blinked and straightened.
"How long have you been—" Caeden began.
Elayne's voice, quiet as dusk: "Long enough."
Lucavion finally turned to face her fully. No expression. Just eyes that knew she'd been listening, and didn't mind.
"Anything to add?" he asked.
Her gaze met his. Level. Steady.
"Only that the ones who survive stories like this," she said, "rarely get to remain the reader."
Lucavion's smirk returned, crooked and slow.
"Good," he said. "I hate reading other people's endings."
Chapter 879: Compressed
Caeden leaned back against the stone pillar, arms folding across his chest, but there was a quiet gleam to his expression—like someone still processing a private victory.
"I tried cultivating," he said, nodding toward the open air above the courtyard. "Just a bit. Couple of breaths. Felt… different."
Mireilla raised a brow. "Different how?"
Caeden exhaled, eyes narrowing in thought. "Like… the mana was watching me. Not resisting. Not guiding. Just... aware. I've never had that before. Where I'm from, you grip what you can and force it in. Here?" He shook his head. "It's like it wanted to see what I'd do with it first."
Mireilla let out a thoughtful hum. "That doesn't sound awful."
Caeden gave a half-smile, more thoughtful than amused. "It's probably just in my head. I mean, mana doesn't watch. Not really. But even if I'm wrong…" he exhaled slowly, "I could feel the difference. Just a few breaths, and I already felt clearer. Like it was cleaning me from the inside out."
Lucavion glanced at him, eyes sharp beneath the low lanternlight. "You're not wrong."
Caeden blinked. "You've felt it too?"
Lucavion didn't answer directly. "This place isn't natural. It's engineered. You don't live in a place like this—you're reshaped by it. Slowly. Quietly. Even when you're not paying attention."
Mireilla let her fingers trail along the edge of the pillar. "Then I should probably stop ignoring the strange hums coming from my wardrobe."
[You're being rebuilt,] Vitaliara murmured from Lucavion's shoulder, [like metal in a divine forge. Just don't crack too early.]
The quiet tension between them shifted again—lighter this time, almost curious.
Then—
BZZZT—WHAP
A loud snap echoed down the hall to their right.
All three turned just in time to see a figure stumble out of one of the dorm entrances.
Toren.
Disheveled didn't quite cover it.
His hair—already a chaotic mess of short, spiky tufts—now looked like it had been struck by lightning again, each strand flicking with residual arcs of static. Sparks crackled between his shoulder blades as if his body hadn't fully discharged whatever ritual—or disaster—he'd just walked out of.
He blinked blearily at them, one eye twitching from a shock that hadn't entirely worn off. His robe clung to one side of his body like he'd half-burned it off, and there was a faint smell of ozone trailing behind him.
"Hey," he muttered hoarsely, squinting like the moonlight itself had offended him.
Mireilla blinked. "Toren… why are you walking like every part of your soul has debt?"
Lucavion's smirk returned, slow and entirely unfair. "Looks like someone tried the bath."
Toren raised one arm halfway—wobbled—then let it drop. "Tried is a strong word. Was lured."
Caeden tilted his head, brows raised. "Are you… injured?"
"Injured?" Toren's voice cracked on the word. "No. No, no. That would imply there's something left to injure. I think my spine detached itself somewhere around the third pulse. Pretty sure I've been operating on faith and residual pride since."
Lucavion chuckled low in his throat, eyes gleaming. "You activated the core weave sequence."
Toren turned slowly, like the motion itself might fracture something important, and squinted at Lucavion like he was trying to recognize a war criminal. "You knew about that?!"
"You looked like you needed muscle realignment," Lucavion replied, utterly unapologetic. "Now you've had it. Congratulations."
Mireilla stepped forward, expression flickering between concern and incredulity. "Wait—wait, you're telling me you used the training compression function on the first night?!"
Toren raised both hands, as if surrendering to a force larger than himself. "I didn't know! The glyph just said something about body optimization and restoration! I thought it was a recovery soak! You know—nice heat, mana fizzles, maybe a shoulder massage if I was lucky!"
Lucavion snorted. "Shoulder massage? It reforges your bones."
Mireilla stared at Toren like he'd just confessed to attempting brain surgery with a spoon.
"You didn't read the full glyph?" she asked, voice rising with the slow, inevitable horror of someone realizing she was surrounded by idiots. "It was literally inscribed above the basin. With pictograms."
Toren tried for a shrug and only managed a grimace. "The glyph shimmered in this really welcoming kind of way! It said 'Muscle Restoration'—not muscle annihilation!"
"That's not what it said," Mireilla snapped. "It said 'Core Weave: Musculature Optimization via Targeted Mana Compression.' That is not a bath. That is something you use after your bones have already been ground to dust in training."
"I thought it was fancy phrasing!" Toren protested. "Like, 'mana hydration sequence' or 'personalized essence soak' or—"
"Oh my stars," Mireilla groaned, pressing her fingers into her temples. "You don't just guess when activating enchantments! You read. You verify. You don't throw your body into something because it sounds good."
"There were bubbles!"
"Bubbles?" Mireilla repeated, flat. "That was your litmus test?"
"I was tired! And curious! And I might have had two glasses of banquet wine left in me!"
Lucavion, still leaning comfortably against the pillar with Vitaliara curled like a white scarf of superiority around his neck, tilted his head ever so slightly toward Mireilla. "You should commend him, you know. His decision-making was catastrophically terrible, but look—he lived."
"That is not the point!" Mireilla hissed. "He could've ruptured something! Those baths are tuned for mid-tier awakened with reinforced nerve matrices. Not… flammable human twigs with delusions of resilience!"
"I'm right here," Toren mumbled.
"And yet somehow still intact," Lucavion added helpfully.
"Barely!" Toren wheezed. "I swear, I felt the tub judge me. I'm pretty sure it muttered unworthy at one point."
Mireilla folded her arms, still glaring. "You're lucky you didn't implode."
Caeden, trying and failing not to laugh, cleared his throat. "Well… at least now you'll be the first student in history to start orientation with fully restructured muscle alignment. That's... probably worth something."
Lucavion gave a low chuckle. "Give it a day. He might grow wings. Or explode."
"Stars forbid," Mireilla muttered.
Toren just slumped down onto the nearby bench like a collapsed prophecy.
"Next time," he said weakly, "I'm sticking to cold water and regret."
The laughter lingered for a while—warm, genuine, and exhausted. The kind that came after adrenaline had long since fled and only absurdity remained to fill the gaps.
Toren, now a broken monument to hubris and unchecked curiosity, slouched deeper into the stone bench, groaning every time he dared to shift position. Mireilla still threw him the occasional sideways glare, arms crossed as if physically restraining herself from delivering further lectures. Caeden sat beside him, a half-smile on his face and that thoughtful calm in his eyes—already half gone into some internal cultivation reflection, even while present.
Lucavion remained standing, posture lazy but alert, arms draped across the back of the pillar like a cat eyeing the door, not quite ready to return to the cage.
"Stars," Mireilla muttered, rubbing her face, "what a cursed night."
"Depends on your definition," Lucavion murmured.
Caeden stood, stretching slowly. "I'll take 'not dead' as a win."
"I'll take dead if it means a soft bed," Toren groaned, finally levering himself to his feet like an elderly tree trying to uproot itself.
Mireilla turned toward the dorm archway. "We've got orientation first bell. If you stumble in tomorrow morning looking like a freshly exorcised spirit, I'm not helping you walk."
"No help needed," Toren said, half-limping after her. "I'll just drag myself in on vibes and compressed muscle memory."
"Compressed is the key word," Caeden said, following them with a faint smirk.
They paused just past the arch—then looked back.
Lucavion hadn't moved.
Mireilla raised a brow. "Aren't you coming?"
He shook his head, one hand half-lifted in an idle wave. "You all go. I'll walk a bit. Let the night stretch its legs."
"You're not going to trigger any more ancient enchantments, are you?" Caeden asked dryly.
"No promises," Lucavion replied, smirking faintly. "But if I get vaporized by some forgotten hallway rune, feel free to take my books."
Mireilla gave him a look—somewhere between suspicion and mild concern—but didn't press. "Try not to start anything that'll drag us into paperwork."
Toren, already halfway up the dorm steps, called over his shoulder, "If you see another glowing glyph, punch it for me."
"Noted," Lucavion said, watching them vanish into the upper halls one by one.
And just like that, the courtyard fell quiet again.