The city surrounding the academy was vast—far more than the simple map Elias had studied in his early days let on. Built along the sloped edges of a crescent-shaped bay, its streets twisted through layers of history—crumbling stone towers beside polished metal obelisks, ancient shrine markers lost beneath neon lanterns.
The morning fog clung low to the ground as Elias walked through the southern gate, hood drawn up, his expression blank as ever. He moved like a shadow, drifting from one alley to the next, ears open, eyes sharp.
He wasn't here for leisure.
His recent breakthrough had stabilized his spiritual sea, but advancement demanded more than technique—it demanded context. The academy was a haven, but it also acted as a filter, keeping students blind to the true messiness of the outside world.
Elias needed that mess.
He entered a narrow tavern tucked beneath an abandoned tower, the scent of aged ink and spiced wine thick in the air. Inside, off-duty patrolmen, scavengers, and rankless inscriptionists huddled in dim corners. Half-activated engravings pulsed faintly from their arms or the cuffs of their jackets—most low-tier, amateur work, but real.
He took a seat near the bar, silent. The barkeep didn't ask questions—only poured him something dark and steaming.
Elias listened.
"They say another group went missing near the south ridge. Fourth time this month."
"Bah, it's the damned ruin again. That thing should've collapsed ages ago, but it's stubborn, like some beast waiting to swallow fools whole."
"I heard it wasn't the ruin. Something new's nesting in the caves near the western span."
He sipped his drink slowly. It was bitter and harsh, but warm.
As the day went on, he moved from shop to market, from seedy alchemist stalls to vendor streets where spiritual materials were hawked alongside fake relics and stolen inscription manuals. He never bought anything—just observed.
A young woman selling silverblood roots whispered of a traveling cultivator who had appeared last week, offering rewards for information about old Ingraving ruins.
An old beggar cursed the academy under his breath, claiming they'd sealed off access to something deep beneath the city long ago. "They say it's forbidden," the man rasped, "but forbidden only means valuable."
At dusk, Elias found himself standing atop one of the outer watchtowers. From there, the city spread like a broken inscription—uneven lines, frayed edges, a thousand stories folded atop one another. The air was colder here. Cleaner. Below, torches flickered to life, and the rhythm of the night began.
He leaned against the railing, watching.
In this world, strength was not merely found in cultivation or knowledge. It was found in whispers. In knowing which direction not to walk, which old ruin to avoid—or which one to rob while everyone else was afraid.
The academy trained engravers. But the city trained survivors.
Elias closed his eyes.
He now knew which missions would pay better. Which gates led to forgotten sectors. Which ruins were unstable but unguarded. He had gathered more than information.
He had gathered options.
And for someone like him, options were power.
* * *
The crescent moon hung over the academy like a cold, watchful eye, casting silver light across the grand dome of the Elder Hall.
Beneath the curved roof of etched crystal and darksteel beams, seven high seats circled a central flame basin—its fire calm, yet pulsing faintly with an unnatural hue. It was here, behind closed walls layered with dozens of silence inscriptions, that the true heart of the academy beat.
Seven elders, each cloaked in the deep colors of their domain, sat in silence.
Elder Jun of the Violet Path, who often lectured the lower students, was among them, his face calm but stern. Beside him sat Elder Mira, whose eyes burned with a quiet fury. Elder Solen, clad in pale azure and wielding authority over combat instruction, leaned forward, fingers tapping the armrest.
The first to speak was Grand Elder Thalos, an old man whose robe shimmered like blackened glass, etched with impossible runes that no student had ever seen. His voice was as deep as the sea itself.
"Let us begin. The Order demands our monthly report. And yet—" he paused, eyes flicking across the council, "—I suspect we have greater concerns than student scores and resource quotas."
Elder Mira leaned forward. "You've seen it too, then."
"Seen?" Elder Solen scoffed. "The coastal formations haven't been holding. Not completely. The last inspection showed degradation. Something is gnawing at the boundaries."
Elder Jun nodded, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "I've been receiving reports from scouts stationed along the southern cliffs. Fishing parties claim they've seen lights below the waters—chains of them, moving in rhythm."
"Lantern-worms," someone muttered.
"No. Too synchronized," Elder Mira said. "We may be looking at… a collective will."
The chamber fell silent for a moment.
Elder Thalos's voice returned, grave. "We have long avoided speaking it aloud, but perhaps it's time we stop pretending the sea sleeps."
Elder Solen's fingers ceased their drumming. "The old threat?"
There was a silence. One that echoed too loudly in the sacred hall.
Then Elder Mira whispered, "The Leviathan remnants were never fully extinguished. If even fragments of their will remain, they could rouse others. The Abyssal Sea is a graveyard of things that should never rise again."
"Have the wards held?" Jun asked.
Thalos nodded, barely. "For now. But we've diverted too many resources into rebuilding the southern channel wards. The students may begin to notice."
Elder Mira narrowed her eyes. "Let them. It may push them to improve faster."
"Or cause panic," Solen shot back. "Especially among the common-born."
Elder Thalos raised a hand, silencing the tension.
A long silence followed.
Thalos rose slowly, gazing into the heart of the flame.
"Then let us continue our preparations in silence. Reinforce the wards. Strengthen the formations beneath the academy. But do not yet inform the students. We must observe the pattern more clearly…"
He trailed off.
The flame in the basin pulsed once, twice—and turned briefly from orange to violet.
A sign.
Something ancient was indeed moving.