The evening sky draped the city in hues of cobalt and dying gold. Lanterns began to flicker to life, activated one by one through minor inscriptions carved into their iron frames—an enchantment that sparked only at the touch of dusk. The city, a living maze of raised stone walkways and spiraling alleys, was winding down. Merchants closed their booths, calling after late customers. Artisans packed away tools with practiced weariness. Children were called indoors by anxious mothers.
Elias walked with his hands in his cloak, hood drawn low over his sharp features. There was no particular direction to his wandering—no target or goal. And yet, his senses remained alert.
Ever since the breakthrough in his spiritual sea, he had become more aware—too aware. Energy threads that once eluded him now brushed his consciousness, invisible webs stretching from runes on walls, markings on rooftops, talismans on doors. The city was more alive than it had ever been before. Beneath the mundane flesh of daily life pulsed the veins of a world built on inscriptions—art, power, memory, and threat all coded in lines and glyphs.
He passed a plaza where two Engraving apprentices sparred under the supervision of a minor instructor. Their movements were swift, but crude. The inscriptions flared and fizzled with each gesture. Elias paused for a moment. Their runes lacked rhythm. No flow. No depth. He turned away before they noticed him.
Further down, near the edge of the western ward, the streets grew narrower. Moss crept up the walls. Laundry hung from makeshift lines above. It was here that the unspoken rules of class and power frayed. The academy's influence became indirect—a distant sun behind storm clouds. These were the alleys where rules bent and small people carved out small empires with knives and whispers.
Elias's steps echoed as he entered one such path, a narrow vein between leaning buildings, barely wide enough for two men to walk side by side.
That's when they appeared.
Five of them. Drifters, mercenaries, or thugs—it didn't matter. Their auras were weak. Not a single one had even touched the realm of refinement. No spiritual core. No true path.
At their center stood a tall man with a pitted scar running from temple to jaw. His beard was thick and braided with copper wire. He wore a cracked leather vest and had a shortsword dangling from his belt, dulled from misuse.
"Oi," the man barked, stepping in front of Elias. "This alley's closed."
Elias stopped, expression unreadable.
The man tilted his head, clearly misreading the silence. "You deaf? I said this is a toll path. You want through, you pay. Or you walk the long way back."
One of his men smirked. Another cracked his knuckles and leaned against the wall.
Elias's voice came quiet, flat. "I don't pay for air."
The man blinked. Then sneered. "What'd you say?"
Elias took one step forward.
The torchlight shifted just enough that his cloak swayed, revealing a faint, rotating rune along his chest. An Engraving Seal—not inked or painted, but branded into the very weave of his spiritual form. The golden threads of it shimmered with precision and depth no ordinary artisan could replicate.
The thug's pupils dilated.
Engraving Master.
The air changed.
He stumbled back, hand half-raised in a gesture of appeasement. His companions froze, every smirk vanishing from their faces. One of them paled visibly.
"You're… you're a Master?" the leader croaked. "Didn't… didn't mean no disrespect, honored one. We… we didn't know."
Elias's eyes bored into him.
He said nothing. He didn't need to.
I could kill you, and no one would care. That was the weight behind the silence. The truth etched into the bones of the world.
The man dropped to one knee without realizing it. "Forgive us, Master. Please."
Elias finally spoke. "Remember this."
The temperature seemed to drop.
"There are lines you cannot see," he said, stepping past them, his cloak brushing the man's shoulder. "But once crossed… there's no going back."
The thugs remained frozen long after he'd gone.
When they finally dared look up, the alley was empty, the night deeper than before.
And the face of Elias—quiet, unassuming, but rising—had just carved itself into their nightmares.
* * *
The night was still, veiled in a haze of silver mist that curled around the academy's outer walls. Moonlight filtered through the high windows of a secluded tower, far from the dormitories and classrooms. It was a place few students even knew existed—a forgotten annex once used for advanced inscription studies, now claimed by a single figure.
Veyran sat alone at a stone desk, surrounded by shelves heavy with old scrolls and leather-bound tomes. A single lantern burned low beside him, casting long shadows over the parchment before him.
He was writing.
With a quill dipped in gray ink that shimmered faintly with spiritual dust, he scribbled across a black leather-bound journal. His handwriting was precise, cold, and meticulous.
"Ryn — Reserved. Shows strong aptitude in spiritual engraving. Demonstrates restraint in behavior, but there's something beneath. Hidden instincts? Or a memory he hasn't uncovered yet? Requires continued observation."
"Seraphina — A rare beauty, but her eyes carry frost. There's history there… and fire under the surface. Her attachment to Elias may become either a fatal flaw or a sharpened blade."
He paused as his pen hovered above the next name.
"Elias."
He sat still for several seconds, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Then he continued.
"Elias — The anomaly. His strength evolves too quickly. He moves like someone who's done this before. There is calculation behind every gesture. His aura swallows the space around him—intimidating, quiet, patient. Engaging with him directly… would be unwise."
More names followed. Each page was a web of observations—seating arrangements during lectures, who spoke to whom, which students volunteered for missions, who avoided confrontation. Even subtle things: sleep patterns, gaze shifts, repeated habits.
This wasn't idle curiosity. It was a system—methodical, deliberate. Veyran wasn't just gathering knowledge. He was mapping the battlefield.
On the final page, he listed students who had displayed unusual abilities during their entrance tests or training exercises. He even drew small diagrams of inscription reactions, and in the margins, small symbols in a language that was not commonly taught in the academy.
Then, at the very bottom of the page, he scrawled:
"The structure here is weak beneath its discipline. The students are uncertain. The elders are distracted. Threats stir beyond the sea, and emotions simmer beneath the surface. All the makings of beautiful chaos."
He stared at the words for a long moment.
Then, slowly, a smile crept onto his lips.
A rare, genuine expression.
"This world," he murmured, voice low and amused, "is more fun than I thought it would be."
With that, Veyran closed the journal and vanished into the darkness, leaving behind only silence—and the lingering scent of ink and secrets.