Chapter 81-83

As someone pointed out, we're not exactly 25 chapters ahead at the moment, (23 with today's release.) The fault is, of course, of the chapters themselves. Somehow, these three pieces of crap ended up being 8k words (~2.7k words per chapter on average).

Anyway, they come a little later because I'm trying to streamline my VERY MESSY writing process. The quality of these chapters should feel much higher than before since I tried very hard not to write them in small chunks. Let me know what you think. If the feedback is positive, style-wise, I'll continue beating myself up in the same way that produced these chapters.

VengefulBirch, out. (Is this what you say after you end a communication? Who knows.)

Chapter 81

Elder Lioren is something of a legend among the admission circles. People who work the intake exams speak about him with a wary sort of respect because his standards run high and his temper runs hotter. He does not, at least usually, go to wild lengths or stir needless trouble, and he almost always builds a fair environment for students. 

Yet the junior instructors who trail in his wake know that he can be a bit much when pride gets involved. 

He is still an Elf, and blood pulls harder than policy for most people when loyalty meets pressure. A few resist that pull, and those few usually sit at the very top. The Deans hold firm, and their closest allies hold firm with them, and the Headmaster and his seconds hold firm as well, and the academy’s spine stays straight because of that.

Now the junior instructors stare at the arena floor where the elder has opened the test. 

They watch the Dungeon scroll and shock tightens their faces. Elder Lioren calls it a simulation, yet the scene does not behave like a mere projection. It behaves like a mirrored space. 

A dimensional pocket unfolds there, a small one, with a handful of Platinum-ranked traps scattered through it like teeth in a hidden maw. 

Teachers normally use this space with a student while they both step inside because the place turns into an ideal crucible for demonstrations and teaching. 

They use these simulation because you want to avoid leaving such traps on campus unless you stand over it, since more than one forgetful elder has doomed a reckless student with stray leftovers. The academy learned that lesson the hard way and wrote the policy in ugly ink.

But to ask Jacob Cloud, who stands as a simple Gold Ranker and, by the look of his aura, an Early Gold Ranker, to go through such a trial alone?

“Call the Dean of Admission,” one of the junior instructors whispers to another man. “This has gone too far.”

There are rules at Ytrial. This is not an upstart noble court. Elder Lioren might make their lives harder for a while, and the juniors accept that risk, yet they intend to uphold the process. 

One of them bolts out of the arena and sprints for the stair. His boots slap stone while the humming from the array rises like a swarm.

The old man notices nothing because he focuses on Jacob Cloud and nothing else. The glare he fixes on the candidate could cut plate steel.

Kid, please, do not kill yourself with this, the junior instructor thinks. Just wait. Or refuse. The Dean will take care of this. This farce has gone for long enough.

* 

Elder Lioren looks like he is about to have a stroke. Color floods his cheeks and then climbs into his ears. His Academy crimson robes bear the sigils that mark an Elder, and the cloth flutters as if it drinks from his unruly Mana. 

“So,” Elder Lioren smiles. “Jacob Cloud? What will it be? Are you man enough to enter the simulation?”

“Platinum Ranked, right? That’s the Rank you said before.”

Elder Lioren smiles with a placid calm that rings false.

“Oh, yes. Indeed. Are you afraid? Someone with as much talent as you—”

“Elder!” the junior instructor calls him out. “I don’t think this is appropriate! Cloud is not even an Apprentice yet! Would you let a normal Gold Ranker enter such a simulation by themselves? Not even someone taking Traps 202 would be allowed to enter such a place unsupervised.”

Jacob looks back at the instructor with one eyebrow raised, and the crowd rustles with low murmurs that move like wind in straw.

Elder Lioren bristles at the interruption. His eyes sharpen, and the cords in his neck stand out.

“How dare you insinuate that I’m putting him at risk?!” the old Elf shouts, and spittle flicks from his mouth. “He’s been passing every single challenge with flying colors! Hasn’t he?!”

“Elder,” Jacob Cloud clears his voice, and the old man turns on him like a hawk that sights a mouse from the sky. The hush grows heavier.

“Yes, Cloud? Have you decided to give up?”

“I was wondering—you might have seen potential in me, right?”

“Huh?” the Elder frowns.

“You blessed me with great challenges so that I could prove my valor, right?”

“Oh, yes. YES! That’s EXACTLY what I’ve done!”

“So, let’s say I enter this simulation, which might be just… a little too difficult. Wouldn’t it warrant something more?”

“What?” Elder Lioren looks confused at the question. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepen.

“No, I’m saying, let’s say I pass. I don’t know much about the Academy. Not nearly as much as an esteemed Elder such as yourself. Are there cases where, based on exceptional merit, one gets… perks?”

This kid is stupid. He actually wants to enter the simulation thinking that he will survive it! This is wonderful, this will be a great justification to having killed the bastard.

“Of course, Cloud. You know what? I’ve been stingy, I’ll admit. I shouldn’t have offered nothing in return for such a feat, right?”

Jacob shrugs, and he keeps his tone mild.

“You’re the Elder, sir. I wouldn’t presume to dictate your actions.”

“Perfect, perfect,” Elder Lioren says, and the flattery loosens him. His chin lifts. “Then, shall we add… something. Do you have anything in mind that you crave?”

Let him state whatever absurd terms that he wants. I’ll have him shine my bald head if he actually survives one trap.

“Sir, I fear I don’t know much about the Academy as I was saying. Is there, perhaps, something standardized?”

“What do you mean, Cloud?” Elder Lioren slips back into professional mode for a moment. His voice steadies, and the lecture hall cadence returns.

“I mean, is there… let’s say, an actual table that we could follow or do Elders dispense favors based on individual merit?”

“You don’t know much, do you?” Elder Lioren seems almost pleased at that. He loves the Academy for all he hates the kid. “There’s no such thing as special status in the Academy. Not recognized, at least. The best thing you could aspire to, let’s say, is to skip classes. By the fifth year, when one graduates, you should have reached, at the very least, the Peak of Diamond Rank. That’s the bare minimum we require of graduates. However, for those who climb higher and higher, you have to satisfy requirements upon requirements to enter higher-level Classes. That’s what fast tracks someone onto the path to greatness. The higher you get, the stronger the teachers. And mind you, Cloud. Every single Knight who’s graduated Ytrial has a blood oath to take students from the Academy if it’s in their capacity. We’ve forced Kings and Queens to honor such oaths. Furthermore, one can also aspire to, one day, enter the Heartspire. The lower floors of that wondrous construction we don’t even know the origin of, are perfect for Platinum Ranked Knights. But one has to earn points to gain access. Points are distributed by Elders who get a quota from the Academy, and through grades in courses, through Quests at the bulletin board and more.”

He speaks with the rhythm of doctrine, and the juniors glance at one another because the Elder’s pride peeks through the words like sunlight through shutters. The mention of the Heartspire makes a few recruits on the upper benches sit straighter. 

Jacob looks a bit confused and then schools his face, and the elder reads that small tell and misreads it at once.

“Tell you what, Cloud. You showed remarkable talent for Runic Notation, for combat, and, perhaps trap making. Since you were so talented, I would immediately promote you to Runic Notation 201, Monster Felling 201, and…”

The Elder stops for a breath, and his eyes flick sideways as if he weighs a boundary that matters more than the boy’s life.

I can’t tell the bastard that he’d make it to Traps and Cracks 301. He’d sniff out…

But the junior instructor intercedes.

“Traps and Cracks 301!”

A muscle jumps in Elder Lioren’s jaw. He hisses through his teeth before he steadies his voice.

“Yes, Traps and Cracks 301.”

Now that he’s heard such an advanced class, he’s going to piss himself. He’s going to know that this will certainly kill him.

“Well… that sounds like it would be very hard,” Jacob says, looking dejected. “I don’t know, Elder Lioren. I think I can’t accept. Maybe… I should just give up?”

The elder startles, and the calculation in his gaze sharpens like a blade.

“Well, wait, son!” Elder Lioren scrambles. “Huh, actually. The year just started and even though they give us relatively small amounts of points to distribute compared to the rest of the Elders, I do have, as an Elder myself, quite a number in reserve. Most of the students who had booked special trials have arrived. Virtually all of them. So, since we’ve cleared the nobles for entrance, I have a lot of points that will go to waste by the end of the year. I’d usually put them toward minor chores in our department, but we’re mostly done. We’ll just be looking for candidates, sending invitations, and doing scouting jobs for the year. So, let’s say, Cloud, that I was to sweeten the pot with about sixty points. I know that might not sound like much, but most first year courses give barely a couple points per assignment. Sixty points would gain you a ticket for the first and the second floor of the Heartspire. The Heartspire is such a marvelous Dungeon that keeps regenerating. And everyone enters a different dimension of it. Sometimes, even the lower floors can drop wondrous items.”

The word Heartspire lands, and Jacob’s posture changes. His eyes brighten a fraction, and Elder Lioren clocks it.

The little idiot is enticed.

“That sounds… so great, Elder Lioren. Could I ask for one more thing?”

“Of course,” Elder Lioren smirks.

He does not care about the request because he believes the boy stands on the lip of a grave. The elder wants victory more than he wants breath.

“I hear that there are many electives, some of which very unique. As an Elder here, I imagine your knowledge of those being quite… profound. Would you care to swear on blood that you’d help me pick the best courses for myself?”

Elder Lioren stiffens at that. The ask signals distrust. It should raise alarms, and it almost does, yet the need to regain face roars louder than prudence. He thinks about the sting of the previous trials and about the whispers that will spiral if he leaves this stage without a win. He does not even care that much about the Elf Jacob killed anymore. He cannot recall the name. The humiliation burns hotter than grief.

He pulls a dagger from his belt and draws it across his palm, and a thin line opens. Blood beads bright and then runs to his wrist. He lifts his chin and shows his teeth in something that looks like a smile.

“I swear I’d help you pick the best courses for you to the best of my abilities if you pass this trial.”

Jacob Cloud exhales and smiles, content. He does not look away from the cut.

“That sounds very generous, Elder Lioren. Then, do I just step on the array?”

“Yes, Cloud. You do.”

“How do I come back when I’m done?”

“We can monitor what you do. Once you’re done, I’ll pull you back with the keystone.”

“Sure, that sounds great.”

Poor fool. You really think—

Lioren does not finish the thought because Jacob Cloud steps into the Platinum-rank trap-filled simulation with steady feet and a level gaze. The activation hum deepens. Lines of light flare beneath his boots, and the mirrored space folds like glass in water.

A projection the size of two men opens in front of Elder Lioren, and everyone in the arena shifts toward it and clusters behind him on the bleachers to watch. The surface throws white glare and then settles into sharp color. Runes spool and knot. Metal plates glint. Lines of force reveal anchor points like stars in a night sky.

It’s almost a pity. The kid is brash. He’s shameless in some ways. But his talent.

“Well, here goes nothing,” Elder Lioren says as he watches Jacob Cloud step toward the first array. Lightning crawls through that design with a serpent’s grace. The elder saw Hell’s Sword in the boy’s hand before, and that blade points to a run of lucky encounters that let him max a Skill most recruits never tame, even though Ytrial sees a few each year who do it. It looks impossible to outsiders, yet Ytrial serves as the house of the best Knights. It is the factory and the forge and the crucible that takes raw ore and leaves hardened steel.

He waits for Jacob Cloud to plant a foot on a wrong plate and turn into ash. Jacob does not oblige. He summons Hell’s Sword and flicks it with careful precision so that the blade jams under a plate and bites into a seam.

“Huh?”

A node pops like a bulb that blows, and the array drops to half power. The air in the projection loses half its crackle.

“What the—” Elder Lioren frowns. His eyes narrow, and his lips start to peel back from his teeth.

Ok, one more step and he’s fried anyway. That might have been luck.

Jacob moves like he reads sheet music that only he can see. He pivots, and he pries up a second plate, and he knifes the sword’s tip through a hairline gap. The second node flashes and dies. The whole array gutters and then goes dark.

Elder Lioren’s face twists.

“That little rat-fucking bastard, piece of a motherfucking who—”

A few junior instructors slap hands over their ears and stare down at the floor. A couple of recruits on the high benches look like they want to laugh and do not dare.

Elder Lioren is not a foolish noble. He clawed his way into the Academy the old-fashioned way. The High Court did not sponsor him at the start. He earned his place first, and he mended that relationship later when they came to him because results leave no room for snobbery.

That is why, despite the itch to kill the boy, a thin smile tugs at his mouth.

“This rat-fucker played me like a fiddle. He must have a powerful, very powerful ocular Skill. Unbelievable. True Diamond, at the very least.”

The projection shows Jacob Cloud working through the course with a ruthless calm that draws breath from the stands. He sees anchors. He sees stress lines. He sees false seams that hide cores. He treats each trap like a problem in a book and does not rush even when the room tilts and scrapes at him and tries to herd him into death. He breaks a compression weave by nudging a weight plate a quarter thumb-width. He lets a blade curtain fall where it cannot bite him. He threads a safe path through a bed of resonant tiles that howl when pressed in the wrong order.

As he smashes trap after trap, Elder Lioren starts to chuckle and then to shake his head. His shoulders loosen, and for a moment the pride of a teacher edges out the bile of a rival.

The difficulty rises. At the end, the arrays begin to brush an Intermediate Platinum level. The light grows harsher, and the hum acquires depth, and the heat in the projection ripples the air.

Elder Lioren leans forward and grips the rail.

“Come on, Cloud. You smashed the lightning array and the eternal blade waterfall. You can’t see the plasma core? What are you doing?! Oh! There! YES! Goddammit. These kids will give me a heart attack one of these days.”

“Lioren,” a familiar voice says behind him, and Elder Lioren turns and sees Dean Amenotep step out from the tunnel. The dean wears purple robes lined with gold that drink the light, and his brown eyes look like chips of flint when they fix on a target.

“I hear that you are trying to kill a recruit.”

“Sir,” Elder Lioren says, and he points at the image. “The guy just cleared a Platinum Ranked Simulation. He’s just taking apart the last array. A Heavenly Plasma Hell.”

Dean Amenotep’s face hardens. He pivots toward the moving picture, and the lines by his mouth flatten. The projection shows a dark-haired recruit with blue eyes and a blade like a coal that burns without smoke. The recruit takes apart the anchor points of a Heavenly Plasma Hell Array with movements that look like he trained on this exact design in a private simulation.

“So you were just testing new blood?” Dean Amenotep says.

A junior instructor behind them digs fingers into his hair and almost groans.

He was trying to kill him a moment ago! Why’s the old geezer now cheering for the kid?! Has everyone here lost their mind?!

Chapter 82

I exit the simulation with a whoosh. The pull feels like someone yanks me out of deep water at high speed, and my stomach flips while my ears pop, and the stone under my boots steadies a beat later. It is very disorienting.

“Congratulations, Jacob Cloud.”

A hand pats my shoulder and I look at Elder Lioren.

This man was trying to kill me until a moment ago, I frown. Has he lost his mind? Why is he smiling at me? Am I being played? Is he plotting…

He’s not plotting, idiot. Ytrial exists since time immemorial. For him to be an Elder here, he must have some kind of integrity. He wouldn’t have made it otherwise. The Academy selects the loyal. Sure, they might blunder and follow their blood and race before anything at times, but he just saw an unknown recruit destroy Platinum traps. I would really like to know, Cloud, what kind of Skill you possess that can do such a thing.

Not telling you, I reply mentally. So, he’s actually happy I’m alive?

Favors go deep here. The Academy is about connections. He sees potential in you. Perhaps, he wants to take advantage of it. Or… if I must be honest, this young man seems pretty impressed with your talent—I think he’s genuine.

This guy looks like he’s hundreds of years on his shoulders, I tell King Baalrek. I wouldn’t call him young by any measure.

Yeah, hundreds. Call me back when this kiddo has at least a few tens of thousands or more.

“Your reward,” Elder Lioren suddenly wakes me from my reverie.

He hands a few slips that he seems to have signed on the spot, and a token with a ’60’ on it. The slips feel warm from fresh ink, and the token has the weight of stone that remembers heat.

“You have not yet received your personal token for points. Take this. I always carry a few with me since we’re the one who distribute academy apparel and tools to recruits.”

“Does it cost money?” I say, looking at what seems like a magical piece of enchanted obsidian. The surface drinks the light, and etched numbers glimmer deep inside it like a night sky that trapped a single star.

“It does. But the Academy… you know how it goes.”

“I don’t?” I say, confused.

“The Quests, Cloud.”

“What about them?”

“The Quests,” Elder Lioren frowns.

“What about them?”

A statuary man who I had not noticed before interjects. His presence presses the air a little flatter, and even Lioren straightens.

“The Academy takes a decent cut of Quests that are distributed around the world. It doesn’t exactly lack money. And none of its ex-alumni can really do much about it since everyone is required to, as part of the damn agreement, not complain nor try to change it if they want to enter Ytrial.”

“I’m very sorry, sir. I’m Jacob Cloud,” I say, bowing to this guy who even Elder Lioren seems to look at with reverence.

“Dean Amenotep. Dean of Admissions. Jacob Cloud? I’ll remember your name. As for the Quests. Every single posting in the world that goes through the Academy, which controls the postings in the Adventurers’ Guild, requires half the money to be paid to Ytrial. That is how we maintain the very expensive enchantments and spells and… fancy tokens.”

I look at the obsidian token in my hand. The edge cuts cold into my palm as if it wants me to remember the cost.

“What? Wait. Half?”

“It is a pretty good business and no one really dares defy the Headmaster,” Elder Lioren shrugs.

“Who came up with this? That sounds insane. Everyone pays half the money they make from quests, from all quests, to Ytrial? Even the Adventurers?”

“There have been a few wars waged by the Adventurers Guild against Ytrial in not so recent memory,” Dean Amenotep replies. “But… it’s… well. Let it not be me to badmouth the Headmaster.”

Dean Amenotep actually leaves after that without explaining anything else. His steps make no noise, and the juniors on the rail watch him go as if a storm front just slid past.

“What just happened?” I ask, looking at Elder Lioren.

“The Headmaster sort of hides around the Academy, listens, and, well, punishes you if you badmouth him. He’s very… sensitive. Scaly, you could say.”

“He’s what?” I ask, frowning.

“Errr… I won’t be the one telling you. I’m not getting into that old monster’s amusements. Come now, Jacob Cloud. I’ll bring you to your dorm and give you the rest of the things you need.”

I gesture to Lancelot, Fatty, who’s still watching us from the bleachers with a wide mouth.

“Yo, let’s go.”

Then I turn to Elder Lioren.

“Excuse me, Elder. Do Squires sleep in the same room of their Knights?”

“Yes. That’s what bunk beds are for,” Elder Lioren frowns, as if he was stating the obvious.

“Bunk beds! Dibs for the top one!” Fatty shouts. 

“Yeah,” I say, looking at Fatty with a scared look, “that’s never happening.”

*

I can’t believe my luck, honestly. I expect ice or distance after what just happened, yet Elder Lioren stays… engaged. His mood swings from murder to mentorship make my head spin, and the halls do not help because the academy proper rises like a fortress that swallowed a city. Bannered archways lead into rings of courtyards, and rune-lamps burn with steady light that smells like hot iron and rain.

I didn’t expect Elder Lioren to be so…

Nice.

Well, after trying to kill me with such passion, at least, one would expect a less engaging treatment. Instead, the fact that he shamelessly tried to kill me and couldn’t manage seems to have reinvigorated the man. He talks with his hands and chuckles when he points out places where other recruits once made history, and the juniors we pass look like they cannot decide whether to salute him or hide.

“Oh, Jacob Cloud,” Elder Lioren laughs, patting me on the shoulder, “this year, it will be one of the greatest years the Academy has seen since I’ve been here. I am not at liberty to discuss, but the kind of talent that’s entering the fray… you’ll find that the competition will never get tougher than what you’ll experience here. Greatness is about to descend on us. Some say, it might even be… let me not jinx it. It’s hard to find ten champions.”

I have no idea what the man’s been saying for the better part of the last thirty minutes as he walks me and Lancelot around and shows us a few structures, and then we finally reach the massive fortress that makes the Academy proper. Elder Lioren points out some of the largest classrooms where first years stay, and murmurs from inside those doors roll out like surf on stone.

“The dropout rate is pretty high,” the old Elf says, “about seventy percent of the Apprentices here don’t make it. Funnily enough, Squires do survive most of their Knights.”

“Huh?” I ask, confused. “Survive? Do Squires stay in the Academy even if their Knight is not there anymore?”

“Oh, I mispoke,” Elder Lioren waves a hand. “When I said survive, I mean that usually when Apprentices die, the Squire survives. It’s a pretty remarkable phenomenon if you ask me.”

“Can you stop cheering?” I ask, looking at Fatty behind me and feeling him jump on his feet, all excited. Then, I turn back to Elder Lioren, “so, roughly, how many people die here each year? As in, out of all those who drop out.”

“Virtually all of them,” Elder Lioren says, closing one eye and running the math in his head. “I would say, about 95% of the Apprentices who drop out do so because they’re dead.”

“They drop dead,” I hear Fatty laugh behind me. “Did you get it?”

I turn to Fatty and wonder if I’m still in time to change Squire. Then I face forward because the corridor opens onto a terrace, and the whole Citadel breathes under us like a living thing. Towers punch at the clouds, and wardlines crawl along the stone like veins that glow when a bell tolls in the distance.

“So… don’t people lose their minds? I imagine nobles wouldn’t be happy with… their children dying? And the Quests?”

I’m still reeling thinking about those insane numbers.

“The dropout rate among nobles is much lower than that,” Elder Lioren nods. “In fact, it’s closer to ten percent of all the new Apprentices. Possibly, among Royals, it’s less than one percent. Most of those who die are great talents that were either scouted by the Academy itself in some popular locations or those like you, who managed to somehow reach Ytrial by themselves.”

“Don’t people need a qualification to enter Ytrial? Like, a recommendation?”

“Technically, a recommendation sways the assessment in your favor, but, usually, it only allows to take the test. For some, since it’s resource expensive, we don’t even take take tests. We just do a superficial assessment and if the person doesn’t look remarkable at all and has no recommendation, then we just send them back the way they came from.”

I take a big inhale. The air smells like old parchment and quenched steel.

It is hard getting Ytrial. If I had come in another life, without the Rainbow Skill, I don’t think they’d have ever let me in.

This shows, honestly, just how selective the Knights are. I am pretty strong. Well, by Clearwater standards, I am very strong. But the guy here says that the competition this year is going to be very big. The thought settles in my chest like a weight that both crushes and steadies me.

“Elder Lioren, may I inquire, how tough will the competition actually be?”

“I cannot share details, Jacob Cloud. But, you are currently pretty weak. The… well, the Elf you killed. He wasn’t remarkable. I’d put him, perhaps, around Intermediate Gold Rank in power? Perhaps slightly higher than that?”

“Isn’t that, like, a lot?” I frown. “For someone who’s just an Apprentice… Aren’t there Adventurers who made an entire career as Gold Ranks?”

“Adventurers,” Elder Lioren wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Brutes. But yes. Outside of here, it might be powerful. Especially if you used to be a commoner among humans. Gold Ranks, for those who don’t know better are like minor deities. But here? That’s the threshold. More than one person, you’ll find out, despite being Gold Rank, is already Early Platinum Rank in power. Whereas, the real talents, those might be already at Intermediate Platinum Rank. Some of the very best are at Advanced Platinum Rank in power. And the monsters who sometimes grace us with their presence? Even while their level is at Gold Rank, their power reaches the very peak of Platinum Rank. But those are…”

Elder Lioren shakes his head. He lets the rest hang, and the silence does more work than a speech.

“You? Your power right now, is remarkable given your background. But in the absolute position of things, especially at Ytrial, it’s not something I’d flaunt. But don’t be discouraged. You do have something special about you. Many Knights came to Ytrial with very little and left as some of the greatest heroes of their time. For you, the key to success might be your trapping senses, for example. You might become a great trap master.”

Interesting. Traps. I should look into that. 

“Where’s a Late Gold Rank in the scale of power?” I ask.

“Late Gold Rank, first year Apprentice?” Elder Lioren strokes his beard. “Top sixty or seventy percentile in a common year. This year? I’ve seen things. Probably… bottom 30th percentile.”

“That’s…” I widen my eyes. “That’s… wow.”

“You’re lucky. Those in the presence of greatness get greatness rubbing off them. You’ll see people whom you might never cross again. Be grateful.”

Finally we reach one of the dorms. The doors stand thick and scarred, and the corridor smells like soap, leather, and the smoke of a dozen different oils.

“In Ytrial, everyone sleeps under the same roofs. It doesn’t matter if you’re a noble, royal, or whatnot. It’s one of our policies and also, it makes people grow together. In my opinion, it prevented many wars. People who have spats in a dorm can solve it here, and then become allies, or even friends. One day, they might go on and become Kings and Queens. Or even Emperors and Empresses. That’s why the Headmaster has always enforced this rule for everyone.”

The mysterious headmaster no one wants to talk about, I think with a frown. I really wonder what’s the secret of this man.

“You’ll meet him at this year’s ceremony,” Elder Lioren sighs, as if reading my mind.

“The Headmaster?”

The man nods and then, he makes a few set of uniforms, one my size, one gigantic appear in his hands. The cloth carries the academy’s deep crimson and a thread that glints like captured dawn.

“These are the uniforms. You’ve already received your token to accumulate Academy points. They’ll be tallied toward a total even you spend them all. You can trade them, too. At the end of the year, the Academy, with all its mighty resources, rewards the ones with the most points.”

“Are the rewards good?” I ask.

“Jacob Cloud,” Elder Lioren raises an eyebrow. “Even sons of Emperors crave the rewards that the Academy dishes out. Remember, the Academy steals—well, takes lots of payments for his services based on Quests. I don’t think there are Empires quite as rich as the Ytrial and its Headmaster. The man really likes his coin.”

“Does the Headmaster have a hoard or something? You’re painting a weird picture. Is this guy swimming in his money?”

Elder Lioren looks away and coughs. He suddenly finds interest in a crack along the wall and refuses to elaborate.

“Anyway, there’s two weeks before the opening ceremony. Come to me in a few days and I’ll arrange for you the best courses I can think of. Some of them, you’ll have to gain access by yourself, though.”

“Sure,” I bow to Elder Lioren as the man makes his way.

Then, I turn toward the bunk beds he brought us at since I’m hearing A LOT of creaking and bustling. The top frame screeches as if it wants to surrender.

“Holy shit! Come down before you destroy our beds!” I scream at Lancelot, seeing him sitting his large buttocks on the top bunk.

“Make me!” Fatty puts his fists up. “I’m not going down without a fight!”

*

After beating the living hell out of my Squire, we go walk around the Citadel. The streets inside the walls run like veins between towers, and smithy hammers ring from an arcade while incense drifts out of a shrine where someone prays for rank. The place breathes training.

“So, we’ll take these two weeks to train,” I say, looking at a bruise right on Fatty’s forhead. “But first, I think I need to upgrade my Skills, at least the basic ones. Then, my Class ones too. There’s a lot of training in our future.”

I hear a loud grumbling from Fatty’s stomach.

“Can we stop to eat something?” he asks.

“Sure.”

We sit at a tavern, getting some food, and, while I barely nibble on mine, I turn my attention internally. The room smells like broth and roasted meat, and the wood under my elbows feels carved by a thousand nervous hands.

What’s the Platinum version of Hell’s Sword? And what about Dark Blade? And the other Class Skills? Should I even worry about Infernal Veins for now?

King Baalrek voice comes off annoyed.

Platinum… so weak. Jacob Cloud, you disgust me.

Sure, I frown. Can you answer?

I can feel the upgraded version of Hell’s Sword in this city. There’s a Skill Crystal for sale. The rest of the Skills, their Platinum version, is not that hard to find. But this one? You’d be lucky to snag it up.

Can you lead me to it? I say, suddenly jumping off the chair.

Of course. 

But I fear you might not like the person selling it. 

To be more precise, they might not like you. 

Chapter 83

I walk quickly across the city and I almost run. The cobbles grind under my boots.

I bump into a few people and I apologize and I keep moving. A hawker shouts about scrolls and someone argues about coin weights near a fountain that smells like cold iron and moss.

Hell’s Sword is the hardest Skill to upgrade. The upgrades for Fire Slash, Fire Walk, Fire Shield and Fire Armor are pretty normal. They’re called Flaming Slash, Flaming Walk, Flaming Shield, and Flaming Armor. And they’re all Gold, not Platinum. 

Whoever made those didn’t have much creativity on hand, I think.

Take a right, King Baalrek says. I feel the bracelet on my wrist tighten and pull me to the right. The metal goes warm and it bites my skin like a tether that knows where it wants me.

Here? I ask.

King Baalrek nods.

Oh, by the way, do you have any idea what Elder Lioren was talking about?

Yes.

Ok? Can you tell me?

Yes, I can.

I almost stop and I groan in frustration. My breath fogs a little because a rune-vent leaks cool air from the stones.

WILL you tell me?

No.

Why do you have to act like this? Are we still in the hating stage? I thought we moved past that.

Keep your sarcasm for inferior races, Jacob Cloud. Now, to your left and you’re there.

I make one more turn and I sigh, and I find myself in a bustling market where so many Skill Crystals sit on the stalls that the mana density in this place feels otherworldly. The air thrums in my teeth. Crystals gleam in racks that climb higher than men, and etched sigils drift like moths above them. 

“I’ve never seen so many at once…” I mutter, and I feel amazed by the display of riches.

Most of them look beyond Platinum, and I can easily spot tons of Diamond ones. Some glow like trapped dawn and some hold a slow storm behind glass.

How are thieves not—

But then I see it.

There are a few Knights in full armor and I can’t even read their aura. Their plates carry chasing that moves when they stand still, and their visors hide eyes that watch everything.

Oh. Those are very strong.

I look around and I let the bracelet guide me while I ignore the rest.
I left Fatty at the tavern and I’m fully focused on finding the evolution of my main Skill. Foot traffic presses and releases like tides and I slip between robes and pauldrons while the bracelet tugs.

Once you evolve it, it will also influence the Black Flame, Jacob Cloud. But you’ll have to upgrade both Hell’s Sword and Dark Sword for it to evolve itself. And only after you max its level.

Wait, I won’t need a Skill Crystal for it?

It’s a fusion Skill, idiot.

I nod and I feel a spark of excitement. My palms itch the way they do when battle wants to start.

Finally, I come across a stall made of black cloth and block wood where…

Holy. That’s…

One of my kind.

I can hear the smirk in King Baalrek’s voice as I stare at a man with slightly reddish skin and two small horns on his head. The horns curve back like polished obsidian and faint heat leaks off him the way heat leaks off a kiln.

“You come to purchase?” the Infernal asks.

“Yes,” I clear my throat. “I’m looking for the evolution of Hell’s Sword. I don’t even know the name, I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, everyone around us goes stiff. Voices die mid-word. Cloth rustles and then stops, and even the rune-motes seem to hang.

It feels like you can hear a pin drop and I turn around and I try to figure out whether it’s my fault.

Was this a faux-pas? I ask King Baalrek.

Asking an Infernal about robbing them of one of our people’s Skills? I hear the man laugh.

Suddenly, a terrifying aura envelops me and almost makes me kneel to the ground. The pressure hits like deep water and my knees creak and my ribs feel tight.

Peak of True Diamond Rank, I hear King Baalrek sigh. Barely a commoner among my people.

“What did you say, kid? Do you care to repeat it?”

So the only seller of Hell’s Sword is a lunatic member of King Baalrek’s people, and that tracks. Now, without Hell’s Sword evolution, which seems to be extremely rare, I don’t think I can do much.

I spot something while I talk to him. There are a few dark spots on the man’s skin and his eyes look glassy. He looks sick. His breath comes a touch sharp and a faint ash-tinge rings his nails.

Grimoire, Analysis.

[Constitution Skill Detected: Infernal Eclipse of the Body.]

[Infernal Eclipse of the Body: increases all Physical and Magical Attributes if cultivated during an Eclipse. It can only level up during sunset and dawn.]

[23 Flaws detected. 1 Critical Flaw Detected.]

I immediately summon the Critical Flaw in my mind.

[Critical Flaw: lunar phase poisoning. Infernal Eclipse of the Body has not been used properly. The Rising Sun Veins have been clogged by excess cultivation during sunset and not enough cultivation of the Skill during dawn.]

[Elaborating solution.]

Glyphs bloom across my sight and then lock into lines like a blueprint. The edges burn in pale red and each note sits where a vein should lie.

Lines of instruction scroll across my sight and I straighten.

“Sir,” I say with a crooked smile. “Do you have trouble waking up in the morning?”

The question is so out of the blue that the Infernal just looks at me, flabbergasted. His pupils narrow and widen like a cat that adjusts to light.

“What?”

“The mornings, are they hard on you?”

The Infernal man looks at me like I just went insane.

“No? Come on, we all know they can be hard, right? Who wants to wake up every day at dawn to cultivate a Constitution Skill, no?”

This time, the aura completely recedes and the man grabs me by my collar and drags me to the other side of the stall and puts a clawed finger at my neck. His skin feels hot through my shirt and the nail points like a needle.

“What did you just say to me?”

“You’re poisoned, right? Your veins are getting clogged. This must be affecting all your other Skills. But, my master actually is an Infernal. He’s… a weird character but—”

I AM NOT YOUR MASTER, JACOB CLOUD. AND I AM NOT WEIRD! I AM PERFECTLY NORMAL! ESPECIALLY FOR A ROYAL!

Someone’s feeling touchy.

I AM NOT—

I tune out the Royal Infernal’s voice. 

“But, despite his weirdness, he showed me the…” I point at the stains. “I know the cure for it. I have a great deal of respect for your ancient race, sir. I promise, I mean no harm. I’m here to trade, and to help if I can.”

The Infernal narrows his eyes and he looks conflicted and he puts me down. The heat coming off him cools a fraction and the cloth walls stop trembling.

“My name is Yekrek,” the Infernal man says. “Who are you?”

“My name is Cloud, Jacob Cloud,” I say with a smile. “Would you like for us to have some privacy while I explain?” I point at the bustling market.

* 

Yekrek brings me inside the stall and my eyes widen.

“Is this…”

“Dimensional effect, kid. Who do you take me for, a beggar?”

The inside of the stall feels like a massive pavilion even though the exterior looks no larger than a small room. Shelves run in long rows and the air smells like hot stone and ink. There are items and objects of value everywhere, all neatly ordered. Skill Crystals pack whole cases. There are hundreds of them. Lanterns float at shoulder height and glow steady without flame, and a soft hum rides the air like a distant forge.

“So, an Infernal broke the vows to his people and trained a Human,” Yekrek says. “I am no purist, no orthodox. But I don’t believe you.”

“Well, he wouldn’t have taught me this.”

Please, let this work.

I activate Infernal Veins and Infernal Wings of Ash. Heat flows through my limbs and ash-feathers fan with a dry whisper.

Yekrek takes a few steps back when he sees the translucent horns and the webbed wings made of ash.

“Those are…” Yekrek shivers. “Those are Royal Skills. What in the… You’re insane.”

“Huh?” I ask, confused, and I deactivate the Skills. I used them because King Baalrek said that this guy is a peasant or that category and that he isn’t too important.

“Infernals do not pass secrets outside their race. Your master just broke that custom. And… who is your master?”

“Well,” I cough. “That’s reserved info. But, I can cure your problem.”

Yekrek puts his hands on his face and he stands there for a moment. The tips of his claws tap his brow ridge like he counts days.

“I will never break out of True Diamond if I don’t resolve this. What do you want in exchange, given you can actually cure me?”

“Just… sell me the Skill?” I say, and I shrug.

“You cannot tell anyone where you got it. I’ll have you swear in blood.”

“Alright,” I say, and I shrug again.

“If your cure actually works, that’s the price. You won’t have to pay.”

I DIDN’T TELL YOU HOW TO CURE THIS, DID I?! HOW DO YOU KNOW?!

Shush, I tell the Infernal King.

“Well, so the clogging is mostly in your Rising Sun veins, right?” I say, and I take the man’s palms. “You need sun-attuned elixirs. If you have any, you can just take one right now and try to cultivate. Do not use any energy other than the Elixir. Do not absorb external mana. And, for the future, my friend, you will have to wake up at dawn. This problem was created by the fact that you only cultivate at sunset.”

Yekrek looks at me, completely stunned.

“That can’t be… but it is true that I’ve only cultivated the Skill at sunset.”

He walks to a shelf full of potions and he rustles through them. He takes out a small vial of golden yellow liquid and he throws it into his mouth and he crunches it, glass and all. The scent lifts like warm citrus and pepper.

Eew.

That’s special glass, idiot, King Baalrek sighs.

Still. Eew.

Yekrek sits on the ground for a few minutes and I twiddle my thumbs while I wait. The floor under me feels like slate and it gives off a slow heat from the dimensional wards.

Then he gets up and looks at me with wide eyes and says, “swear.”

He cuts his hand and I cut open my palm, and I shake his hand and I swear that I won’t reveal who gave me the Skill. His blood feels hotter than mine and it tingles where it touches.

“Well, that’s—”

“Don’t say another word. I don’t want any other business with you. Matter of fact, come here.”

He puts a Skill Crystal in my hand and then he waves a scroll in front of me. The crystal weighs heavy like a dense coal and a small flame spins at its core.

“Never come back to my stall again.”

“Wait, do you have any Skill Crystal for—”

But the next moment, I’m teleported away. The walls snap into a bright seam and the ground jumps under me.

I’m outside the market, or that’s where I think I am. Wind slaps my face and street noise rushes back in layers.

“How the hell—”

“Hey! Why did you leave me alone?!”

I turn and I find Fatty chewing on a large turkey leg and carrying a mug of beer. Grease shines on his chin and crumbs cling to his tunic like badges.

“You’re not great company, you know?” he tells me and then he eyes the big Platinum Ranked Crystal in my hands.

“What’s that?”

“You’re a shameless bastard,” I say, frowning. “I even paid for the food and you dare complain!”

“Oh, about that. I opened a tab at your name since you were stingy with your order. The bill will come straight at the Academy.”

I facepalm and I grab Fatty by the large collar of his shirt. The fabric stretches and creaks like a sail under wind.

“Shut up, let’s go. We need to find more Skills, including a few for you. I can’t have you be useless, can I?”

* 

We grab a few Skill Crystals for Fatty, something that the Grimoire recommended. And I also manage to find the Flaming Skills, thankfully. I also find the ones for Strength and Endurance and grip. Oh, there is also the evolution of Meditation. The new crystals come in cuts that look like gears and leaves and spears, and each one hums at a slightly different pitch.

The problem?

I look at the small pile of Platinum coins remaining in my hands. The discs carry a tower stamped on one face and a dragon head on the other, and the edges bite my skin because they are sharp.

“This is insane,” I mutter. “How can the damn Skill Crystals be so expensive?!”

“Ytrial is full of money and even though a lot of Skill Crystals are brought here, most reach the place through second-hand buyers. Merchants hoard Skill Crystals, buying them in cheap locations, close to Dungeons. Or they send their men to do that. When they come here, they put a massive premium on them.”

I look at the small pile of Platinum coins remaining to my name, no more than ten. A breeze moves them and they clink like fallen teeth.

“I—I can’t believe this. We need to start making money, then.”

“Yeah, how?” Fatty looks at me with skepticism. “I can cook.”

“That’s not going to make us money,” I frown.

“Wait, how expensive is a Runic Notation for a Gold Skill?”

Fatty looks at the small pile of platinum in my hand with disgust.

“You can’t afford it.”

“You goddamn idiot,” I say, and I slap the back of his head. “I’m talking about selling them!”

“Oh no, you want to steal them and sell them on the black market?! Help! A criminal! A criminal!”

“Aughh,” I groan and put a hand on his mouth. “Shut up. Is there any book on how you write down Runic Notation around? I just need to know how to write it. I know a lot about Skills.”

“Do you?” Fatty says, and he seems to materialize another turkey leg out of nowhere.

I look behind the man and I take a few big steps around his large circumference. A spice seller laughs when I orbit him like a moon.

“Where did that even come from? Do you have an Interspatial Ring?”

Fatty looks at me in disgust again.

“You really have poor eyes.”

I narrow my eyes at the plump man.

“Ouch! What was that for?” he whelps.

“Discipline. Now, finish eating, wipe your hands. We’re going to Ytrial’s library. There’s one, right?”

“Can you even read? Why do you look at me like that—don’t you come from a backwater—ouch!”