The world was a smear of noise and panic. Arlan staggered through the service corridor, leaning against the wall. Every breath was a knife in his ribs. His mana core felt like a cracked geode, leaking energy and pain. The System notifications flickered at the edge of his vision, warnings about critical mana levels and cellular degradation.
He had to get out of the open. Vance's order would turn every guard, every compliant student, into a hunter.
He pushed through a door and found himself in a crowded concourse. Screens that had shown Melee footage now displayed his own face—his academy ID photo—under the stark words: ROGUE ANOMALY - APPREHEND - DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED.
People pointed. A guard across the concourse spun, his hand going to his weapon. "There! Stop!"
Arlan didn't have the mana to fight or to Voidstep. He had only the instincts of the pit.
He turned and ran, not with speed, but with a predator's weaving desperation, ducking into a souvenir kiosk, knocking over racks of shirts, using the momentary clutter to slip out a back flap.
Shouts followed. A stun-bolt sizzled past his head, scorching the wall.
He was a fox in a burning field. He needed a den. The ruins were too far. He needed somewhere close, somewhere no one would think to look.
His mind, fogged with pain, latched onto a memory. Dorian, weeks ago, complaining about the "archaic waste of space" that was the Academy's Central Library Annex, a physical book repository mostly used for storing ancient, non-digitized texts. "It's a maze of dust and dead ends," Dorian had said. "The perfect place to hide a body, or a secret. Security there is one sleepy old Archivist and a motion sensor from the last century."
It was his only shot.
He changed direction, heading away from the exits, deeper into the academic spire complex. He took servants' stairs, avoided elevators. Twice he had to flatten himself into alcoves as squads of guards thundered past.
He finally reached the heavy, oak doors of the Library Annex. He shoved them open and stumbled into a cavernous, silent space. The air was thick with the smell of old paper and polish. Towering shelves formed canyons of knowledge under a dim, magical glow from frosted ceiling panels. It was, as Dorian said, a tomb.
He lurched down an aisle, his vision tunneling. He needed to get deep, to find a corner, to collapse.
"Hold it right there, son," a reedy voice called out.
Arlan froze, hand twitching towards where his bone knife should be—it was lost in the service bay. He turned.
An old man in Archivist's robes stood at the end of the aisle, peering at him over spectacles. He held not a weapon, but a feather duster.
Status Check - Archivist Theron
Order: 6th (Aura)
Rank: 1 (Early)
Class: Lorekeeper
Note: Power passively encourages being overlooked. Not a combatant.
"You're that boy from the screens," Theron said, not with accusation, but with curiosity. "Making quite the ruckus."
He was shocked to see another 6th order cultivator apart from Vance. Arlan managed, his voice a dry rasp. "I just need… a place. To not be found."
The Archivist studied him for a long moment, his eyes taking in the blood, the tattered uniform, the wild, pained eyes. He sighed, a sound like pages turning. "The young are always setting things on fire. Follow me. And try not to bleed on the incunabula."
To Arlan's shock, the old man turned and shuffled away, deeper into the stacks. With no other option, Arlan followed.
Theron led him to a section marked "Regional Geomancy, Pre-Collapse." He pushed on a specific, unremarkable shelf. With a soft click, the entire bookcase swung inward, revealing a small, hidden study room with a worn sofa, a desk, and a single light crystal.
"Secure room," Theron said. "Warded against scrying and mana leakage. Used it to nap during my rebellious youth. The door seals from the inside. No one will find you here."
Arlan stumbled inside, collapsing onto the sofa. "Why…?"
"Because Head Proctor Vance has always had a distaste for physical books. Calls them clutter. Anyone she dislikes can't be all bad." Theron gave a small, wrinkled smile. "Rest. You look like death warmed over. I'll bring water and a basic med-kit. Don't die in here; the paperwork would be dreadful."
The bookcase swung shut, plunging Arlan into blessed, secure silence.
Alone, the full weight of his injuries crashed down. He fumbled in his pockets for the basic healing pills he'd scavenged in the pit, swallowing them dry. They were low-grade, meant for bruises, not for internal bleeding and core strain, but they took the sharpest edge off the pain.
He closed his eyes and turned his focus inward, to the disaster zone of his body and core.
Personal Status - Arlan Thorne (Critical)
Order: 3rd
Rank: 9 (Peak-Late) - Bottleneck Intensified
Mana Capacity: 380/4500 (Regenerating at 1%/hour - Severely Hindered)
Core Stability: 61% (Cracks Re-opened, Lattice Stress: High)
Physical Condition: Multiple Fractured Ribs, Internal Contusions, Severe Mana Burn, Minor Soul Strain.
Note: Forced use of Negation has increased affinity with Sundered Shield Fragment. Bond: 4%.
The numbers were grim. He was crippled. Yet, the cold, analytical part of his mind saw opportunity in the wreckage. The forced use of the fragment's power, as devastating as it was, had created a deeper connection. He could feel it now, a cold, silent weight in his core that was becoming familiar, almost comfortable.
And the bottleneck… the pressure to break through to the 4th Order was a physical wall he could sense. The Universal System was practically screaming at him to undertake a breakthrough quest, to solidify his path and receive a Class. His divine contract hissed back, blocking the standard offer, promising a different, darker path.
He lacked the mana, the stability, and the safe environment to attempt anything. For now, survival was the only cultivation.
He must have passed out, because he was awoken by the soft click of the hidden door. Archivist Theron entered with a tray holding a carafe of water, some bland nutrient bars, and a basic med-kit with bandages and bone-knit salve.
"Tend to yourself," the old man said, setting it down. "The campus is locked down. They're searching everywhere. The story is you sabotaged the Melee and tried to assassinate the Head Proctor. They're saying you're mentally unstable, your anomaly core finally driving you mad."
"Of course they are," Arlan croaked, sitting up and guzzling water.
"Your friends… the ice girl and the quiet one. They're not in the Citadel anymore. Rumor in the servant's channels is they escaped during the initial confusion. No sign of the half-blood girl or the Aerilon boy either. Or the Ashcroft heir. Vanished."
A sliver of relief cut through the pain. Selene, Kaelen, Dorian—they'd gotten out. Mira and Fen were free. His actions had created enough chaos for that, at least.
"And Lyra Solara?" he asked, his voice flat.
Theron's face grew grave. "Officially on sabbatical. Unofficially… there are whispers even among the Accord-aligned staff. She was taken, not by the Academy, but by Accord Null-Suits, to an off-site location. A bargaining chip that outlived its use, perhaps."
So Enya's story checked out. Lyra was a prisoner. The knowledge gave him no pleasure, only a cold datum for future calculations.
"You can't stay here long," Theron said. "A day, maybe two. Even my little hidey-hole won't withstand a dedicated psionic sweep from her. You need to leave soon."
"I know," Arlan said, already thinking. The immediate hunt would focus on the campus, the city. They'd expect him to flee. He needed to do the opposite. He needed to go to ground somewhere so obvious, so dangerous, they'd never think to look.
He needed to go back down.
Not to the negation cavern—that was suicide. But to the deep, forgotten under-levels, the old catacombs and sewers beneath even the Academy's foundations. The place that had birthed the monster he was becoming. It was the one terrain he knew better than any hunter Vance could send.
First, he had to heal. Just enough to move.
He ate the nutrient bars, applied the salve, and began the slow, agonizing process of circulating the dregs of his mana, not to cultivate, but to knit his body back together. The bone-knit salve worked in tandem with his Awakened's natural healing, fusing his ribs with painful, itchy speed.
As he worked, he planned. The Silent Accord's operation was in tatters, but Vance was still in power. The Heart-Shard was a dormant volcano under the campus. The bigger families who had backed Vance would be scrambling, some to distance themselves, others to double down.
The world outside this hidden room was realigning. And when he emerged from the shadows again, he would need to be more than a fugitive. He would need to be a force.
He looked at the notification still hovering about the 4th Order bottleneck. The divine contract whispered in the back of his mind, a promise of power not granted by the System, but seized from the void between shadows.
He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to commune with the cold, silent fragment at the center of his chaos.
He had a day to become strong enough to descend into hell.
It would have to be enough.