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...
The whispers of war echoed through the shadowed corners of the South Coast, carried on the wind like a harbinger of doom.
According to the latest reports Leylin had received, the conflict engulfing the Abyssal Bone Forest Academy had escalated to its zenith—a brutal crescendo where the line between victor and vanquished teetered on a razor's edge, liable to snap at any moment.
The academy, once a bastion of arcane knowledge, now stood as a battleground, its fate hanging in precarious balance.
As an acolyte dispatched on an external mission, Leylin had been entrusted with a small cache of communication artifacts by the academy before his departure.
These items—intricate devices imbued with single-use enchantments—ensured he remained tethered to the institution, even across vast distances.
Through them, the academy could relay urgent updates during times of crisis, and now, those channels buzzed with the grim reality of the war.
Each message painted a dire picture: the Abyssal Bone Forest Academy's strength was waning, stretched thin against the combined might of two rival factions—Sage Gotham's Hut and Whitewoods Castle. The odds of triumph dwindled with every passing day, casting a pall of uncertainty over Leylin's future.
"Come, Abigail," Leylin said softly, his voice steady as he slid the newly forged Greed Wand into the leather holster at his side. "It seems our time here is drawing to a close."
Leylin stepped into his rest room, his expression a mask of eerie calm that belied the turmoil brewing beyond the manor's walls. The faint flicker of a lantern cast long, wavering shadows across the stone floor, where Abigail slithered silently in his wake. The serpent's scales glinted like polished obsidian, her movements fluid and deliberate, a spectral companion in the stillness. (Image)
The air carried a faint chill, laced with the musty scent of old wood and lingering spell residue. Outside, the wind howled faintly, rattling the manor's old windows as if the night itself mourned the inevitable.
The dim glow illuminated the contours of a plush recliner and a grand bed adorned with dark, velvety linens. Their silhouettes loomed against the walls, steeped in quiet luxury.
Leylin eased himself into the recliner, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight. His shadow stretched long and distorted across the stone, a towering specter that danced with the lantern's flame.
Abigail, ever loyal, glided up the chair's armrest, her sinuous body coiling with practiced grace until she settled comfortably across his shoulders. Her cool scales brushed against his neck, a familiar weight that grounded him amidst the storm of his thoughts. (Image)
Before him, on a polished mahogany table, lay a cluster of black scrolls, their surfaces adorned with the stark image of a crow. As Leylin's gaze fell upon them, the etched birds seemed to stir, their inked feathers rustling faintly.
Then, a piercing sound erupted—Caw! Caw! Caw!—the crows' cries reverberating through the room, sharp and unnerving, enough to set even the bravest heart racing.
Leylin's brow tightened, a flicker of tension breaking through his composure. He leaned forward, his voice cutting through the din as he intoned in the ancient Byron language, "Open!"
CAW CAW CAW! The crows shrieked louder, their forms twisting and writhing on the parchment. Black lines bled together, converging into the grotesque shape of a skull, its hollow eyes staring blankly from the scroll.
Leylin reached into his robe, retrieving a magic crystal that shimmered faintly with trapped energy. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the skull's gaping maw.
Crunch! Crunch! The skull lunged from the paper, a shadowy apparition that devoured the crystal with ravenous greed. A moment later—Puff!—it burst apart in a cloud of dark vapor, and the scroll trembled violently.
Flames erupted at its base, green and vivid, licking upward with an unnatural hunger. From the fire, a cascade of characters materialized in the air, glowing with an eerie luminescence. (Image)
Leylin's bright brown eyes tracked the symbols, while Abigail lifted her head from his shoulder, her forked tongue flickering as she too observed the message.
The green script was a cipher, indecipherable to outsiders—a secret code taught only to the initiated of the Abyssal Bone Forest Academy. Leylin, however, had mastered its encryption and decryption long ago, his mind unraveling the meaning with ease.
Beneath the floating characters, a vivid red stamp gleamed, bearing a name in elegant Byron script. Beside it, an image of a black snake slithered free from a skull's eye socket, its coils writhing as if alive. (Image)
"The Chairman's seal?" Leylin murmured, his voice tinged with unease. "Is the situation truly so desperate?"
His expression flickered, a storm of emotions brewing beneath his calm facade as he studied the fluctuating glyphs. Minutes passed in silence, the green flames consuming the scroll until nothing remained but a pile of grey ash, the characters dissolving into the ether.
Leylin exhaled heavily, his brows knitting together in contemplation.
"They've issued the highest order," he said, almost to himself. "All acolytes on external missions are to return to the academy at once." His fingers drummed lightly on the recliner's armrest. "And the penalty for failure is severe—three months to comply, or be branded a traitor, hunted down by the disciplinary team for execution."
"Do I need to go back?" he wondered aloud, his tone laced with doubt. "Why hasn't Dorotte contacted me? Is he dead?" The absence of his mentor's guidance gnawed at him, a rare crack in his unshakable resolve.
He dismissed the notion of a trap outright. The Chairman of the Abyssal Bone Forest Academy was a figure of legend—a rank 2 Magus whose authority was beyond question. Even if the academy fell, his personal seal would never fall into enemy hands; its authenticity was ironclad.
"I could flee," Leylin mused, staring into the lantern's flame. "But to where? Blood rituals might bolster my strength temporarily, but without formal Magus training, without a clear path to break through, I'd stagnate. That's the cruel irony of the Magus path—a lowly acolyte like me can only tread the roads others have paved. Stray into the unknown, and the slightest misstep reduces you to ash and dust."
The leap from Level 3 acolyte to official Magus loomed like an insurmountable chasm. The bottleneck was notorious, far more daunting than the ascent from Level 2 to Level 3.
Information on this advancement was a closely guarded secret, hoarded by the Magus World's factions. No amount of magic crystals could pry it loose from their grasp—a deliberate strategy to keep the unaligned weak and submissive, preserving the dominance of the elite.
"The higher-ups ensure that no wandering magician, no matter how brilliant, can rise without bowing to a faction," Leylin reflected bitterly. "Abyssal Bone Forest Academy is my only chance to seize that knowledge. Even if Dorotte is gone, I could align with another group. If he lives, he'll guide me. I must return—I must become a true Magus!"
The academy was his best hope, its resources unparalleled compared to the scattered markets and rogue practitioners he might otherwise turn to. The path of a Magus was treacherous, lined with thorns that promised ruin at every misstep, but Leylin's ambition burned brighter than his fear.
Abigail stirred on his shoulder, her scales rustling softly as she hissed in Parseltongue, her words a sibilant whisper only Leylin could comprehend. He chuckled, a low, warm sound that cut through the room's gloom. "You'll obviously be coming with me, Abigail."
The snake hissed again, her tone sharper, tinged with concern. Leylin's lips quirked upward. "It's alright," he reassured her. "I have my ways to survive."
At her final, insistent hiss, Leylin's chuckle deepened into something darker, a sinister edge creeping into his voice. "The arrangements for my subordinates? What of it? Dear Abigail, do you think those useless knights—incapable of even tying my shoelaces—are worth my concern?"
He leaned back, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. "I've been testing curses on them, you know. If they stay loyal and sit quietly, they'll die peacefully in two or three years. But if they dare snitch, their deaths will come faster—brutal, excruciating, and oh-so-painful. Let's not waste our thoughts on soon-to-be-dead nobodies. We will leave tonight."
....
Extreme Night City slumbered in its eternal silence as Leylin slipped away, leaving no trace of his departure. He deemed none worthy of his farewell—not the knights, not the butler Dicus, Viscount Jackson nor Acolyte Murphy.
His Butler Dicus, who would likely rule the manor in his stead, was doomed like the rest of manor servants. The curses Leylin had woven into their blood ensured it—decay and desolation festering silently within them.
In a few years, the manor would crumble into a haunted ruin, its halls echoing with the ghosts of the forsaken. Such fates were beneath Leylin's notice; he hadn't killed them out of malice, merely curiosity. Their lives and deaths were trivial, unworthy of his attention.
The sky darkened as night deepened, and rain fell in heavy, bean-sized drops, drumming against the earth with relentless rhythm.
Thud! Thud! Thud! A sleek, dark steed galloped along the muddy road, its hooves kicking up splashes of water. Rainwater cascaded over Leylin's form, but his raincoat repelled it, leaving him dry beneath the deluge.
The scenery blurred past—trees and fields retreating into the gloom as he pressed onward.
By midnight, the downpour ceased, and Leylin sought refuge in a shallow cave. He dismounted, tethering his horse to a jutting rock, and kindled a fire within.
The warm, golden light banished the darkness, casting playful shadows across the jagged walls.
He shed his grey robe, revealing his youthful features—brown hair cascading in waves, eyes glittering like polished gems.
After two months of relentless travel, the Abyssal Bone Forest Academy lay tantalizingly close. Leylin unfolded a weathered map, tracing his route with a serious gaze.
News gathered along the way painted a shifting picture. A third party—the Lighthouse of the Night—had intervened in the academy wars. Initially, Sage Gotham's Hut and Whitewoods Castle had pinned the academy in a deadly vise, damaging its defensive spell formation to near collapse. Yet the Chairman, through some unknown feat, had secured aid from the Lighthouse, a prestigious organization led by a rumored rank 3 Magus.
Their mediation forced a treaty, pulling the academy back from the brink.
"I can't return blindly," Leylin decided, his face hardening. "I need to speak with Dorotte first."
He withdrew a clay-colored finger bone from his robes, its surface worn smooth by time. With a paintbrush dipped in oakline oil, he sketched an intricate rune on the cave floor, its lines flowing with practiced precision. (Image)
Sssii! He placed the bone at the center and waited. Moments later, it sizzled, a faint wisp of smoke rising as Dorotte's harsh voice crackled through.
"My fluctuations? Leylin?"
"Yes, Teacher," Leylin replied, his tone soft yet firm.
"It seems you've heard the news. I was in retreat, recovering from injuries—couldn't contact you. But you're thriving, child. A Level 3 acolyte already, and with Grand Knight prowess too. Remarkable. Your alchemy hasn't lagged either, has it?" Pride and astonishment colored Dorotte's words.
"Of course not, Teacher. I've begun crafting magical artifacts."
"Remarkable, my boy! Your spiritual force already met Magus thresholds, as a Level 3 acolyte. We'll discuss that later."
An acolyte who is level 3 before the age of 20 often has an extremely huge chance of advancing to an official Magus. However, the numbers of such acolytes are extremely rare. Leylin is only 17 this year, yet not only has he entered the realm of a level 3 acolyte, but even reached the peak almost.
Dorotte was extremely pleased with his apprentice, although Jayden is also remarkable but before Leylin he always fell short.
Leylin swallowed his eagerness, pivoting instead. "Professor, about the return…"
"The recall's legitimate—approved by the Chairman and the board. I can't intervene. You must come, or the consequences will be dire. But with your strength, this is an opportunity—dangerous, yes, but an opportunity. If you seek the Magus path, hurry back."
"I understand, teacher.... " Leylin bowed his head, Dorotte hollow green embers like eyes looked at him for a while and chuckled.
Dorotte's voice grew thoughtful. "What is this? Blood rituals, too? No instability—either you're lucky or exceptionally skilled. Even some experienced Level 3 acolytes botch such things. I guess your highest affinity did lie with blood, Leylin. Study curses when you return; they'd suit you. I've something perfect waiting. Enough talk—come quickly. I'll secure your return path. Retrace your outbound route."
The fire crackled as Leylin sat back, the bone's glow fading. Abigail coiled tighter around him, and he smiled faintly. The road ahead was perilous, but the promise of power beckoned.
"Magus are such scary creatures, one look and he could glimpse the depth of my powers. Did he even sense the Misty Spirit Fox bloodline I infused with? Or Was it the innate charm that clued him? I guess he does know me very well, such changes can be hidden from others who don't know me, but he can figure something out."
"No, He shouldn't be able to sense my bloodline ritual otherwise he would have also sensed it after I performed the ritual on Red-Eyed Rabbit in academy, to breakthrough to Knight realm."
"Magi are smart, he probably guessed it from my change throughout the years. But even a magus with vast knowlegede would never imagine that my bloodline rituals are very different from the ones they know."