Two weeks.
It took two weeks for the bones in my arm to fully fuse, for the seared skin to lose its angry-red sheen, and for the last of the deep-tissue bruising to fade. The healers at the Tower, with their potions and mending-spells, were masters of their craft. They returned my body to its "pristine" condition.
The academy, too, had healed. Or rather, it had scabbed over.
The "Leonidas Incident," as it was now called, was a closed book. The commoner faction, left leaderless and terrified, was silent. The professors who had championed Leonidas were now conspicuously quiet, their favored prodigy having proven to be a "dangerous, unstable element." Thomas Fell was quietly withdrawn from the academy by his family, his future as a mage over. Mara Stonecroft was a ghost, a name on a roster that had simply... vanished.
And I, Lucian Greyfall, was the victor.
My new life, the life I had purchased with their ruin, had begun. The change was palpable. As I walked the halls, fully healed, the students no longer saw "Damien's sidekick." They saw... me.
The nobles, especially those in Damien's circle, treated me with a new, startling deference. Their sneers were replaced with respectful, almost fearful, nods. Marcus Thorne, in a particularly sickening display, had tried to "befriend" me, inviting me to join his social circle for cards. I declined. They didn't see me as a person; they saw me as a new, unpredictable power, a cold-blooded strategist who had proven his lethality.
I was respected. I was feared. I was a hero to the monsters.
This was my golden cage, and its bars were forged from my reputation.
My own routine changed. The secret courtyard was a memory, a place I could never return to. Seraphina's gaze, which I felt on me in every class, in every public hall, was a constant, silent accusation. She was my warden, the one person in the world who saw the prisoner inside the gilded armor.
My training did not stop. It simply evolved. I no longer needed to practice swordsmanship in the dark. My path forward was not through steel. My true power, the path to my eventual, ice-cold revenge, was my Mana Core. Every night, locked in my room, I sat for hours, performing the Mana Breathing. It was no longer a desperate act of survival. It was the slow, patient, and meticulous work of forging a weapon. I was building my power, drop by drop, breath by breath, in the very heart of the enemy's fortress. The self-loathing was still there, a cold, hard pit in my stomach, but it was no longer a weakness. It was fuel. It was the furnace that burned all night, every night.
A week after my release from the Tower, the summons came. It was not a thuggish command from a follower. It was a note, delivered by an academy messenger, written on thick, expensive parchment in Damien's own hand.
Lucian, my chambers. We have much to discuss.
I went. He greeted me at the door not as a servant, but as an equal. He even offered me a glass of the same expensive wine he drank. I declined.
"You're healing well," he observed, taking a seat behind his desk. He was no longer the cruel master, but the patient mentor. "You've been... quiet. Contemplative. Good. The victory was total, but a true strategist learns from his successes as much as his failures."
"What did I learn?" I asked, my voice a neutral, dead calm.
"You learned that the mind is the only weapon that matters," he said, a genuine, academic enthusiasm in his voice. "And that is why I have a new project for you. A true project, Lucian. Not mere 'pest control.' This is the beginning of our real work."
He leaned forward, his golden eyes intense. "I have told you this academy is a stagnant pond. It is ruled by old fools who hoard power they are too cowardly to use. They are sitting on a treasure trove of knowledge that could, in the right hands, remake the world."
My heart, which I had thought was a cold, dead thing, gave a single, hard thump of dread.
"The Grand Library," Damien said, as if he could read my thoughts of it. "It is a facade. A showpiece for students. But it has a secret. A place I've only found hints of in my family's private records. A place the academy denies exists."
He paused, letting the weight of the secret settle. "It is called the Verboten Archive."
He watched me, gauging my reaction. I gave him nothing.
"It is the academy's true source of power," he continued, his voice low and hungry. "A vault, buried deep beneath the public levels, where they lock away 'dangerous' magic. True soul-magic. Research on the Heartstone. Forbidden rituals. Pre-Imperial history. The keys to real power. And that is what I want."
"You want me to break in," I stated, the words flat.
He laughed. "No, Lucian. Not yet. A brawler breaks in. An architect... an architect finds the blueprint. He finds the flaw. He finds the key."
He stood and walked over to me, placing a small, silver object on the table. It was a medallion, etched with a complex, glowing rune.
"This," he said, "is a Level Four Academic Access Pass. It took my family three generations to earn the political capital for one of these. It will get you into the faculty-level stacks, the deep archives, the historical records... everything short of the Headmaster's private vault.
"Your new project is one of research," he commanded, his voice a smooth, silken order. "You are not a fighter; you are a scholar. You will use your new, celebrated status as my protégé to become the academy's most diligent student. You will bury yourself in that library. You will research the history of its construction. You will study its ward-schemes, its ancient enchantments, its forgotten architects. You will find me a map to the Verboten Archive. You will find me a way in."
I looked at the silver medallion. It was a key. It was a chain. It was a reward for my monstrous acts, a new, more powerful tool that would enable my next, greater crime. I was to be the man who found the key to unlock Pandora's Box, all so my master could plunge his hands in.
"I will not be disappointed, will I, Lucian?" he asked.
I picked up the cold, heavy medallion. Its magic tingled against my skin, a violation.
"No, Damien," I said, my voice the hollow, perfect echo of his most valuable asset. "You will not."