TBATE: Corvis Eralith

Corvis Eralith

The weight of Windsom's visit sat like lead in my chest, a secret corrosive and cold. Keeping it from Grey felt like a betrayal carved into my bones. Every shared glance, every conversation and training, was laced with the unspoken truth: I know the Asuras are coming for you, but I can't tell you.

What was that Asura waiting for? Some grand, bloody spectacle? Dicathen invaded? Uto painting a field crimson with an army's lifeblood? The uncertainty gnawed at me, sharp and relentless. Two days had bled into silence—no word from Windsom, no sign he had approached Grey.

The temptation to break, to spill the poisonous truth, was a physical ache. But the chilling memory of those star-filled eyes stopped me. A single misstep, a hint of defiance, and Epheotus's "protection" would vaporize, taking everyone I cared about with it. So, I played the part: the loyal, coreless princeling, blind and compliant.

The puppet dancing on strings held by gods.

The bitterness of that role fueled the meticulous, nerve-wracking task before me. Bent at an awkward angle, muscles screaming in protest, I worked by the dim light reflecting off a series of carefully positioned mirrors.

My faithful nib, tipped with an ink I made with the beast cores of mana beasts attuned to lightning deviant mana, trembled slightly in my fingers as I traced intricate, deadly pathways onto the skin at the base of my neck.

This was more than a simple Ineptrune. This was annihilation. Failsafe. The name was stark, final. It fit.

Agrona knew I existed. Epheotus saw me as a potential asset or a discardable tool. The terrifying knowledge humming within my Meta-awareness—the visions, the insights, the mass amount of knowledge, the fragile threads of fate I perceived—could not fall into their hands.

Not Agrona's, hungry for any advantage to make him triumph in his war. Not Kezess's, who would dissect the knowledge over aether and discard the vessel. Death was preferable. Cleaner and safer for Dicathen.

The design wasn't complex, but its purpose was horrifyingly elegant. Against the Tragedy, humming faintly on my forearm, had been the conduit. Grey, unaware of the true purpose, had helped me channel and isolate a specific, volatile current of lightning-aspected mana, refined to a killing purity.

This wasn't ambient energy; it was distilled lightning, bottled fury into the tattoo on my neck. Failsafe was the detonator. Upon activation, it wouldn't just unleash that stored electricity into my brainstem—a guaranteed, agonizing end. Simultaneously, it would trigger a catastrophic mana backlash, an uncontrolled surge of raw power flooding the delicate neural pathways causing a shock too great for my body to handle.

The electricity would fry the hardware; the mana shock would obliterate the software. Even the legendary healing of the vivum edict of aether had limits and couldn't save me from that. This was scorched earth. Utter, irreversible annihilation. No miraculous recovery. No tortured interrogation. No third chance in some unknown beyond.

Just… nothing.

The nib pricked, a sharp sting joining the chorus of aches in my neck and shoulders. I paused, staring at my strained reflection in the mirror. The fear was a living thing, cold and coiling in my gut. To deliberately craft your own end… it was monstrous. Unnatural.

Yet, beneath the visceral terror, a grim certainty settled. This wasn't surrender. It wasn't the first option, or even the tenth. It was the final, desperate gambit reserved for the moment all other paths led to a fate worse than death—capture, dissection, becoming a weapon against everything I was trying to protect.

The ultimate control, wrested back from the gods themselves: the power to choose how the story ended, ensuring the most dangerous secrets died with me.

But that wasn't the only last resort I have devised, I was continuing to fill Sylvia's mana core—which was fortunately not noticed by Windsom—with as much mana as I could. I already discovered that with enough time I could use Against the Tragedy 2.0 to force an explosion.

If I had to die, I would go out with the boom.

Lucas Wykes

The humid stone walls pressed in, slick with condensation that reeked of mildew and something vaguely metallic—like old blood or rust.

The flickering torchlight cast long, grotesque shadows that danced on the rough ceiling, making the narrow tunnel feel like the gullet of some forgotten beast.

I followed the shuffling noble—I did not remember his name Clar—something, he'd insisted, though his threadbare cloak and the tremor in his hands screamed faded glory—with profound irritation.

Normally, I'd have reduced such an impertinent old fool to cinders for daring to summon me like some common errand boy. But the suffocating boredom of Xyrus Academy had become its own kind of torture.

Surrounded by common-born mediocrities and noble failures, treated with disrespect, robbed… the memory of Grey's smug face, dismissing me from the Disciplinary Committee with that infuriatingly calm authority, sent a fresh wave of corrosive anger through me.

He had stolen my rightful place in the dungeon raid, humiliated me, and now he paraded around like he owned the Academy. A jealous rat, terrified of true nobility like mine.

We emerged into a cavernous room, scarcely better lit than the tunnel. The air was thick and stale, tasting of mud and desperation. Crates lined the walls, shrouded in dust. At the far end, slumped in a chair that looked like a crude throne, sat a figure. Tall, lean, radiating a lazy power that was at odds with his posture.

A featureless, bone-white mask with tiny holes obscured his face, leaving only glittering eyes visible. Around him, arranged like grim statues in the gloom, stood perhaps forty others, hooded and silent. The atmosphere was thick with a feverish, suppressed energy that set my teeth on edge.

"Welcome. Welcome to one of our humble abodes where we hold our meetings." The voice from behind the mask was coarse, like gravel scraping stone, yet laced with an unnerving amusement.

Lord Berwick practically groveled, dropping to one knee. "Lord, I have brought Lucas Wykes as you asked."

Lord? Disgust warred with morbid curiosity. What pathetic circus had I stumbled into? Some deranged cult of malcontents hiding beneath the city?

"Well, so this is Mr. Wykes? Here in the flesh," the masked figure chuckled, leaning forward slightly his elbows on his legs. The eyes behind the mask seemed to pin me in place. "I am so glad you are here to join us. Join us in our little crusade." The laugh that followed was dry and humorless, echoing slightly in the cavern.

"I am not here to join anything," I stated, my voice dripping with contempt. I crossed my arms, surveying the pathetic gathering. "I was just bored, but I admit... what is this? It is very disappointing." I let my gaze sweep dismissively over the hooded figures.

"Who even are you? A washed-up professor playing all high and mighty?" The only ones with the resources for this pitiful hideout beneath Xyrus were faculty, or perhaps disgraced Sapin mages.

"How dare you?!" A voice, young and shrill with outrage, erupted from the crowd. A hooded figure stepped forward, pointing a trembling finger. "You are lucky we even let a mutt like you into our presence! You should be grateful you have been granted this opportunity!"

A mutt? The word struck like a physical blow, igniting the volatile rage that simmered constantly beneath my surface. Heat surged in my core, mana gathering instinctively at my fingertips. I would incinerate this insolent worm where he stood, reduce him to ash for daring to—

Snap.

The masked man flicked his fingers. Instantly, the shouting figure was engulfed in roaring, crimson flames. No incantation, no visible buildup—just instantaneous, terrifying conflagration. The scream that tore from the boy's throat was primal, agonizing.

He flailed, a writhing torch in the dim light, the stench of burning cloth and searing flesh filling the damp air. It was horrifyingly fast. Even silent casting shouldn't be that immediate. A sliver of cold unease cut through my fury.

"Now, now," the masked man chided, his voice still laced with that disturbing playfulness. He watched the burning figure with detached interest. "It isn't very nice, what you have done. Is this the way you speak with our newest member?"

The boy screamed, a raw, animal sound choked by the flames consuming his throat. "P-PLEASE! F-Forgive me! I was wrong! I apologize! I APOLOGIZE!" He collapsed, rolling desperately, but the flames clung like living things.

The other figures remained frozen, silent witnesses radiating pure terror. I felt no pity for the fool; he had earned his fate. But the display of power, the casual cruelty… it was chillingly efficient. As the screams became wet gurgles, I turned my full attention back to the masked man, my earlier arrogance tempered by wary calculation.

"Before I even consider giving you an answer," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady, though my knuckles were white where I gripped my own arms, "what do you need me for? You are clearly strong enough to handle your own… theatrics." It was obvious, but the question needed asking. This reeked of manipulation.

"What are you actually trying to accomplish?"

"Circumstances, unfortunately, make me unable to act personally," the figure sighed theatrically, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "Moreover, your esteemed Director Goodsky has proven… inconveniently efficient. She has found and neutralized most of my previous associates."

Another dry chuckle.

"So, I find myself in need of capable mages. True talent. Individuals who can execute my plans within Xyrus Academy itself." He glanced sideways at the charred, twitching form on the floor and snapped his fingers again. The flames vanished instantly, leaving only a smoking, blackened husk and the sickening smell of cooked meat.

"As for what I strive to accomplish? Well, my goals align quite neatly with the dissatisfaction simmering in this room."

He spread his hands, encompassing the silent, hooded crowd.

"Everyone here chafes under the… changes forced upon Dicathen these past years. The dilution of tradition. The elevation of the unworthy. Xyrus City, once a bastion of refinement, becoming the pulsing heart of this vulgar new order." Murmurs of agreement, fervent nods, rippled through the assembly. "It makes one want to… retch, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Wykes? That insipid and coward 'Accept All' motto plastered everywhere?"

Accept All. The phrase tasted like bile. It was vomitous. The idea that my birthright, my inherent superiority, meant nothing next to some gutter-born conjurer who scraped by on luck? It was an insult to centuries of Wykes lineage. But…

"I couldn't care less about your philosophical whining," I stated coldly, turning slightly as if to leave. Let them stew in their pathetic grievances I had better ways to spend my time. "The commoners infesting the Academy are no different to the rats scurrying in the city gutters to me. If your grand purpose is merely to complain about the rabble, you've wasted my time." I took a deliberate step back towards the tunnel.

"Lucas."

The name, spoken with that same infuriatingly amused tone, stopped me. It wasn't a plea; it was a calculated barb.

"I've heard tales," the masked voice continued, smooth as poisoned oil. "Tales of a prideful mage, a scion of House Wykes… until a certain… friend of yours emerged. Grey, wasn't it?" The name was a spark thrown onto tinder. My entire body tensed.

"Not only did he brazenly steal your rightful place in the Disciplinary Committee—a position befitting your status, surely—but I understand he also… intervened during one of your dungeon raids? Saved your life, they say, when things grew… challenging. Stole the glory that was rightfully yours."

The mockery was palpable, each word a tiny knife twisting in the raw wound of my humiliation.

"WHAT HAVE YOU SAID?!" The roar tore from my throat before I could stop it, the carefully constructed facade of aristocratic disdain shattering. I whirled, mana flaring visibly around my fists, a corona of incandescent fury.

"WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, SPEAKING TO ME LIKE THAT?!" I was Lucas Wykes! This masked freak, powerful or not, should be groveling!

"Mr. Wykes," the figure said, utterly unfazed by my outburst, even seeming to lean forward with renewed interest. "Even if our broader views on the rabble differ…" He gestured dismissively towards the charred corpse. "...I believe we share a very specific, very potent common interest. That rat Grey."

He let the name hang.

"I can give you what you crave. I can give you the power to crush him. To erase that humiliation. To make him kneel in the dirt where he belongs, and finally prove, beyond any doubt, the supremacy of House Wykes."

The power to defeat Grey.

The words echoed in the sudden, heavy silence of the chamber, cutting through the lingering stench of smoke and burnt flesh. They resonated with a terrifying, seductive clarity. He was right. Grey's power was an affront, an anomaly that mocked everything I was.

The frustration, the burning need to see him broken, to wipe that infuriating calm from his face… it was a constant, gnawing ache. My teeth ground together unconsciously, the metallic taste of my own blood filling my mouth where I had bitten my cheek. The masked freak was playing me, exploiting my deepest wound. But the bait… the bait was irresistible. The promise of vengeance, of restored supremacy, was a siren song drowning out caution and disdain.

The silence stretched, thick with anticipation from the hooded figures, the lingering horror of the execution, and the masked man's unnerving stillness. My pride screamed to walk away, to reject this gutter alliance. But the image of Grey's face, the memory of his dismissive words, the stolen glory… it fueled a darker fire. This wasn't joining their pathetic cause. This was using their resources, this masked freak's power, for my purpose.

Slowly, deliberately, I uncrossed my arms. I met the dark, glittering eyes behind the bone-white mask. The fury still simmered, but it was now channeled, focused on a single, glorious objective.

"Go on," I conceded, the words rough but clear.