The Archipelago, Within Murdock Academy
A hupo swooped down, delivering a message to the dimly lit office. Deputy Chairman Gilbert unfurled the parchment to find Yvette's distinct handwriting, accompanied by her unmistakable signature. She had requested a leave of absence.
Gilbert's frown deepened as he realized this would be Yvette's longest departure yet. While a flicker of worry surfaced, Gilbert trusted his cousin's judgment—he never once considered that anyone could capture Yvette.
Why would he? His cousin was a force to be reckoned with, far more formidable than even his late aunt.
"Jocelyn is dead," he murmured, grief momentarily dimming his stern gaze. Despite his dislike for the way his cousin had raised Jocelyn with such leniency, they were still family.
Whoever had dared to harm one of their acolytes—especially a genius like Jocelyn, nurtured so carefully within the academy—must already be little more than ashes. Gilbert knew well his cousin's fierce temperament.
A heavy silence hung over the room as Gilbert's words reverberated, and those kneeling before him felt the full weight of his presence, pressing down on them like a dark cloud.
Breaking the silence with steely resolve, Gilbert's voice rang out, a command forged from both authority and sorrow.
"From this moment on," he declared, "every acolyte will complete a mandatory mission each month. Only by succeeding in these missions will they gain access to their dormitories, the training facility, the labs, and spell modules."
He paused, letting the gravity of his words linger, settling like a shroud over those present. "The grading of each mission will determine their rank and hierarchy."
The atmosphere grew tense, every soul in the room fully aware that the academy's standards had just shifted.
"Failure will not only reflect on the apprentices," Gilbert said, his voice steady yet sharp, "but on the professors as well. I've already discussed these changes with the Chairman.
From this point onward, we will no longer accept those with mediocre talent. Only Grade 4 and above. It's time we strive to be the number one institution on these Isles!"
Gilbert paused, his gaze shifting to Professor Lester. "Lester, you are temporarily promoted to Department Head of Runic Studies!"
Professor Lester could barely contain his joy, nodding his head eagerly, like a rooster pecking at the ground. 'That bitch won't be back soon.' He caught on.
If there was anyone within Murdock that hated, Yvette. Look no further than her rival Lester. Some speculated Lester might have a hand in everything that's going on with Yvette.
"Dorothea," Gilbert continued, his tone more severe, "as of this moment, take a few acolytes and seek out talented future Magi.
You have ten years to complete this task—failure is not an option. And take Kroft with you; he's grown too accustomed to idleness.
It's time he pulled his weight. I've already mapped out a few locations where you might find these talents."
He tossed a parchment toward her, which Dorothea caught with a determined glint in her eye. Yet, as she glanced over the list, her gaze lingered on the names.
Some of these locations lay not only on the Central and Eastern Continents… they would need to venture to the elusive Sky Continent.
"Don't worry about your Divination class," Gilbert added. "A substitute will arrive a week before your departure. She's well-known within the Yeti's Coven. And as for Kroft, that bastard barely teaches as it is. His assistant can manage the course material."
"The Coven?" The shock echoed through the room. To secure someone from the crater was no small feat—after all, it's a paradise for lawlessness. Any and everything can be bargained for within the Yetis' Coven.
"Why would some like that desire to join a Light Magus Academy?" Those thoughts ran through the mind of everyone, yet dared not to voice it.
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The Twisted Vines of Broken Starfield - Napha
In the sprawling backyard of Thornbrick Estate, beyond the breathtaking mountains, lay a dense jungle that seemed to stretch endlessly, wrapped in knotted vines and teeming with creatures both fierce and untamed.
This jungle was no mere wilderness; it was a kingdom of chaos, ruled by four legendary beasts: the Fae, shimmering with an ethereal, otherworldly light; the Bonecarver Raven, dark as night and sharp-eyed; the Thornback Spider, whose web spanned trees like a shadowy net; and the Fearsome Dreadscale Croc, whose scales gleamed like polished armor as it lurked in the murky depths.
For two decades, House Thornbrick had remained absent, its influence a distant memory in this wild paradise. In that time, the creatures had grown powerful, each staking out its territory, growing bolder and more formidable by the year.
They roamed freely, their power a force of nature, rivaling the fiercest storms that swept down from the mountains.
But today, something was different. A pulse seemed to beat through the jungle, stirring the creatures from their lairs. A new presence had arrived—Orcs. They were unlike the Lizardmen or the cunning Sky Wolves.
These Orcs moved with a purpose, their every step heavy with a draconic aura that seemed to crackle in the air. Some among them were massive, their strength unmistakable, radiating an energy that rivaled even that of a Grand Knight.
The beasts sensed it, too. Their keen instincts prickled, alert to the change sweeping through their territory.
The jungle's once-thriving population had dwindled, reduced by five percent, and hunted relentlessly not only by the relentless Orcs but a few brazen lads. These lads bore weapons.
For Menos, this hunt was more than just killing a few arrogant Ferocious Beasts; it was a transformation, a journey from mortal to Practitioner.
He was no longer defenseless, having discovered his weapon—a chain scythe—that felt like an extension of his own body. With each swing, each fluid motion, he wielded it with a natural grace, leaving behind a trail of headless corpses.
"You lads have done well," Oga said, his voice steady, yet commanding. "I'll take them with me. You may enjoy the rest of the morning off… but don't forget your evening lecture!"
Menos, Yeli, and Amin exchanged satisfied glances, their eyes gleaming with pride. At long last, they were Squires—a title that carried with it both honor and recognition.
They had not only proven themselves in the field but had also witnessed something far more extraordinary: Lord Oga, in a display of skill and precision, had taken down the monstrous, sentient beast in a mere two strikes.
It wasn't just its size that had shocked them, nor the grotesque strength of the creature, but the fact that it could think, speak, and reason—an intelligence that made their blood run cold.
To the three young men, Lord Oga was a legend. They had always dreamed of walking the path of a Magic Swordsman, and now they stood in awe of a man who embodied that very ideal.
But for Oga, these hunts were never about the trophies. They were about sending a message. A warning.
To the remaining three Enlightened Beasts- kings of the forest, his message was simple: the Lord of these lands had returned. His dominion stretched far and wide, and all who wandered past these mountains would answer to him.
Oga's strength was unmatched, and he would show no mercy to those who dared encroach upon his territory.
As the three Squires made their way back to the estate, their minds swirling with thoughts of what they had witnessed, Oga remained still, gathering the remains of the Enlightened Dreadscale Crocs—an exquisite delicacy few had the privilege of savoring. The air around them seemed to hum with a subtle, foreboding tension.
Oga's actions had shaken the very land they stood upon. The death of one of the four Kings was a resounding message—felt by every lifeform.
Not long after, Oga found Nuu in a small cottage.
This was Nuu's workstation, where, for the past few days, he had secluded himself to work on forging his blade, Zamira, following the departure of his wife and consort.
Nuu's cottage was built on top of the mountain, small and unassuming, yet solidly built by Phi. The walls were thick stone, the roof aged slate.
Morning light filtered through, dappling the stone path that led to the heavy oak door. Around the cottage, the air was still, quiet but for the occasional rustling of leaves and birdsong. Yet within those walls, a rhythmic sound pulsed—a hammer striking the anvil, the heartbeat of the forge.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of smoldering coal and hot iron, earthy and metallic, filling the lungs with each breath. The forge stood against the far wall, a wide brick-and-stone structure with the fire crackling in its belly.
Flames leaped and flickered, casting dancing shadows across the dimly lit room. Nearby, a sturdy anvil gleamed, its surface polished smooth from years of hammering. And beside it stood Nuu, engrossed in his work.
Nuu's thick arms moved with practiced strength, each strike of his hammer shaping not only the metal but also himself. His leather apron, worn and scarred, bore the marks of countless hours at the forge.
In one gloved hand, he held a length of glowing steel, fresh from the fire; in his other hand, he gripped the hammer, poised above the anvil.
His brow was furrowed in concentration as he let the hammer fall with precision refined over years of dedication.
The Electric Wyvern's horn slowly took form under his steady eye. With each blow, sparks flew, briefly illuminating the room in a burst of light before fading back into shadow.
The metallic horn sang beneath his hammer, a ringing sound that reverberated through the stone walls, mingling with the crackling of the fire and the rhythmic hiss of the quenching barrel nearby.
The quenching barrel—a large wooden vessel filled with oil—waited patiently, its surface calm and undisturbed. Beside it stood the sharpening wheel, its rough surface glinting faintly, ready to hone the blade's edge when the time came.
Above, a shelf held an array of tools: chisels, punches, files, each with its purpose, each ready to leave its mark on the creation.
Nuu worked with a steady rhythm, pausing only to study the blade, assessing its shape, balance, and potential. He brought the steel back to the forge, letting it soak in the fire until it glowed a bright orange, then returned to the anvil.
His hammer fell with authority, bending the metal to his will, shaping it with a reverence that went beyond mere craftsmanship. For him, this was art—a dance between strength and precision, between creation and destruction.
As he worked, the cottage around him seemed to breathe, alive with the energy of his labor. The thick, sturdy walls absorbed the sounds of his hammering, his grunts, and the steady roar of the forge.
The floor beneath his boots was worn, littered with fragments of past works, the dust of old creations ground into the stone. Outside, the quiet world continued, unaware of the transformation happening within this small, unassuming place.
At last, he lifted the nearly finished blade to the light, letting his gaze travel down its length. The steel was smooth, sleek, and deadly, shaped by his hands, a testament to his skill and patience.
He moved to the quenching barrel and plunged the sword into the oil. It hissed and spat, sending up a plume of steam and filling the room with the sharp scent of hot metal cooling.
When he pulled the blade free, it was dark, its final edge still to be sharpened. He set it aside, and for a moment, the forge quieted, the room settling back into stillness.
"I take it your training with those lads is finished?" Nuu asked, his voice steady, though his attention remained fixed on the blade in his hands.
His back was turned to Oga as he worked, each deliberate motion of his polishing cloth a reflection of his quiet mastery.
"They should be ready for your afternoon lecture," Oga answered, his tone casual, though there was an edge to it as he tossed the Dreadscale hide, using it to cover the handle of a new weapon. "And it seems you'll soon have my blade ready."
Nuu's eyes flickered to the hide, admiration clear in his gaze. "Your air-skinning technique leaves me in awe."
Oga smiled, though the gesture didn't quite reach his eyes. "Use the Dragon Horn and a drop of my blood to forge her blade. Once you're done with that, as for the handle, I'll leave that to you."
Nuu considered this, a flicker of doubt passing across his face. "Alright. But I thought you would have chosen to use the Dragon's horn for yourself... to give her the horn, that quite something. I hope you haven't lost sight of our great plan."
Oga's jaw tightened, but his voice remained even. "You need not worry. It is I who should remind your depraved self."
Yet, deep down, he knew Nuu's words carried weight. Zamira had unknowingly begun to tug at his heart, and even he couldn't pinpoint the moment when it had happened.
There was a brief silence between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts.
"Oh, right…" Oga's voice broke the stillness, a note of curiosity creeping in. "I was a bit taken aback at first—Menos using the chain scythe. Quite an unexpected choice. Did you tell him to switch from the saber?"
Nuu didn't glance up from his work, but the edges of his lips twitched into a knowing smirk. "Not really. It was just one of the many weapons I'd forged, lying around. The brat saw it and decided to give it a try.
To my surprise, the little devil took to it like a fish to water. I didn't expect him to find his path so soon. For some, it takes years to realize the blade they're holding isn't meant for them. Guess you could call it luck."
His hands moved with practiced precision, the blade slipping into the deep red liquid.
"Well, I must congratulate you. Forging three Rank 1 Squires with the potential to become Grand Knights is no easy feat.
I only stopped by to check on you. Let's have dinner together—just like we used to, as a family. Yanis will be here tomorrow… Let's eat, just like the old days." Oga didn't wait for Nuu's response. With a brief nod, he turned and left, leaving Nuu to his work.
Nuu continued working for the next eight hours. Only when he heard the wolves howling did he remember….it was time for the lads' lecture.
He finally coated Oga's blade with the Mirth Cloud, storing it safely in his flesh pouch. As he walked out of the cabin, he looked up at the sky and realized both moons were about to appear. The brat must have grown quite tired of waiting.