Chapter 9: Visions of Crackstone
The Nevermore library was a tomb of silence, its shelves looming like ancient sentinels, their shadows swallowing the faint glow of lanterns. adam sat at a scarred wooden table, watching Wednesday pace, her braids swaying like pendulums, her brow furrowed with a tension that crackled like static. The air smelled of dust and wax, the weight of centuries pressing down. "Vision?" adam guessed, leaning back, his boots scuffing the stone floor.
She nodded, closing her eyes, her hands clenching into fists. The air shimmered, and adam's HUD flickered as her POV flooded his mind: a burning village, Crackstone chanting in a guttural tongue, flames licking the sky, and initials—"L.G."—scrawled in blood on a crumbling wall. The vision faded, and adam snapped back to his own perspective, his heart racing. Laurel Gates, he thought, the name sparking a glitch in his fractured memories—familiar, but maddeningly incomplete.
He focused, illusions flaring to recreate the scene: the village materialized, flames roaring, Crackstone's voice booming like thunder, "L.G." glowing red against the wall. The scent of smoke was so vivid that Enid, nearby, coughed, her eyes wide. "That's intense," she whispered.
Wednesday opened her eyes, her gaze sharp as a blade. "We need Laurel Gates' records. Forbidden wing."
They crept through Nevermore's shadowed halls, adam's flashlight beam darting across peeling paint and cobwebbed portraits. The forbidden wing was a maze of locked doors, the air thick with dust and a faint hum of magic. As they approached a sealed archive, a trap sprang—iron spikes shooting from the floor, glinting wickedly. adam reacted, lightning coiling around his arms like blue serpents. He unleashed a crackling bolt, melting the spikes mid-air, their molten tips hissing as they hit the stone. Wednesday stumbled, and he caught her arm, steadying her. "Close one," he panted, his pulse hammering.
She nodded, her expression grudging but grateful. "You're marginally competent, Stiels."
They found a journal—Laurel Gates' notes, filled with cryptic references to Crackstone and a "beast reborn." Wednesday's voice was cold as ice: "She's involved. Deeply."
Back in the quad, adam lightened the mood with a prank—an illusion of a faculty meeting spiraling into chaos, teachers arguing with their own echoes, papers flying like startled birds. Weems stormed off, her heels clicking furiously, and Xavier, nearby, chuckled despite himself. "Not bad, Stiels," he said, his tone warmer, a truce forming.
adam grinned, but the name "Laurel Gates" gnawed at him, a glitch in his brain's code. Why's my memory a black hole on her? he thought, the mystery deepening. "This prophecy's got major Thanos vibes," he muttered, earning a sidelong glance from Wednesday.
In his dorm, moonlight spilled through the window, casting raven shadows on the walls. The journal's secrets burned in his mind, a puzzle he couldn't crack without more pieces. The HUD glowed:
[System: 0 Ultimate Skill Cards. Active Skills: Ultimate Immortal Body, Ultimate Illusion Creation, Ultimate Lightning Body.]
He was all in now, tied to Wednesday's hunt, to Nevermore's darkness. "Like an MCU arc with no script," he murmured, sleep claiming him.
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