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The second floor of the Abyssal Bone Forest Academy pulsed with a rare, electric vitality, its Dining Hall a sprawling sanctuary famed for its exorbitant delights transformed into a living tapestry of excess and intrigue.
The air thrummed with the clatter of silver against porcelain, the low hum of voices weaving through the space like threads of smoke.
Crystal chandeliers dangled from the vaulted ceiling, their prisms scattering golden light across long oak tables heaped with decadence: glistening haunches of venison glazed in dark honey, bowls overflowing with iridescent fruits that seemed to pulse faintly with captured magic, and towering decanters of wine so rich it stained the goblets a deep, bloody red.
Today, the whole floor had been commandeered, reserved for a small banquet honoring the prestigious acolytes who'd clawed their way out of the recent bloodbath victorious or so the story went.
Leylin knew better. This was no open celebration; it was a curated charade, a handful of invites slipped into the right hands by some shadowy student figure with a purpose coiled tight beneath the surface.
The event was winding down now, the energy softening into a murmur of goodbyes, the clinking of glasses fading like a dying echo.
Leylin lingered near a massive arched window, its thick panes framing the academy's bleak, skeletal grounds stretching into the dusk.
He clasped hands with a young man, their grip firm but fleeting, a ritual of parting. "It was a pleasure meeting with the alchemy genius," the man said, his voice smooth as velvet, laced with a genuine warmth, his sharp hazel eyes glinting with a mix of respect and curiosity. (Image)
Leylin's lips twitched into a half-smile, his bright brown eyes shimmering with a playful glint, though a thread of weariness tugged at him from the evening's farce.
"You jest, Young Master Bosain," he replied, his tone rolling out slow and easy, rich with a humility that danced on the edge of mockery. "I merely have small accomplishments in some rune crafting nothing to crow about, really."
Bosain stood before him like a vision of splendor, his golden hair cascading in loose, sunlit waves, catching the chandelier's glow like a halo. His silver robes shimmered with every breath, the fabric woven with subtle threads of enchantment that rippled like liquid moonlight.
If not for the faint acolyte mark stitched into his sleeve a modest anchor to his rank Leylin might've pegged him for a professor, or even the mastermind behind this whole gilded affair, so effortlessly did he command the room.
Leylin tilted his head, letting his voice dip into a cadence of reverence, each word heavy with intent yet light with grace. "We, the simple acolytes, are but like leaves on the ground, scattered and fleeting, while the Lilytell family is the tree—tall and unyielding that upholds the whole academy. Without your family and their support, this hard-earned peace we cling to would've crumbled long ago. I express my gratitude toward you and your great family, Master Bosain."
The praise was a brushstroke of flattery, painted with care, and Bosain's smile bloomed wider, his chest swelling with a quiet, radiant pride, his lineage's honor reflected in the curve of his lips.
"I'm glad you think so," Bosain said, his voice thick with satisfaction, a pleased rumble that carried the weight of his heritage.
He stepped closer, his presence warm yet edged with purpose, his tone dropping to a hushed, intimate whisper that brushed Leylin's ear like a secret breeze. "I would like for you to once again think about my offer." A pause, then softer still, "And that as well."
The words hung there, vague and loaded, a thread of mystery Leylin could feel tugging at his curiosity, though he kept his face a mask of calm.
Leylin nodded, his voice steady but softened with a regret he didn't fully feel, a polite shield against the pull of obligation. "I appreciate the offer honestly, I do but current research with Teacher keeps me very busy. I wouldn't be able to join, not right now. I'll tell you if anything changes, Young Master." The refusal was firm, wrapped in a velvet glove of courtesy, and he watched Bosain's eyes flicker with a shadow of disappointment, quickly veiled.
"That's a pity," Bosain said, his tone light but tinged with a cool edge, a faint sting of dismissal as he let go of Leylin's hand, his fingers lingering a heartbeat too long. "Safe travels, then."
Leylin turned, his ceremonial garb rustling a long, sleek black and green robe that hugged his frame like a second skin, its hem embroidered with silver runes that caught the light in fleeting, ghostly glimmers, a stark, elegant counterpoint to Bosain's ostentatious shimmer. (Image)
As he walked out, his eyes turned cold, a glacial frost overtaking their warmth, his thoughts a quiet storm of detachment.
Bosain's gaze trailed him, a flicker of coldness sharpening his stare as well, though he restrained it with the discipline of his upbringing.
'No need to waste thought on someone destined to remain a mere servant of my family.' he told himself, the arrogance of his blood dismissing Leylin like dust beneath his heel.
The hollow corridors of the Abyssal Bone Forest Academy sprawled before Leylin, their damp stone walls glistening faintly under the flicker of sconced torches, the air heavy with mildew and silence.
His boots echoed softly, a solitary rhythm against the stillness, each step a quiet rebellion against the desolation that had settled over the place.
A few weeks had passed since the secret plane's bloodbath concluded, and the academy had begun to stitch itself back together, its professors and acolytes nursing their wounds both flesh and spirit adapting to a new, diminished reality.
But the academy itself had become a tomb, its once-vibrant pulse stilled to a whisper. Classrooms stood vacant, their rows of desks gathering dust like abandoned altars; the Trading Area, once a chaotic bazaar of ambition, lay uninhabited, its stalls shrouded in shadow; even the mission area is a cavernous hall dominated by a wide wall plastered with parchment tasks hosted only a scattering of acolytes, their movements slow, their faces carved with gloom.
The stillness was a weight, a grave-like hush that could choke the breath from an ordinary soul, driving them to madness or flight. Yet the bloodbath's survivors acolytes forged in carnage and the professors, resolute as old oaks, held the academy together, their wills a faint thread keeping its heart beating.
Leylin felt the shift in the air, the temporary nature of this decay. The south coast's enrollment season loomed on the horizon, and Dorotte would soon set out to harvest new blood for the academy.
Standards would bend, a tide of fresh acolytes would flood in to paint a veneer of glory over the cracks, but true talent fifth-grade prodigies like himself was a rare bloom, not easily plucked.
The academy's heritage had crumbled in his generation, its roots severed by war and loss; a decade, at least, would pass before its former radiance could be reclaimed.
Such matters barely stirred him his gaze was fixed inward, on the steady, thread-like rhythm of his days: experiments with Dorotte, unraveling the Branded Swordsman's mysteries, and hoarding resources as a Level 3 acolyte, each privilege a key to his ascent.
Today, a restless energy drove him through the corridors, the banquet's lingering taste sour on his tongue as he hurried to Dorotte's experiment lab.
The door groaned open, revealing a chamber steeped in shadow and the sharp tang of arcane reagents shelves sagging under dusty tomes, vials of murky liquid glinting in the gloom, the air thick with the hum of latent power and rotting corpses.
Dorotte stood at the heart of it, his skeletal frame hunched over a manual, green embers in his eye sockets glowing like amber caught in a flame's embrace.
He glanced up as Leylin entered, his bony jaw tilting in a silent welcome, a flicker of anticipation in his gaze.
In Dorotte's hands was a thick sheaf of parchment Leylin's latest rune crafting theory, a bold, ingenious leap that wove together threads from countless sources, a tapestry of brilliance he'd poured his soul into. (Image)
Dorotte took the pages, his skeletal fingers brushing the ink with a reverence that belied his form, his embers flaring as he devoured Leylin's work.
The theory was a marvel: from Magus Estelle's Anatomy of the Damned, Leylin had charted the body's breaking points muscle fibers, sinew, the pulse of blood through veins and mapping where runes could anchor without shattering the host; from Curse Weaving, he'd borrowed stabilizing threads, twisting them into a lattice to tame volatile energies; from scattered rune texts, he'd fused ancient Kael'thrun patterns with modern spellcraft, creating a hybrid that thrummed with potential.
The Branded Swordsman demanded balance too much power, and flesh tore apart; too little, and it withered. Leylin's solution was a network of micro-runes etched into muscle, channeling magic through the bloodstream, a riverbed to guide the flood.
"How do you handle the instability?" Dorotte asked, his voice a gravelly rumble of curiosity, his embers narrowing as he leaned closer. "The energy flux, it'd rip through like a storm."
Leylin's smile widened, a spark of triumph lighting his face, his voice rolling out with a craftsman's passion. "I've woven a dampening lattice," he said, his tone rich with excitement, hands gesturing as if tracing the runes in the air. "Micro-runes along the veins—Estelle's notes showed me the pressure points. They bleed off the excess, funnel it into the blood to disperse it slow and steady. It's like venting steam before the boiler bursts."
Dorotte's mandible tilted, impressed, his tone warming with intrigue. "And the rune decay? They'd crumble under that load how do you keep them whole?"
"I coated them in a Trevor resin variant," Leylin replied, his voice brimming with sly pride, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Pulled it from Soul Shards and Hexed Bonds curse-resistant, binds the runes tight. It's not flawless, but it holds long enough for the body to adjust." His ingenuity sang in every syllable, a puzzle cracked open with audacious flair.
Dorotte read on, his embers blazing with fascination, and finally rasped, "You really are a genius." His voice carried a raw, unfiltered awe, a mentor's pride swelling beneath the gravel. "Even I haven't been able to think about this problem in such depth. It's fascinating how much progress you're making truly, Leylin."
The words were a rare gift, heavy with admiration, and Leylin felt a quiet glow of satisfaction bloom in his chest.
He smiled, peeling off the ceremonial robe its green runes catching the lab's dim light like fleeting ghosts and tossed it to the floor with a casual flick.
Abigail stirred from his arm, her scales glinting like polished night as she slithered up to coil around his shoulder, her tongue flickering in quiet contentment.
"So, is the party over?" Dorotte asked, a dry chuckle rattling from his chest, his tone teasing yet fond. "Pretty fast, even for you."
"It was boring," Leylin said, his voice flat but thick with a weary disdain that rolled off his tongue like bitter wine. "Like every single one of them nothing special about it, just stupid people with their stupid schemes and ideas." He stretched, the weight of the evening sloughing off him like shed skin.
Dorotte's chuckle deepened, a warm, rasping sound that filled the room. "I never pegged you for someone who'd even be interested to go," he said, his tone light with a playful jab, though his embers glowed with a knowing gaze.
Leylin met his gaze, a flicker of resignation softening his eyes, his voice tinged with a reluctant sigh. "I had little choice," he admitted, letting the words hang heavy. "It was the Lilytell family."
The name hardened Dorotte's skeletal features, the amber in his sockets flashing with a sudden, fierce intensity, his voice dropping to a cautious growl. "Lilytell? Was it the young heir?"
Leylin nodded, and Dorotte leaned closer, his tone shifting to a mix of pragmatism and approval, a teacher's wisdom threading through. "It was good for you to go, then. Making good connections especially with one of the three big families, it's a smart move, Leylin."
The Lilytell, Liliel, and Redbud Flower families towered over the academy, their roots deep, each generation sprouting at least one official Magus.
Their votes crowned the chairman, and among their heirs, Bosain, a Level 3 Acolyte darling of his powerful grandfather, a genius teetering on Magus rank stood closest to Leylin's age group.
"What did he want with you?" Dorotte pressed, his voice sharpening with curiosity, a spark of suspicion in his embers. "Why would he invite you? I don't think you had any relationship with that family, especially considering how you don't like to be bound by any one of them."
Leylin shrugged, his voice drifting out casual and loose, a faint scoff curling the edges. "I don't know. He invited me to come to an excursion some kind of ancient magic plane adventure, he said. Some information they bought somewhere. Most probably some bullshit adventure for kids to play at nothing worth my time." The words rolled out with a lazy disdain, his thoughts already drifting elsewhere.
Dorotte chuckled, a dry, rasping sound that carried a hint of amusement. "Probably the young master wanted to stretch out, especially after the stressful conditions. He hasn't been able to come out for a long time, cooped up too long in that gilded cage of his."
"None of the heirs and important members of the three big families were involved in the acolytes' bloodbath," Dorotte noted, his voice steady, a calm observation spilling out like water over stone. "The agreement didn't involve them, neither did it involve the backers of the other two enemy academies. The heirs are much more important than to fight in the simpleton war. They're heirs of real Magus families, with many Magi tied to those, even Peak Rank 1 Magi in charge. It's pretty clear that even the chairman's faction wouldn't have been forced to get in this war. There are always some perks to being part of these big families."
"Not some, but many," Leylin added, his tone flat but heavy with a quiet, unbitter truth, his eyes drifting to the lab's shadowed corners. "Here, some people are crawling and fighting just to walk on a crooked path, clawing through mud and blood, while they drink their spiritual potions, practice the strongest spells, learn from the most capable of teachers, and rise above the rest like it's nothing." His voice carried no envy, no fire but just a cold, clear statement, a fact laid bare.
"Anyways," Dorotte said, his tone lifting with a thread of encouragement, his embers steadying as he shifted the air. "I'd be getting busy now. I see that your research is going great, maybe three, four more months, and you'll unlock the secrets of the Branded Swordsman." His gaze drifted to the experiment logs sprawled across a nearby table parchments stained with ink and blood, detailing trials on multiple corpses and a living Grand Knight strapped to an iron slab.
Six of them, their bodies twisted and broken, five already claimed by death's cold hand, their flesh marred by failed runes. One lingered, his chest rising faintly, stabilized but teetering on the edge, his skin pale and slick with sweat.
Leylin flipped through the logs, his fingers brushing the paper with a quiet reverence, his mind already tracing the next step.
Dorotte noticed Leylin's gaze snag on a red journal tucked among the chaos, its leather cracked and faded. Leylin's brow arched as he glanced at Dorotte, a spark of curiosity flickering in his eyes as he picked it up.
"What is this?" he asked, his voice low, laced with a hungry intrigue that curled around the words.
"This was my master's journal," Dorotte replied, his tone softening with a faint, wistful warmth, his embers glowing steady. "He wrote it when I shared the Branded Swordsman manual with him all those years back. These are some researches that he did—a different direction entirely, but I think it might help you."
Leylin opened the notes, his eyes skimming the faded script, his voice rolling out thoughtful and slow. "It's about branding. We've completely abandoned the idea of it. Oh, there's also spellcasting, but the complexity of adding this—it's not worth enough for us to consider." He tilted his head, the words drifting out like a lazy stream, his mind already weighing the possibilities.
"Yes, I know," Dorotte said, his tone firm but tinged with a quiet insistence, a teacher nudging his student forward. "But I still feel that some research of this would help you. With this, you should be able to complete ten to fifteen percent more of the research. It'll save you around a month of time, as well."
Leylin didn't retort, his fingers lingering on the pages, the detailed work unfurling before him like a map to hidden treasure. It veered from his path, but its depth tugged at him.
"It seems your teacher had spent quite some time in this research," he said, his voice laced with a grudging respect, a spark of wonder creeping in. "He was experienced but why did he stop? If he'd kept going, he could've succeeded."
"Yeah, probably," Dorotte replied, his tone flat but softened with a distant memory, his embers flickering faintly. "But time was against him. His research was more focused in other subjects, so he didn't care about a half-complete work in the knight's path. He picked up this work only during his last days—he wasn't really doing much then."
"Oh, when did he die?" Leylin asked, his voice low, a morbid curiosity threading through it, his eyes glinting with a shadow of something deeper.
"He didn't," Dorotte said, a faint warmth creeping into his gravelly rasp, a flicker of fondness in his embers. "He's still alive. A Magus lives for a long time. He's old, though almost near his death so instead of studying, he enjoys his last days. But he's still kicking, in retirement, till his time's over."
"He'll probably be dead soon, a few more years," Dorotte added, his voice stripped of emotion, a pragmatic shrug in his tone, as if it were just another fact of the world spinning on.
Leylin's brown eyes flared with an obsidian glow, a storm of defiance and memory swirling within.
'Death, my old rival Death.' he thought, his mind a whirl of bitter echoes Horcruxes, soul shards, the madness of severing himself to escape its grasp, only to fall to a boy's trembling hand.
'You ensnared me, lured me, played with me. But no more. Magic will make me stand above you. I'll drown you in my blood and rise stronger than you'll ever be.'
"As I said," Dorotte said, his tone shifting back to the practical, a steady thread pulling Leylin from his reverie. "I'll be leaving soon after a month or so, I'm going back to pick up some new fresh blood. A new session will be starting soon. Who knows if you're successful, you'll become one of the teachers as well."
Leylin glanced at him, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, his voice teasing but earnest. "What about that favor you were going to ask for me?" He paused, then let the words spill out with a quiet fire. "You know the Branded Swordsman is not what I really want, it's just a means to the end. I need to be a real Magus, an official Magus, and I don't want to be bound by any family or any contract."
Dorotte nodded, his embers flaring with a knowing light, his voice a firm promise laced with a teacher's pride.
"I know," he said, his tone steady and warm. "I've already talked. You have your end of the bargain, I'll take care of the rest. I assure you, you won't be disappointed. And you'll get what you're owed, as long as you promise to give me what I'm owed."
Leylin's gaze lingered on Dorotte, his mind tracing the unspoken hunger beneath those words. Dorotte's life had been a tapestry of excursions and adventures, he'd plucked the Branded Swordsman manual from one of them, a prize won through blood and cunning.
He wanted something more now, something he itched for, maybe another journey, needing a partner he could trust, even control to a degree.
And Leylin guessed what it might be—the path to Rank 2 Magus, a flame that burned in every Magus's soul. Progression, strength, the addiction of spells, the stretch of lifespan, the weight of power, the taste of respect—once you sipped it, there was no turning back. You craved more, always more. Dorotte was no different, and Leylin felt that same fire licking at his own bones.
Dorotte left, his skeletal frame vanishing into the corridor's gloom, and Leylin turned back to his experiments, the red journal open beside him, its faded pages whispering secrets that sprawled out like a river, carrying him closer to triumph over death itself.