A desperate, emotionally stirred old man runs down a corridor, his breathing heavy and short; his footsteps echo as he occasionally looks behind him to see if he has been followed. In the inside pocket of his coat was a very important relic, one he had spent a lengthy amount of time acquiring. He clutched his chest, "almost there i'm almost there," he thought to himself. Looking down the moonlit corridor, he could make out a figure in the distance coming to a stop; he looked on.
"I am sure that carrying such a burden is no easy feat i must say professor" speaks a boy leaning against a nearby wall, his gaze held by the sky before him. Looking onward still, while occasionally glancing in the boy's direction, the old man attempts to calm his breath but remains uneasy. "I can assure you that there is no need to concern yourself with the burdens I carry, boy; better you focus on the ones that weigh on your shoulders." The old man responds, gripping his cane tightly with his left hand, adjusting his top hat with his right. Worry remained on his mind; the people who were after him couldn't have been catching up, could they?
The boy who seemed to be lost in thought at the moment now looked at the man, and slowly stepped away from the wall, now stood in front of the man, blocking his path. The boy adorned a uniform of the academy, thought to be more decorated, with his dress white shirt, long dark pants, and glossy black dress shoes. This was not what was most striking about the boy, so much as his eyes, which took on a violet hue and a long, dark shade of fog grey hair. The man takes a step back, raising his silver embroiled cane at the boy. "Tell me, boy, from the way you're dressed, you don't seem to be an ordinary student. Would it not be best to introduce yourself, as it is proper etiquette for a gentleman?
The boy calmly speaks with his dark-gloved right hand moving from his side to the left side of his chest, his palm right above his heart, and he bows slightly. "Though I do not have a hat to tip in a show of courtesy and greeting i hope this will suffice. It holds to me a great honor to be in your presence, Professor Adler. My name is Nox Aurelius Whitlock of the Whitlock family. I currently hold the title of the student body president here in Rosemon Academy. If you would be so kind as to forgive my lack of manners, Professor."
"My word, the student council president, you must be a rather impressive young fellow to hold on to such a title. Let's see now, that would make you the most talented amongst all the students. I must ask, though, why is it that I do not sense a sliver of mana emanating from you? If I am correct, you Whitlocks are born with a monstrous amount of it. Be honest with me as to how it is you gained your position, not only that, but how it is that you are aware of the existence of this corridor; no one knows of the place other than myself and those within my family, and yet here you are." His knuckles whiten from gripping his cane tighter.
"My honest apologies, Professor, that is far too many questions for us to discuss. Time holds us not too dearly to her heart, and surely, there isn't a need to stall to simply charge you scepter with mana, is it, Professor?" The old man takes a cautious step back, a sense of dread creeping up his sleeve. "You are most right, boy, I was simply puzzled as to how it is that you knew I had the relic, or am I wrong?" The boy, this time, in turn, laughs, a smile painted on his face, his eyes, however, narrow at the old man before any more reactions could be given a golden spark, and a cackle of electricity could be heard at his feet, golden symbols and an unknown language are imprinted into the ground forming a circle. The old man's cane begins to radiate the same light as the spell formulating beneath the boy, all this happening in a second, as from the imprint bursts a pillar of flame. This engulfs the boy's form, razing his skin. A burning smell of flesh filled the old man's nostrils as he ran past the boy, now reduced to cinders. Bolting down the stone floors, he reaches a pair of heavy wooden doors that stand dauntingly before him.
Tapping his cane on the ground, more of the unknown letter formulates on the door, golden in color, as the door begins to open and the old man continues to run past the midnight air, hitting his face cool and fresh. He stops immediately in his tracks, gazing up at a tree that stood amongst many in a forest that loomed before him, the full moon now in view as he begins to laugh suddenly in a mind broken stupor, "I see I was never to leave the academy grounds alive, was I now? Why don't you say anything, boy? I'm like an old lion weak with blunt fangs and dulled claws being preyed upon by hyenas." He spreads his arms towards the figure standing on the tree, a long, thin, slightly curved blade in its hands.
"Don't disappoint me now, young Whitlock. Why don't you finish what was already set in motion from the moment I stood before you? Was that blade not already placed at my neck? Fortuitous is the man that gets to breathe his last under the beautiful moonlit sky, so why don't you ...." Failing to say any more words, the old man collapses to his knees, his dark coat sprawled around him, and blood gushes like a fountain from his carotid artery as the boy looks down at him empty with a long tachi in his gloved left hand.