Glintstone lamps turned the meeting room as bright as day, yet within the ancient wood-paneled chamber, there was little sound. It wasn't that the first proposal had stumped the Preceptors; rather, their minds were wandering elsewhere, far from the drudgery of administration. To call them living weapons was an understatement—they were scholars and scientists first. With countless cosmic riddles waiting to be solved, who had the heart to think of war?
In the heavy silence, the perpetually luckless Oritiys was forced to tap the table once more. Seeing that no one intended to lead, he called a name:
"Professor Leon, what is the view of the Haima Conspectus?"
A sorcerer huddled in the corner looked up. Over two meters tall, his powerful frame strained against the seams of his robes. As a "Judge" of the Academy and an expert in battlefield sorcery, it was only fitting that he speak first.
"Ahem. My view is that the Academy gates must not be sealed. It is true the Cuckoos suffered heavy losses, but they still possess the capacity for independent action. The wars of the demigods are far from over; employers are everywhere."
His voice was raspy, like two stones grinding together—a grating, piercing sound.
"It is precisely because the Cuckoos are capable of betrayal that we must seal the gates," a sharper, feminine voice countered from Leon's right.
"Betrayal? Even if they seized the Academy, how would they respond to a Carian counter-offensive? Mathews isn't stupid enough to act as a shield for the Royals."
"But they failed. A failed tool possesses no value."
"Professor Eila!" Leon's voice dropped an octave, his wide palm slamming onto the table. "The value of the Cuckoos depends on the strength of Caria. The Royals still have the power to strike back. If the Cuckoos withdraw, the Royals will reclaim all of Liurnia. Once they have reforged their blade, do you wish for us to wait for another 'Full Moon Conquest'?"
The female professor's momentum vanished. She remained silent for a long time. True, this hall of magic was easy to defend, but even it couldn't withstand a prolonged siege by a unified Carian army.
Logic and reality had spoken. The threat was outside. The group fell quiet again until a sinister, oily voice broke the silence.
"I heard the army of Malenia the Severed is marching south. Could we not... ask for her assistance?"
Everyone turned to look at Cheirona, head of the Olivinus Conspectus. The professors, usually buried in their books, looked at one another, weighing the possibility. A rhythmic clapping shattered the thought.
"Professor Cheirona has quite the imagination," Seluvis said, his voice dripping with its usual sarcasm. He clapped slowly. "So, who shall be the one to contact the Blade of Miquella? I hear the Haima Conspectus has ties to them; perhaps Lord Leon should go in person? Though, I must remind you... the Carian Royals are kin by marriage. One cannot be sure whose side the girl will take~~~"
The comment made everyone's blood pressure soar, yet it was impossible to refute. They were currently holding the former wife of the Elden Lord under house arrest. By relation, Malenia was the half-sister of the Lunar Princess. How the hell were they supposed to open that conversation?
"Let us put the matter to rest," Oritiys said, ending the topic before someone decided to beat Seluvis into a pulp. "I propose we do not seal the gates. We shall maintain our 'harmonious' relationship with the Cuckoo Legion. None of you wish for your research to be interrupted by a siege, I assume."
"Agreed."
"It is the only way."
Hands went up around the table. There was no better alternative. Until the Carian Royals lost their ability to retaliate, the Academy needed the Cuckoos, and the Cuckoos needed the Academy.
"But we cannot let the Cuckoos bleed us dry forever. We must break the balance," Oritiys said, his gaze shifting to the right. "Professor Leon, how many wandering sorcerers have been recalled?"
"Forty-five in total. The number is increasing. However, these individuals have been away from the Academy for a long time. They are eccentric and have mastered many... unorthodox magics."
"That is a benefit. They have traveled the Lands Between; their practical combat experience far exceeds that of a common apprentice. It is only their sense of belonging that requires strengthening. I propose we restart the Drawing Ceremony. Every lecturer must be assigned disciples."
The room hesitated. The Academy's structure was rigid: from the masked apprentices to the lecturers, Preceptors, and finally the Conspectus Heads. At the lecturer level, research tasks were paramount; no one wanted to spend time on "psychological construction" for students.
But on second thought, if it wasn't the heads themselves doing the teaching, and if these battle-hardened sorcerers could go out and die instead of the Cuckoos... they could keep their research peaceful.
"Agreed."
"Acceptable. But each lecturer shall take no more than three. My projects still require their assistance."
The two proposals passed "pleasantly." Without waiting for Oritiys to adjourn, the professors scrambled to their feet and hurried out, their minds already back in their laboratories.
"Professor Eila, a moment if you please," Oritiys called out. The lone female head turned back, looking annoyed.
"Ahem. I wished to ask... is the lecturer Sellen still studying under you?"
"Her aptitude is excellent. She has already begun independent research. Is there a problem?"
"None. Sellen is a genius of the Academy, a model for the new generation." Oritiys crossed his hands over his stomach, his tone turning grave. "Precisely because of this, we must ensure she remains on the correct path. Do not forget who her first mentor was."
Eila remained silent. She looked up at a portrait on the wall—a tall, gaunt elder. Master Azur, one of the founders of the Academy, who had long ago been exiled for researching the forbidden Primeval Current.
"You worry that Sellen will walk the same path?"
"Yes. Once the seed of sin is planted, it will eventually bloom. We must be vigilant."
His voice was ten times more serious than it had been during the war council. Caria wanted power; the Primeval Current wanted lives. It hunted its own kind, fusing the bodies of sorcerers into spheres of stone. The Academy would not tolerate it.
Eila's face hardened. If Sellen fell, the responsibility would be hers. "What if she has already begun?"
"Simple." Oritiys faded into the shadows of the room, his ethereal voice echoing. "Before she can manifest a Primal Glintstone... destroy her flesh. Erase her soul."
Don wandered through the somber Manor grounds. This was his post-meal ritual. Having spent so much time here, even the Fingercreepers had grown used to his scent.
Their fingers twitched as they circled him. Don would occasionally hurl a stone; the Fingercreepers would pounce, snatching it out of the air before scuttling back to him with a strange, frantic glee.
Aside from looking nauseating, they really are no different from dogs. He threw another stone, putting too much force behind it. The rock embedded itself in the wall. A Fingercreeper lunged, its "head" slamming into the stone with a loud thud. It collapsed, twitching as if it had knocked itself out.
Hahaha, brilliant.
Don laughed shamelessly and sat down by a dry fountain to rest. Aside from a few forbidden zones, he had explored every inch of the Carian Manor. After the novelty wore off, boredom had begun to set in.
Miriam was gone, Iji was outside the gates, Blaidd was nowhere to be found, and Ranni was a legendary shut-in whom he never saw. His spare time was spent either staring at the Glintstone Dragon or shooting the breeze with the Albinaurics.
He ate when he was hungry, slept when he was tired, and drank by the moon-viewing pool when inspiration struck. It was a pleasant life, and the days slipped by unnoticed.
Ever disciplined, Don never slacked on his reading or training, but he felt a certain lack of "flavor."
"It's too peaceful. The growth is too slow," Don muttered, looking at the distant Erdtree. He wasn't a bloodthirsty asura, but the higher his vision climbed, the more urgent his need for power became. In a world full of demon-gods, he lacked security. He slapped his thigh and stood up.
"I'll go see Ranni. I need to find some work to do."
He turned toward the inner keep. He had taken only a single step when he froze. His brow arched as he turned his head.
A tall figure emerged from an archway. Shaggy fur, ornate armor, and a massive greatsword—it was Blaidd the Half-Wolf.
The Wolf saw him, his eyes narrowing as he stopped.
Why is his gaze so confused?
As a master swordsman, Don't's perception was razor-sharp. He raised a hand in greeting. "You're finally back. Where have you been?"
"Classified mission. Do not ask." Blaidd's tone was cold and rigid. He didn't stop to chat, walking straight past Don.
As they crossed paths, Don spoke casually. "I received some wine from Her Highness. How about a drink to welcome you back?"
"Later. I must report to Her Highness first."
Don watched the retreating back. A Fingercreeper hopped down to inspect the Wolf, then scuttled back up the wall. Everything looked normal. Yet, Don narrowed his eyes, his hand shifting naturally toward the hilt of the blade at his waist.
Something is wrong.