The Academy of Raya Lucaria was indeed a labyrinth of gears and intellect, but to view it merely as a center of higher learning was a fatal mistake.
Puppet soldiers?
Don walked down the wide, sunlit corridors. In the deep shadows of the vaulted ceilings, marionettes hung suspended. Clad in light plate and clutching multi-armed blades, they were silent, efficient killing machines waiting for a trigger.
"Where are you going? This way!"
Sellen pushed open a small side door, shouting to the distracted Don. Without waiting for him to turn, she vanished inside.
"It's a bit of a mess. Find a seat anywhere. There's water over there—help yourself."
Don stepped inside and froze. "A bit of a mess" was a staggering understatement. The ten-square-meter office was a graveyard of books and alchemical apparatus. Jagged glintstone crystals were strewn across the floor like discarded gravel. On a central desk, a stack of parchment towered higher than a man, and the shelves behind it held several dusty wine bottles.
He scanned the room, lingering on the wine for a moment before clearing a stack of heavy tomes off a bench to find a place to sit.
"Teacher Sellen, do you ever tidy up?"
"Heh. A sorcerer's time is far too precious for domestic chores. But since you're here, feel free to clean if it offends your sensibilities." The sorceress waved a hand dismissively; she clearly wasn't taking the Academy's "supervision" task seriously.
She truly treated Don as a disciple rather than a soldier to be monitored. Sellen pulled a chair from behind the desk—sending more books cascading to the floor—and sat down, crossing her legs. Beneath her robes, a flash of pale skin showed.
"Let us begin. I need to gauge your foundation to adjust the curriculum."
"So soon?"
"You see? You've already forgotten what I said." Sellen raised a slender finger, her tone sharpening. "Time is precious. Endless mysteries await us. Here—complete this assessment, then I'll use the apparatus to test your magical resonance."
Don hadn't expected that after traversing two worlds, he'd be back to taking exams. Still, sensing her genuine intent, he picked up a quill. No matter how many men he had cut down or how many battlefields he had crossed, a written exam remained a universal torture.
He sat restlessly, scratching his head and yawning through the history of glintstone theory. Yet, as he worked, the fragmented bits of lore he had gathered began to link together.
Magic originates from the stars, discovered by ancient astrologers. The first sorcerers were neighbors to the Giants upon the mountain peaks before migrating to Liurnia. But now, the stars are shackled; astrology is a relic of the past.
Glintstone was the residue of the stars, and from it, all sorcery flowed. Centuries of research had refined this into a rigorous system.
"Finished." Don handed over the parchment. Seeing Sellen slumped in her chair with her head bowed, he tapped the desk.
"Ah? Done already?" The mentor snapped her head up.
"Were you napping?"
"A sorcerer must utilize every spare minute. Give it here." Sellen showed no shame. She stretched, her robes pulling taut over her frame, and began marking the paper. "Go to the kitchen and make some tea. Use plenty of Herba leaves. There's milk on the shelf—add some."
She certainly knows how to put people to work, Don thought. He stood and headed to the kitchenette on the far side of the room. He had no idea how to make Liurnian milk tea, so he threw a handful of leaves into a pot and heated the milk over an alchemical burner. A strange scent began to waft from the pot.
Why does this smell like a wet sock?
Don carried the cup back, a look of disgust on his face. As he turned the corner, he paused.
The stone mask sat on the desk. Sellen—a woman with shoulder-length black hair and piercing blue eyes—was focused intently on his exam. The glow of the glintstone lamp illuminated her skin, making it appear as white as snow.
She worked quickly, finishing the grading in heartbeats. She looked up and caught Don staring with the teacup in hand. She wasn't shy, nor was she angry; she simply reached out, snatched the tea, and offered a casual warning.
"Flesh is the least useful tool to a sorcerer. To obsess over it is to stunt one's growth. Mmm... the tea is actually decent. I forgive you."
Don said nothing. The first half of her sentence proved Sellen's detachment from worldly vanity, but the second half—
Are you serious? It smells like a laundry basket.
Fortunately, Don had been taught well by Miriam. He had answered most of the technical questions correctly. Sellen corrected a few minor errors before leading him to the resonance machine. After the tests were complete, they returned to the cluttered room. She gnawed on the end of her quill, thinking.
"Your aptitude is sufficient—formal apprentice level. But you've been lazy with your studies. Your mana control is a shambles; you release the sigil the moment it manifests."
Don nodded. Magic could be "charged," a process requiring precise mental stability. Because he focused on speed, he usually bypassed the refinement.
"You have much to learn." Sellen raised her staff. A sigil appeared but did not dissipate. A pebble-sized shard of glintstone manifested, more refined than Don's, shaped like a triangular arrowhead. With a flick of her wrist, it shot toward Don's head.
He nearly used Bloodhound Step to evade, but he forced his legs to stay still. The shard swerved inches from his face, circled his body three times, and vanished.
"Exquisite control. You truly are a genius of the Academy." Don clapped, genuine shock breaking through his facade. He had seen such control once before—with Ranni, whose crystal rain had covered a hundred meters without touching a single hair on his head.
"Spare me the flattery. Starting tomorrow, we practice control using the 'Starlight' spell. I have no idea what your previous masters were doing." Sellen rose and replaced her mask. "You'll sleep in that chair. Do not enter the inner room without my permission."
She's probably already researching the Primeval Current in there, Don thought curiously. He nodded. "Understood."
"Good." Sellen snapped her fingers. "Class is dismissed. Now, as my assistant, you have a duty. Those dull, arrogant professors keep wasting my time with tedious errands."
"What do I need to do?"
"Let me think... ah. First, return that borrowed apparatus to the third-floor equipment room." Sellen pointed to a bizarre machine in the corner, roughly the size of a bookshelf.
"By myself?"
"Who else? You look sturdy enough. Moving a little weight shouldn't be a problem." Sellen turned and walked into the back room, leaving Don standing in the middle of the mess.
So... I'm just a glorified pack mule.
Gate Town, Academy Outskirts.
The morning streets were noisy, but the small shop felt quiet and comfortable. Don took a sip of his drink, savoring the coffee-like bitterness.
It had been nearly half a month since he infiltrated the Academy. Don had been remarkably well-behaved, spending every day studying under Sellen without causing a ripple. He was almost becoming a proper scholar.
It turned out that even with the same mana capacity, the difference in control was night and day. Sellen could adjust the brightness of a simple "Starlight" spell or throw it like a flashbang. The depth of the craft was staggering.
No rush. I can claim the news about Nokron came from some ancient text in the library; Ranni will have no way to disprove it. For now, the peace is helping me clear my head.
Don set his cup down and looked out at the Erdtree. The Academy's library was ten times larger than the Manor's collection. Using his status as a "recalled sorcerer," he could access most of the archives.
The Erdtree fell from the stars. Godfrey, the first Elden Lord, conquered the Lands Between and established the Golden Age. But all empires crumble. The Night of the Black Knives created a flaw in the Order, Marika shattered the Ring, and now her children are tearing each other apart for the shards.
He tapped the leather-bound book in front of him, confirming the timeline. The "Shattering" was in its final stages. The demigods had fought to a standstill, leaving the world ripe for the return of the Tarnished.
"But if the war is ending, what causes the total apocalypse of the future?" Don wondered. He sensed someone approaching and closed his book.
A young girl in an apron placed a plate on the table. "Your charcoal-grilled crab, Master Roland."
"Thank you, Tina."
The golden fat glistened on the tender meat. Don took a bite, his eyes narrowing in pleasure. Seeing the girl linger, he asked, "Something else?"
He had eaten here daily and become familiar with the server. She was tall, with wavy brown hair and a shy disposition.
"Are you... reading history, Master Roland?" She pointed to the gold-embossed title: The Golden Age.
"You can read?"
"A priest in my village taught me a little." The girl seemed to find common ground, nervously smoothing her skirt. "Master Roland... are you a devout follower of the Golden Order?"
I only believe in the blade in my hand.
Don gave a polite nod. "My ancestors came from Leyndell. Of course I am a believer."
As he spoke, he felt a sharp gaze from somewhere in the restaurant. He looked around quickly, but saw nothing.
"That's wonderful! There is a sermon next week. If you're interested... could you take me with you?" Tina's eyes were full of expectation.
After being worked to the bone by Sellen all day, Don had zero interest in hearing a priest drone on. He was searching for a polite rejection when the shop owner shouted from the kitchen.
"Tina! Stop bothering Master Roland while he's eating!"
"Coming!" The girl stuck out her tongue and hurried away.
Don watched her go, shaking his head. He wasn't an arrogant man; he generally treated commoners with kindness. He took another bite of crab, savoring the flavor, when a scream erupted from the street outside.
"Murder!"
"Get the guard! Karl has lost his mind!"
Don snapped his head toward the window. A gaunt, skeletal man was swinging a blade at anyone in reach, eventually lunging to tear at a woman's throat with his teeth like a rabid dog.
Don stood up. In the man's bloodshot eyes, the gold of Grace was flickering violently. He had seen this before.
The Madness. Or rather—the loss of the Light.