Caelan woke to a ceiling he didn't recognise.
White. Too clean.
"Where... am I?" he asked, squinting as the light stung his eyes.
"The infirmary," Nerith said, already at his side. He slid an arm behind Caelan's back and helped him sit up.
"How long?" Caelan asked.
"The whole day," Veynar answered.
Thoryn gestured toward the window. Night pressed against the glass. "See for yourself."
Caelan stared, then swallowed hard. He bowed his head, shoulders tense.
"I'm sorry."
"Of course you are, you idiot," Master Rynar said from the foot of the bed.
Caelan flinched slightly. "Master."
"Do you have any idea how worried you made everyone?" Thoryn said, arms crossed—but his voice wasn't sharp. Just tired.
The weight in Caelan's chest deepened. He tried to speak, but nothing came out.
For a moment, he just sat there—hands clenched in the blanket, breath shallow.
"If you're sorry," Veynar said, softer now, "then rely on us next time."
"We can figure things out together," Draven added.
"We won't pry," Thoryn said. "But don't forget—you're not alone."
Nerith nodded. "You don't have to carry this by yourself."
Caelan's vision blurred.
He hadn't noticed the tears until they slipped free, warm and silent, soaking into the sheets. He pressed a hand to his face, embarrassed—too late.
Memories stirred. Old ones. Loss. Fear. The familiar ache of having to stand alone.
Except this time, he wasn't.
"I'm... sorry," he whispered again.
No one laughed. No one scolded him.
They stayed.
"Alright, everyone—that's enough," Instructor Lyris said, her voice firm but gentle. "You've done what you can. Go to bed. You still have classes tomorrow."
"Yes, Instructor Lyris," they replied in unison. One by one, they left—each sparing Caelan a final glance before the door closed.
Silence settled.
Lyris turned back to him. "Now, Caelan," she said softly, "can you tell us why you didn't ask any of us for help?"
Caelan blinked, caught off guard. "You... you aren't going to scold me?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Scold you?" A faint smile touched her lips. "We're instructors. Teachers. Guides. Why would we scold a student for needing us?"
"Caelan," Captain Valen said, stepping forward, his tone steady, "do you know how we see you?"
Caelan stayed quiet.
"We see a prodigy, yes," Valen continued. "But more than that—we see a boy who shouldn't have to walk alone. Someone who still needs a hand when the path gets too heavy."
Professor Lythera spoke next, his voice calm but weighted. "We know your past. We understand it. But understanding doesn't excuse neglect—especially when ambition turns into obsession... when desire stops listening to reason."
Caelan lowered his gaze.
"I should have intervened sooner," Instructor Irene said quietly. "I saw how hard you were pushing yourself. I told myself you could handle it."
"Don't say that," Caelan said, looking up. "If it weren't for all of you, I wouldn't have felt like I belonged here. Each of you matters to me. I just..." He hesitated. "I forgot that I wasn't alone anymore."
Irene exhaled slowly.
"That's the problem," she said. "So did we."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Captain Valen folded his arms, then slowly let them drop—a small, uncharacteristic break in posture. "Caelan," he said, choosing each word carefully, "you're not just another student to us."
Lyris nodded. "You're not an experiment. Not a tool. Not a problem to be managed." Her gaze sharpened, though her voice stayed even. "You're someone we are responsible for."
Professor Lythera turned his eyes toward the window, as if grounding himself before speaking. "Do you know how rare it is," he said, "for instructors to debate whether a student is too dangerous to themselves?"
Caelan stiffened.
"We were afraid," Irene admitted, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. "Not of what you might become... but of what you were willing to lose to get there."
Valen's jaw tightened. "We've seen that path before. Students who believed they had to carry everything alone." He met Caelan's eyes directly. "It never ends well."
The silence that followed was heavier than any reprimand.
Caelan's breath hitched. He hadn't expected this—not fear, not from them. His fingers curled slowly into the blanket beneath him, knuckles whitening.
"You were scared?" he asked quietly.
No one rushed to deny it.
Lyris stepped closer, placing a hand over the edge of the bed—not touching him, but close enough to be unmistakable. "Yes," she said. "Because if something had gone wrong... we wouldn't just have lost a prodigy."
Her voice softened.
"We would've lost you."
Something in Caelan broke—not loudly, not visibly—but enough that he had to look away. His vision blurred, his chest tight in a way cultivation had never taught him how to handle.
"I thought," he said, barely above a whisper, "that as long as I succeeded... it wouldn't matter."
Irene shook her head. "It mattered. It always did."
Caelan swallowed hard. Slowly, he nodded.
"I won't promise I won't push myself," he said. "But... I'll stop pretending I have to do it alone."
That—more than any oath—was enough.
Instructor Lyris pulled him into a hug.
That did it.
Caelan broke—not violently, not loudly—but enough. He cried for a while, and no one rushed him. No one told him to stop. When it finally passed, they all felt it too—the tension easing, the weight lifting, the fear loosening its grip.
Once the room had settled, Scholar Nerith stepped forward.
"Boy," he said.
Caelan looked up at him.
"I have been observing you," Nerith continued, "at the request of Instructor Irene."
At that, every instructor straightened.
"I have reached a conclusion."
Silence sharpened.
"And what is that conclusion, Scholar Nerith?" Caelan asked.
"That you are not meant to cultivate."
The words landed heavily.
"I see," Caelan said after a moment, a small smile forming—not forced, but gentle. He glanced at the others, noting the tight expressions, the worry they hadn't fully hidden. "Don't worry. I promised I wouldn't be reckless. I'm not pretending—it's alright."
Their shoulders eased, just a little. This was the Caelan they knew.
Nerith clicked his tongue. "Ah, ah. Do wait until I finish."
Caelan blinked.
"What I mean," Nerith said, "is that you are not meant to cultivate using modern cultivation."
Relief flickered—then confusion.
"When you stabilised yourself in the Spectacle last night," Nerith continued, "I recognised it. That was an ancient method—one that aligns the self before power."
"But what exactly it is... or whether it is safe," he paused, eyes narrowing in thought, "I do not yet know."
The room grew still again.
"Until my analysis and research are complete," Nerith said firmly, "you are forbidden from cultivating or attempting to use Axiom."
Caelan nodded without hesitation. "Alright. I understand, Professor."
Nerith paused. Then sighed.
"And drop the Scholar. Professor or Teacher will do."
"Oh?" Irene smirked. "So you've opened up to him, you bored old man?"
"Hush," Nerith replied flatly. "That's enough. The boy needs rest. He hasn't fully recovered from fatigue. We're leaving."
They did—one by one.
"Take care, Caelan," Instructor Lyris said, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
Captain Valen patted his head. "My child. Be well."
"See ya, boy," Master Reynar said, fist to chest.
"Rest properly," Irene added, brushing a hand gently against his cheek.
"Don't overdo it," Trainer Keath said with a nod.
Professor Lythera lingered at the door. "Remember," he said quietly, "you are not alone. We are here."
The door closed.
And all that remained was Caelan—
the silence,
And a warmth he had almost forgotten existed.
The room was quiet.
Not the empty kind—this one breathed. Warm. Safe.
Caelan lay back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the faint echo of footsteps fading down the corridor. His chest still felt tight, not from pain, but from something heavier.
So this is what it feels like, he thought. To be worried about.
He brought a hand to his face, rubbing at his eyes, embarrassed by the faint sting still lingering there. Crying hadn't made him weaker. If anything, it had made the weight clearer.
They were afraid.
Not of what he might do to the world—but of what he might do to himself.
Instructor Lyris's hug lingered like an imprint. Valen's steady presence. Irene's guilt. Lythera's quiet warning. Even Nerith's restraint—it all pressed into him, deeper than any cultivation ever had.
I didn't realise...
I wasn't carrying this alone anymore.
A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.
"I won't forget again," he whispered to the empty room.
Power could wait. Ambition could wait. Even answers could wait.
But this—the trust in their eyes, the relief when he smiled, the way they stood between him and the abyss without asking—this was something he refused to lose.
I'll walk carefully, he promised himself. I'll listen. I'll rest when they tell me to.
And if the path ahead demanded pain—if it demanded patience, sacrifice, or silence—
Then so be it.
I'll make sure they never have to look at me with fear again.
His fingers curled lightly against the sheets.
I'll keep their smiles where they belong.
My friends'. My teachers'.
No matter what it costs me.
The warmth didn't fade.
And for the first time in a long while, Caelan let himself sleep.
When he woke again, morning light spilled across the infirmary.
He checked the clock on the wall, then made his way to ritual studies.
"I'll keep my promise," Caelan said quietly.
The moment he entered the classroom, the room fell silent.
All eyes turned to him.
Some students looked away the moment his gaze passed over them.
Others whispered, not cruel—just uncertain.
It wasn't hatred.
It was pity.
And Caelan found that harder to endure than scorn.
"Hey, Caelan."
Nerith waved from the back of the room.
Caelan looked up, smiled, and went to sit with his friends.
"How're you feeling?" Thoryn asked, leaning closer.
"Much better," Caelan replied.
"Good," Nerith said simply.
A moment later, the door opened.
"Alright, class," Professor Lythera said as he entered, his voice steady. "Today we'll be reviewing ritual circles."
His gaze swept the room—and paused when it reached Caelan. A faint smile crossed his face, subtle but unmistakably relieved.
"Today's exercise is purely revision," Lythera continued. "Mistakes are expected. The goal isn't perfection—it's to see whether you've improved, whether old flaws remain, or whether there's something you previously overlooked."
He gestured toward the arrays laid out before them.
"You may begin."
The classroom came alive—chalk scratching, murmured calculations, low debates over symmetry and flow.
Caelan watched for a moment, hands folded in his lap.
Lythera noticed.
Seeing that Caelan was keeping his promise, he walked over and stopped beside his desk.
"Caelan," he said quietly, "you may advise your friends. But forming or activating a ritual circle yourself is forbidden."
"I understand, Professor," Caelan replied easily. He smiled—and meant it.
He leaned in, pointing out minor misalignments, correcting flow ratios, helping his group stabilise their work without ever touching the chalk himself.
Across the room, Kaelan watched.
And smiled.
Nerith observed Caelan throughout the session.
Thoryn cast the occasional glance his way—Veynar as well.
Draven, as always, remained entirely himself.
"Alright, class," Professor Lythera said, clapping his hands once. "I've gone around and advised each of you. You should have noted where your weaknesses lie."
He paused, letting his gaze linger.
"All that remains is review. Practice makes progress."
"You're free to leave."
Chairs shifted, chalk was set down, and the room began to empty.
As Caelan stood to follow, Lythera stopped him with a hand gesture.
"Well done," the professor said quietly. "I know it isn't easy—but well done."
Caelan smiled. "Take care, Professor. I'll see you later."
Lythera nodded. "Go on."
His friends watched, saying nothing.
________
Weapons training came next—and here, Caelan was free.
No restrictions. No careful lines.
Master Reynar found him almost immediately, just as usual.
"A spar?" Reynar asked, already loosening his shoulders.
This time, Caelan wasn't rushed. He wasn't distracted. His movements settled into their familiar rhythm—measured, controlled, alive.
Caelan adjusted his stance, steady and unhurried.
He wasn't proving anything—just staying true to his word.
"Hey, Reynar."
Instructor Lyris's voice cut through the space, sending a chill straight down Reynar's spine.
"He's still recovering," she said calmly. "Go easy."
She paused.
"Otherwise..."
Reynar straightened at once. "Alright. Alright."
The spar ended early.
Nerith, Veynar, and Thoryn watched him closely.
Draven, meanwhile, simply smiled—relieved to see Caelan back in his rhythm.
Behind them, Kaelan scoffed quietly, still trailing Caelan's shadow.
"Alright, everyone," Captain Valen called out. "You've all improved since the last session—and the extra training has clearly paid off."
"You're free to go," Instructor Lyris added.
A collective sigh of relief followed. Hunger was a powerful motivator.
Caelan stayed behind a moment, tidying the space as he always did.
That was when they approached him.
"Good to see you back to your usual self, child," Valen said warmly.
Caelan smiled—then nearly lost his breath as Lyris pulled him into a crushing hug.
"I'm so relieved, sweetie," she said. "Welcome back."
Trainer Keath gave a firm nod.
Reynar lifted both thumbs in approval.
Soon after, the group headed back toward their room—planning to bathe before lunch.
They watched Caelan the entire walk from the training grounds.
He felt their gazes burn into his back.
He let them watch.
If that was the price of their peace of mind, he'd pay it gladly.
When they finally arrived, Caelan came to a stop.
"Um... guys?"
They didn't respond.
"...Could you stop staring?" he asked.
"Why do you think we're doing it?" Nerith replied flatly.
"I already told you—I'm not going to do something stupid again," Caelan said. "You can relax with the constant surveillance."
Veynar scoffed. "You think that's why we're looking at you?"
Thoryn crossed his arms. "Don't you have something to say to us?"
Caelan blinked—then it clicked.
"...Sorry."
He took a breath.
"I'm back."
"Too late, idiot," Veynar shot back. "We already moved on and forgot you."
"Huh?" Caelan frowned. "Then why were you staring at me?"
"...Okay, we didn't," Veynar admitted. "But I'm still mad at you."
"If you were awake," Thoryn added, "you should've come to see us."
"I'm sorry," Caelan said honestly. "But class was starting, and I didn't want to be late."
"That does not make it better," Veynar muttered.
"Alright," Caelan said quickly, holding up his hands. "I'll make it up to you. Relax."
Nerith sighed. "Fine. Let's leave it at that."
Then Draven smirked. "Come on—spar with me."
"Training buddy," Caelan corrected loudly. "And no. I'm hungry. I'm bathing, then I'm eating."
The others burst out laughing.
"Shut up," Caelan grumbled, heading toward the baths.
They followed after him—after all, no one was eating while still sweaty and smelling like iron.
Steam curled through the bathhouse.
Caelan sank into the warm water with a quiet sigh. Veynar joined him a moment later, followed shortly by Nerith after rinsing off. Draven and Thoryn stayed back to wash before stepping in.
"So," Nerith said at last, leaning back, "what was all that with the instructors?"
Caelan straightened slightly. "They were just... reassuring me." He smiled faintly. "I guess I finally realized they're not just instructors to me. And I'm not just a student to them."
"That's favouritism," Veynar said instantly, slipping back into his usual teasing tone.
Thoryn lowered himself into the bath. "What did they talk to you about in the infirmary?"
Draven followed, listening quietly.
"They told me I can't cultivate," Caelan said calmly.
"What?!" Veynar shouted, water sloshing. "Then what are you supposed to do?!"
"Let him finish," Nerith said, laughing. "You did the same thing during the opening ceremony."
Veynar grinned. "My bad. Can't help it."
Caelan chuckled softly. "It was Scholar Nerith."
"Nerith's a scholar?" Veynar interrupted again, earning a smug look from Nerith.
"No," Caelan said, smirking, "this Nerith isn't that smart."
Laughter rippled through the bath.
"Continue," Nerith said quickly.
"He said I can interact with Axiom just fine," Caelan explained. "But the system doesn't recognize me. Modern cultivation isn't meant for me."
"Then what was that?" Draven asked.
"The thing two nights ago," Caelan said, "was an ancient—lost—method of cultivation."
Silence.
Everyone stared.
"I knew it," Nerith said reverently. "You're some legendary figure."
"My lord," Veynar said, bowing dramatically. "You humble us again."
Caelan splashed water at them. "Will you two ever stop exaggerating?"
"Never," Veynar replied, splashing back.
Thoryn and Draven joined in, laughter breaking through the steam until the water settled again.
Then Thoryn spoke.
"You know," he said quietly, "we were scared."
The laughter faded.
"Nerith and I stayed up," Thoryn continued. "You were drawing ritual circles nonstop. Cultivating until morning."
"That's when we told Veynar and Draven," Nerith added. "We stayed awake to watch you."
"We tried calling your name," Veynar said. "We even made noise on purpose."
"You looked..." Thoryn swallowed. "Possessed. We were terrified we'd lose you."
Caelan didn't speak.
"I know Draven and I became friends with you later," Thoryn said, voice steady but honest, "but now the thought of days without you doesn't feel right."
"The way you treated us," he continued. "Not just you—Veynar and Nerith too. No scorn. No distance. Even though we're nobles."
"We came to care," Thoryn said. "About all of you. Especially you, Caelan."
"Without you," Draven added quietly, "this group wouldn't exist."
"We feel the same," Nerith said.
Veynar looked away. "You know we don't have good history with nobles. Those two from Kaelan's group—we knew them."
"Something happened," he continued. "We started hating the whole idea of it."
He looked back at Caelan. "Without you, we wouldn't be here. We'd be different people. Worse ones."
"We've heard the rumours about you," Nerith said gently. "Whatever they're based on—we don't know."
"We'll wait until you're ready to tell us."
Thoryn met Caelan's eyes.
"But understand this," he said. "You're more than a friend. More than a classmate."
"You're the backbone of this group," Thoryn finished.
"The thing that keeps us true to ourselves."
Steam still drifted through the bathhouse.
Caelan sat quietly for a moment, eyes lowered, listening to the water lap softly against the stone.
"...I'm sorry," he said at last.
They all looked at him.
"I didn't mean to scare you," Caelan continued. "I wasn't thinking about what it looked like. Or what it felt like—from your side."
He took a breath.
"One day," he said, more firmly now, "I'll tell you everything. What happened. Why there are rumours. Why things... go wrong around me."
He met their eyes, one by one.
"But not yet. Not because I don't trust you—because I don't want you carrying it until I understand it myself."
No one pressed him.
"That's fair," Nerith said first.
Veynar nodded. "Yeah. Just don't vanish on us again."
Thoryn smiled faintly. "We'll wait."
Draven's voice was quiet but certain. "As long as you come back."
Something in Caelan's chest loosened.
"Thank you," he said, sincerely. "For staying."
Veynar grinned suddenly. "Alright. Emotional moment's over."
He splashed the water once. "I'm starving."
"Same," Nerith said, standing. "Let's go before everything's gone."
They washed up quickly, dressed, and headed out together—laughing, shoulder to shoulder, the air lighter than it had been all morning.
________
The canteen was already loud when they entered.
Plates clattered. Voices overlapped. The smell of hot food cut through the lingering scent of steam and soap.
They lined up together.
That was when Caelan felt it.
A gaze.
From across the room.
Kaelan leaned back at a table with his usual group, eyes narrowing just slightly as they landed on Caelan—and then flicked to the others beside him.
A slow smile crept across Kaelan's face.
"Well," he said loudly enough to carry, "looks like the invalid's back."
The table around him chuckled.
Veynar stiffened.
Thoryn's jaw tightened.
Caelan took a step forward—
—and felt a hand on his arm.
Not restraining. Grounding.
They weren't behind him anymore.
They were with him.
The canteen buzzed with noise and movement.
Caelan and the others had just sat down when chairs scraped loudly nearby.
"Well, well," Kaelan's voice carried across the table. "Did Tartarus lower its standards, or are we handing out pity passes now?"
A few snickers followed from his group.
Veynar's grip tightened around his cup. "You want to repeat that?"
Kaelan smirked. "Relax. I'm just surprised he's allowed back so soon. After all that... spectacle."
Thoryn leaned forward. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh?" Kaelan said. "Then enlighten me. Or is he too fragile to speak for himself?"
Draven stood slightly. "Watch your mouth."
Kaelan laughed. "See? Still hiding behind others."
Caelan set his utensils down.
Slowly.
He stood—not tense, not angry.
Calm.
"Enough," he said—not loud, but it cut through the noise.
Everyone went quiet.
Caelan looked at Kaelan, expression unreadable.
"You provoke because you don't understand," Caelan said evenly. "And because you don't understand, you think noise will make you relevant."
Kaelan's smile twitched.
"There are things you'll never grasp," Caelan continued. "Not because you lack talent—but because you refuse to look past what flatters you."
Silence spread.
"Anything you don't understand will always look like failure to you."
Kaelan's jaw tightened.
"But that's not my problem anymore."
Caelan turned away.
"Come on," he said to his friends. "We're done here."
They stood with him—without hesitation.
As they walked off, Kaelan remained seated.
Ignored.
Not defeated—dismissed.
And somehow, that hurt far more.
Laughter rippled through the canteen—but not for them.
Kaelan's smile had vanished. The taste in his mouth turned bitter.
His hand tightened slowly against the table.
"This isn't over," he said quietly.
"Man, I really don't get what his problem is," Veynar muttered.
"I don't know," Caelan replied honestly.
"He's been like that since the very first class," Nerith added. "Day one."
"Seriously?" Veynar frowned. "What's his deal?"
Caelan shrugged lightly. "Let's forget it for now. We've got cultivation class."
They made their way through the halls and entered the classroom.
This time, it wasn't a joint session.
Professor Irene stood at the front, hands folded.
"Today," she said, "we'll be discussing cultivation failure—also known as deviation."
The room quieted.
"Deviation occurs when Axiom is forced into the body," she continued. "This can happen through reckless acceleration, overextension, or cultivating while exhausted."
She let the words sink in.
"Cultivation is not meant to be rushed. It is not something achieved in a single night."
With a gesture, she displayed several recorded cases.
Blood being coughed up.
Muscle spasms twisting limbs unnaturally.
In the worst cases—stillness.
Death.
"Remember this," Irene said calmly. "Power gained improperly always demands repayment."
She stepped aside as several cultivation instructors entered the room.
"That will be all for theory today. Your practical session begins now—they'll be taking over."
As students began to stir, Irene approached Caelan.
"Caelan," she said quietly, "come with me."
He nodded.
They left together.
"Caelan," Professor Irene said, stopping beside him, "from now on, during cultivation periods—excluding theory—you are not required to attend."
"Understood, Professor," Caelan replied without hesitation.
"Don't worry too much," she added.
"I won't," he said.
She took a few steps... then abruptly stopped.
Caelan didn't react in time and walked straight into her.
"Professor—why did you stop all of a sudden?" he asked, flustered.
She turned, studying his face closely.
"Are you sure?" Irene asked quietly.
Before he could answer, she cupped his cheeks, forcing him to look at her.
"Are you sure?" she repeated.
"Professor, you don't need to worry about what happened," Caelan said, his words slightly muffled. "I promised I won't do it again."
She exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing—as if an invisible weight had finally lifted.
"Alright," she said. "I'll take you at your word."
Then, her tone shifted.
"Well," Irene continued, a faint smile appearing, "I have a treat for you. I reviewed your timetable—Ancient History, wasn't it?"
Caelan nodded.
"Good," she said. "Then this will do nicely."
They stopped in front of a familiar, worn door.
"Beyond this," Irene said, gesturing forward, "is your present."
"I see," Caelan said, opening the door.
The room beyond was chaos.
Books everywhere—open, closed, stacked, overturned. Scrolls hung from shelves and chairs alike, ink stains scattered like constellations across the floor.
Caelan stared.
"...How is this a present?" he asked.
"Just wait," Irene said, winking.
A voice rang out from within.
"Who is it now?" Scholar Nerith called. "Why do people insist on disturbing me? Is my time truly that cheap?"
"Oh—Teacher," Caelan said as Nerith came into view.
Nerith froze.
"Caelan?" he said, adjusting his glasses. "What brings you here, my boy?"
"Professor Irene told me this was my present," Caelan replied honestly.
Nerith slowly turned his gaze to her.
"Well," Irene said smoothly, "he can't cultivate for the time being. And since he chose Ancient History, I thought—why not learn from the best?"
"I don't take apprentices," Nerith replied flatly.
Irene sighed dramatically and stepped behind Caelan, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.
"Look at this poor boy," she said. "He has nothing to do because of your declaration. So really... You should take responsibility."
Nerith stared at them in silence.
"...Fine," he said at last. "But only because he intrigues me."
Irene smiled victoriously.
"Just be honest with yourself, you old man."
"Enough," Nerith snapped.
Caelan stood between them, offering an awkward, half-forced laugh.
With that, Professor Irene left.
Nerith gathered several books from different shelves, stacking them without much care.
"Alright, my boy," he said, placing them before Caelan. "This is what I want you to read. Research, cross-reference if you must."
He paused.
"I'm preoccupied at the moment, so I won't be teaching you personally. When I return, I'll test you on whatever you've learned."
Nerith turned away.
"You have one day. Be prepared."
Caelan nodded and took a seat among the stacks, the room swallowing him whole as the scholar disappeared deeper into the clutter.
He picked up the first book.
Ancient Ruins.
"Hm," Caelan murmured. "This looks interesting."
He flipped through brittle pages, ink faded with age.
Maps show where people lived.
Ruins show where reality failed.
Caelan paused.
...What an odd line.
He continued reading.
There are four ruins dated and acknowledged.
Knowing is far more dangerous than not knowing.
The Spiral Obelisk — located within the Human Kingdom of the Northern Codlands, beneath Eldres Hollow Crown.
The Drowned Amphitheatre — resting in the sea-folk dominion of the Abyxal Drift.
The Weight of Stone and The Broken Span — both within the shared Stone-kin and Sky-folk realm of Aethyron Reach.
All heavily regulated.
"That's... strange," Caelan thought.
Four ruins.
Yet something about the wording unsettled him.
Acknowledged.
As if others existed.
As if these were the only ones people were allowed to know.
A faint unease settled in his chest.
Something didn't sit right.
________
The library was quieter than Caelan expected.
Not the comfortable quiet of study halls, but a heavier stillness—one that felt enforced rather than natural. Rows upon rows of shelves stretched upward, their tops vanishing into shadow. The lamps hanging from the ceiling cast warm light, yet the corners remained stubbornly dark, as if light simply refused to settle there.
Caelan stepped inside.
The doors closed behind him with a dull, final sound.
He exhaled, unsure why his shoulders felt tense.
It's just a library, he told himself.
Still, something felt... different.
The further he walked, the older the shelves became. The polished wood near the entrance gave way to darker, worn planks. Titles faded from spines. Some shelves bore marks—scratches, sigils half-scraped away, symbols deliberately ruined rather than worn by time.
Caelan ran his fingers along one shelf.
The dust was thick.
"These haven't been touched in a long time," he murmured.
He picked a book at random.
It crumbled.
He froze, holding the remains in his hands. The paper disintegrated like ash, leaving only fragments and a faint, unpleasant smell—old ink, dried blood, something metallic.
He quickly set it down.
Alright, he thought. Let's not touch everything.
He moved deeper.
At some point, Caelan realised he could no longer hear anything from outside the library. No footsteps. No distant voices. Not even the faint echo of the academy's usual life.
Just his breathing.
And the sound of turning pages.
That was when he noticed it.
A gap between shelves.
Not an aisle—those were wide and deliberate—but a narrow space, just wide enough for a person to slip through if they were looking for it.
Caelan hesitated.
Then, against his better judgment, he stepped inside.
The air changed immediately.
Colder. Staler.
The shelves here were different—older, darker, bound with iron rather than wood. Several books were chained in place. Others bore warning symbols scratched directly into their covers.
Some symbols looked Lexaen.
Others did not.
Caelan swallowed.
Why is this here... inside the academy?
At the very back, nearly hidden behind a fallen shelf, lay a single book.
No chain.
No warning sigil.
Just... forgotten.
Its cover was tattered, corners chewed by time, the title barely readable.
—Foundations of Known Ruins—
The word Known had been scratched over. Not crossed out—scraped away.
Caelan's fingers trembled as he lifted it.
The book was lighter than it should have been.
Pages were missing.
Not torn—removed.
He opened it.
Most of the text detailed ruins he had just read about earlier. The Spiral Obelisk. The Drowned Amphitheatre. The Weight of Stone. The Broken Span.
Each entry was clinical. Controlled. Carefully worded.
Then he reached a page where the writing changed.
The ink was darker. Less formal.
There are structures older than kingdoms, older than cultivation itself.
Caelan's breath caught.
They are not ruins because they were destroyed.
They are ruins because reality could no longer support what existed there.
The next page was half missing.
Only a sentence remained.
The greatest mistake was building over them.
His heart began to pound.
"Building... over them?" he whispered.
The following page held a rough diagram.
It was crude, drawn by hand, but unmistakable.
A large structure. Multiple wings. Inner courts. Training grounds.
And beneath it—
Lines spiralling downward into a blackened space, the ink refused to define.
At the top of the drawing, a name was written.
Tartarus Academy
Caelan snapped the book shut.
His hands were cold.
No, his mind insisted. That doesn't make sense. This place has been here for generations. Monitored. Sanctified.
He opened the book again.
The last page wasn't text.
It was a warning.
If you are reading this within the academy—
leave this book where you found it.
Some knowledge is not meant to awaken.
A sudden creak echoed behind him.
Caelan turned—
Nothing.
Just shelves.
Just darkness.
But for the first time since arriving at Tartarus Academy, Caelan felt it clearly.
He wasn't standing on solid ground.
He was standing on something that had been buried.
And buried things did not stay silent forever.
Caelan hurried back, his steps quicker than he realised, back to Scholar Nerith's abode—yet his thoughts lagged behind him, still wandering between dust-choked shelves and half-remembered words.
He barely noticed the door until it opened.
"Caelan?" Nerith's voice came from the doorway. "Where did you go?"
"Oh—Teacher," Caelan said, stepping inside. "I went to the library. I meant to tell you, since something piqued my interest, but I couldn't find you. I thought it best not to disturb you."
Nerith studied him for a moment before chuckling softly.
"My boy, you needn't worry about disturbing me. Curiosity is rarely polite." He gestured him inside. "What caught your attention?"
Caelan hesitated.
"It was the books you gave me," he said finally. "The sections on Ancient Ruins. They mentioned there are four acknowledged ruins... but it didn't sit right with me."
Nerith's hand paused mid-motion as he set a book down.
Caelan continued, unaware—or perhaps deliberately ignoring—the shift.
"Are there... ruins that aren't acknowledged?" he asked. "Lost ones? Things that the public doesn't know about—or maybe things that were mentioned in older texts but quietly removed?"
Silence fell.
Not the casual quiet Nerith usually carried, but something tighter.
Something measured.
The scholar slowly turned to face him.
For the first time since Caelan had met him, Scholar Nerith did not look amused.
Nor intrigued.
He looked... careful.
"Teacher?" Caelan asked, unease creeping into his voice.
Nerith exhaled, long and controlled, then reached up to rub his temples.
"You've been reading closely," he said at last.
"That's not an answer," Caelan replied softly.
A faint smile tugged at Nerith's lips—but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Answers," he said, "are dangerous things when found too early."
He walked past Caelan, rearranging a stack of papers that clearly didn't need rearranging.
"Ancient texts are... unreliable," Nerith continued. "They exaggerate. They speculate. They often confuse metaphor for record."
"But—"
"However," Nerith interrupted gently, holding up a finger, "they are not written without reason."
Caelan felt a chill.
Nerith turned back to him.
"Tell me," he asked casually, "did anything in the library make you uncomfortable?"
Caelan's mouth opened.
Then closed.
He thought of dust that felt untouched by time.
Of pages removed rather than destroyed.
Of words that felt less like ink and more like a warning.
"...No," he said after a moment.
Nerith studied him again—longer this time.
Then nodded.
"Good," he said. "That means you still know when not to press."
He picked up another book and placed it into Caelan's hands. This one was newer. Safer.
"Read this instead," Nerith said. "Chronological inconsistencies in early ruin records. Boring. Dry. Exactly what you need right now."
Caelan accepted it.
"But, Professor," he asked quietly, "if there were things people forgot on purpose... wouldn't that mean they were afraid of remembering?"
Nerith paused at the doorway.
"Fear," he said without turning, "is often a sign of wisdom."
Then, after a beat—
"Or guilt."
The door closed softly behind him.
Caelan stood alone, the weight of the book heavy in his hands.
For the first time since arriving at Tartarus Academy, he understood something without being told.
Some knowledge was not forbidden.
It was delayed.
And whatever waited beyond that delay was not something meant to be faced alone—or unprepared.
He sat down.
And began to read anyway.
After a while, Scholar Nerith returned and dismissed Caelan for his next class
Caelan bowed and left, closing the door behind him.
The room was quiet once more.
Scholar Nerith stood alone among his scattered books, listening to the soft echo of the door long after it had closed.
He did not return to his work.
Instead, his gaze lingered on the empty space where Caelan had stood.
"...Troublesome," Nerith murmured.
He moved to his desk and sat, fingers steepled, eyes unfocused.
It wasn't that the boy asked dangerous questions.
Many had done that.
It was that he asked questions that caused things to hesitate.
Not because they were forbidden—but because answers failed to settle around him.
Nerith exhaled slowly.
He doesn't search for what is hidden, he thought.
Structures simply fail to remain intact in his presence.
As if systems could not complete their own logic.
Nerith's lips curved into a faint, humourless smile.
"I've seen that before," he said quietly.
Not in Caelan exactly.
In himself.
Long ago.
Back when Tartarus Academy had still felt unfinished—before certain corridors were closed, before records were revised, before knowledge learned where it was allowed to stop.
He had been curious then. Too curious.
A child unsuited for modern cultivation, endlessly compensating with study, with observation, with places that resisted explanation rather than entry.
Especially places beneath the ground.
Nerith's fingers tightened.
He remembered the weight of stone untouched by regulation.
The pressure of spaces that did not test talent—but alignment.
The sensation of being present where rules existed without agreement.
He had gone down.
But the structures had demanded something from him.
A definition.
A compliance.
And so he had stopped.
"Fear," Nerith murmured, "or perhaps limitation."
He was still unsure which.
What he was certain of—
Was that Caelan would not encounter the same demand
Not because the boy was braver.
But because there was nothing there that could compel him to conform.
Nerith glanced toward the book he had given Caelan—the safe one. The delaying one.
A courtesy.
Nothing more.
"If modern cultivation fails to register you," he whispered, "then it is because it requires acceptance."
And Caelan did not accept.
The boy interacted with Axiom without coercion.
Not as an extraction.
Not as a conquest.
But as coexistence—unstable, unresolved.
Ancient.
Unstandardized.
Nerith closed his eyes.
If advancement is obstructed on the surface, he thought,
then the obstruction itself may be the method.
His gaze drifted downward—through floors, through layers of sealed stone, through spaces that had never been properly categorised.
"There are places," he said quietly, "where cultivation is not taught... but triggered."
Not by intent.
By contradiction.
Nerith let out a soft, breathless laugh.
"A troublesome anomaly."
Yet—
He felt no urgency to interfere.
No instinct to redirect.
Only the sense that intervention would impose shape where none could hold.
"Proceed as you will," Nerith murmured. "Where definitions fail, consequences follow."
He opened his eyes, resolve settling in.
If the lower strata respond to you...
then it is not because they recognise you.
It is because they cannot reject you.
The candle beside him flickered.
Somewhere deep beneath Tartarus Academy, stone endured.
Not waiting.
Not watching.
Merely unresolved.