Ronan stood at the centre of the sealed trial ground, shadows swirling around him like silent whispers. The surroundings were still, unnaturally so, and yet a shiver prickled at the edge of his senses. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the dim environment, his hand instinctively moving toward the hilt of his sword.
"Who are you?" he asked, voice calm but edged with caution. "How did you get here? This area is supposed to be inaccessible to outsiders."
A low chuckle echoed from the shadows. It wasn't mocking, but it carried a weight of experience and confidence. An old man stepped forward, cloaked in a white robe that seemed to blur at the edges like mist clinging to the wind. His presence was immense, even before he spoke further. "Inaccessible? Perhaps for others. But not for me."
Ronan's instincts screamed danger. This man radiated power—more than Mr. Arnold, more than anyone he'd personally faced. Without hesitation, Ronan drew his sword, the edge shimmering faintly in the dim light.
"Who are you really? And what do you want?" The old man raised both hands in a calming gesture. "No need to be on alert, child. I haven't come to harm you."
Ronan's eyes narrowed, shifting toward the woman who stood silently nearby—the one who had manipulated the trials. "Oi," he called to her, his tone sharpened, piercing. "Was it him? Did he order you to make the test harder for us?"
She hesitated, clearly torn, until Ronan gave her a chilling glare. Summoning a Silver will o' wisp. The force of it—calm yet demanding—broke her silence. "Yes," she whispered. "He asked me to."
The old man let out a sigh, neither regretful nor defensive. "I'm not a member of the academy anymore, but I was once." Ronan kept his sword up. "Then why are you here? What business do you have in a place like this?"
"A few months ago," the man said, stepping slowly forward, "someone told me that a mere Adept Tier child had broken the seals of the Ruins of Aerion and released the prisoners. That kind of feat isn't something to ignore. So, I came to see who this person was... and what kind of soul they carried."
Ronan stared at him, unimpressed. "And in order to get to know me, thought it was right to interfere with this trial? You made the test unnecessarily difficult. You exposed my memories. Don't you think you've gone too far?"
The old man lifted a hand dismissively. "I can erase their memories of what they saw." A smirk tugged at Ronan's lips. "Even from Arnold-sir?" The old man fell silent, the smirk on Ronan's face deepening. "Thought so. Don't say what you can't do."
"Then tell me," he said gravely, "what do you want?" Ronan spoke firmly. "First, tell me about her. Her real strength."
The old man glanced at the woman, then replied, "If she were at full power and uninjured, she might be Grandmaster Tier or even higher. But as she is now, she's limited to Master Tier."
Ronan pointed at her. "Then I want her." The old man's brows rose in surprise. "Are you certain? I've been trying to subdue her for years with no success. What makes you think you can control her?"
Ronan extended his hand, and the Silver Flame flickered into existence above his palm. The cold fire seemed to devour the very light around it. "This thing once tried to consume me. Now I control it."
The old man stared at the flame. "The Ghost Flame... Is that why your Soul Power increased so dramatically?"
Ronan nodded, looking into the flame with a hint of weariness. "I had nightmares every day. Relentless ones. They've lessened now, but they still come. I had to strengthen my soul to keep them at bay."
The old man grew solemn. "Then let's get to the real question. Why did you release the prisoners from Aerion?"
Ronan looked at him calmly. "You're an elder—you've seen more than I. Then tell me: if they're already dead, why should punishment last beyond death? Their souls were chained. What crime warrants eternal suffering?"
He walked toward the woman, who now stood with her head lowered. "What's your name?" Her voice was soft. "Mei. My name is Mei."
Ronan's tone was gentle but resolute. "We'll make a soul contract. Serve me well, and maybe one day, I'll set you free, help you create a new body."
Mei hesitated only briefly before pulling a small golden orb from her forehead—her soul core. Ronan pricked his finger and let a drop of blood fall into it. The orb pulsed, then Mei took it back into her forehead. The bond was sealed.
The old man watched carefully. "I have a sword fit for a spirit like her—" Ronan cut him off without even glancing his way. "I don't like the way you've done things today. You've lost a bit of respect in my eyes. So, no, thank you."
He unsheathed a sword of his own. The guard was sky-blue, the sheath a pure marble white. When drawn, the blade glowed with a deep crimson hue.
"From today onward," Ronan said, looking at Mei, "This is you. You are now the spirit of this blade." Mei bowed low, her voice obedient. "Yes, Master." Ronan said, "You can call me Ronan. No need to kneel."
With that, her body shimmered and dissolved into mist, entering the crimson blade. Ronan sheathed the sword with quiet finality.
The old man stepped forward again, more curious now. "If I asked you normally, would you have told me about your Ghost Flame?" Ronan nodded. "Yes." The old man asked, "Then why didn't you mention it to anyone?"
Ronan answered, "Because I don't like being the centre of attention or being a lab rat. I'd rather keep things hidden unless necessary."
The old man stood still, watching Ronan with a look of realisation. "In this world obsessed with power, wealth, and recognition... is there still someone who values something else? Have I misjudged this boy?"
Ronan's voice broke his thoughts. "You still haven't answered my question." The old man looked down, his expression conflicted. "You're right. I've asked that question many times myself—why eternal isolation? Why such torment? But each time I tried to dig deeper, I was told, 'Don't seek the past. It's better left buried.' Those who revealed the truth were cursed by the Goddess of Light."
Ronan sighed. "I asked them too. They said the same thing. I didn't free them to bring them back. They wanted release. True release. And I gave it to them. The Ghost Flame can burn souls—it can truly end suffering, truly."
The old man stared at the crimson blade now housing Mei's spirit. "No wonder she feared him so much," he thought. "To a spiritual being, soul-based attacks are the greatest threat. And he—he holds that flame."
Silence lingered between the two, not hostile, but thoughtful. Two generations divided by age but connected by questions neither could fully answer. The old man took a slow breath. "Perhaps," he said quietly, "perhaps the world needs more people like you, Ronan."
Ronan grunted. "Don't give me that look, and don't say things like that. I'm no saint—never was, never will be. I just want to carve my own path in this world, nothing more."
He glanced at the old man. "Now figure out how you're going to explain this to the others. And if you ever make me the centre of attention, I swear, I'll make you regret it."
The sword in his hand gave a slight tremble. From within, Mei's laughter rang out softly. Ronan narrowed his eyes at the blade. "I can punish you too, you know." Mei's voice echoed faintly, playful but apologetic. "Sorry. It won't happen again."
"I hope not," Ronan muttered, sliding the blade back into its sheath. "I don't care what you do or say," Ronan muttered quietly, almost more to himself than to the old man. "Just don't drag me in."
The old man offered a faint smile, his voice calm. "I'll think of something... once we get out." The light of the portal faded behind them as they stepped into the building. Orin immediately rushed over, his face full of concern.
"Ronan! Are you alright?" Orin asked, looking him over quickly. Ronan gave a small shrug. "Pretty much."