[Imperial Security Departnt – Central Archives Hall]
The polished black marble floors of the Imperial Security Departnt glistened beneath the filtered gold of the overhead chandeliers.
Rows of towering file cabinets and bronze statues of past commanders gave the room a sense of order and intimidation.
Phoebe’s boots clicked with purpose across the floor as she approached the central desk.
She was already mid-conversation, her voice firm but restrained as she followed behind a junior officer.
Her crimson hair, tied in a loose tail, trailed slightly with each step.
At the end of the hall, behind a thick mahogany desk, sat Minister Hargrest—an aging man with salt-streaked hair, a sculpted moustache and goatee combo that frad his stern mouth.
He flipped through a file lazily, pretending not to have noticed her approach.
She stopped before the desk, standing tall in her uniform, arms at her side but her eyes sharp with focus.
"There’s a fund gap of over seventy-five million Earls in the latest ledger reports, Minister."
Phoebe said, not bothering with small talk.
Minister Hargrest looked up, pausing mid-turn of a page.
He gave a small, almost amused grunt.
"Nothing significant.
Just a misplacent of files..."
He replied, his tone dry and dismissive.
"Happens all the ti. It’ll be corrected."
Phoebe didn’t move, didn’t blink.
But her voice rose slightly.
"With all due respect, sir..."
She said, her fingers tightening into a fist behind her back.
"...a sum that large would’ve supplied the Knight Order with new armants, ration stockpiles, horse replacents, airship maintenance upgrades, and ergency reserves for territorial breach scenarios.
All of which fall under the jurisdiction of the Imperial Security Departnt—under you, Minister."
Her voice had gained edge and montum, each word biting.
She moved her hands as she spoke now, her red hair bouncing with the motion, and her striking blue eyes were locked firmly onto the minister’s.
"That kind of money could maintain an entire segnt of the Empire for over a month."
She pressed.
The minister stayed still, unreadable, but Phoebe was already continuing.
"And with the Divine House candidacy ongoing, where nobles are already rallying support behind their respective flags... this Empire has turned into nothing more than a political warzone dressed in formalities."
She exhaled sharply, frustration swelling.
"There are tis I wish I had taken my placent with the Imperial Justice Court instead..."
She muttered aloud, more to herself.
"But no... no matter where you go, people in power find ways to cooperate in the shadows beyond comprehension."
There was a long pause.
Then she straightened her posture, realizing how far she had spoken out of tone.
"I’m sorry, Minister..."
Phoebe said, voice cooler but still simring beneath the surface.
"But I don’t understand why you’re condoning this..."
She looked him straight in the eyes now.
"It’s either you’re backing up Manager Noel, or..."
Her eyes narrowed just slightly.
"You also don’t know where the money’s disappeared to—or what Noel has done with it."
With that, she gave a brief but rigid bow and turned, her boots echoing again as she left the room without another word.
Minister Hargrest watched her go, silent.
The tension she left behind lingered like smoke.
A mont later, he turned slowly in his chair, letting it creak as he swung it toward the tall glass window to his left.
The sun was lowering now, casting amber light over the distant spires of the Imperial Wall.
He stared out, folding his hands beneath his chin.
"...This man.."
He muttered under his breath.
"Noel..."
His voice was quiet, contemplative.
"It’s always difficult to know what he’s doing... or what his motives are.
It’s to the point where he’ll even cut the most important ties he has—just to feed what he sees best for himself."
His gaze darkened slightly, his own reflection barely visible on the glass.
"Just what did you do with the money, Noel?"
He leaned back into his chair slowly, the tension creeping into his shoulders.
"I could prosecute him..."
He murmured.
"...but it’s better I find out the reason first..."
He exhaled deeply.
"...Besides, I’m already in a corner.
He’s one of the only people who can deal with certain unholy phenona.
If he falls... who will take on what lurks beyond our reach?"
The wind outside stirred faintly, rattling the edge of the glass pane.
And the room returned to silence.
***
That very evening, lissa sat in her room.
Silent, unmoving—as the soft amber light of the setting sun spilled through the embroidered lace curtains.
The golden hue cast long shadows across the floor, illuminating shelves lined with embroidery threads and a mannequin draped in an unfinished gown she hadn’t touched in days.
But lissa wasn’t paying attention to any of it.
Her thoughts were distant, circling like vultures over one thing.
Noel.
More specifically, her unexpected encounter with him that day in the Embroidery and Tailoring Club Room.
It had been three long years since she last heard his voice.
Three years since that rainy evening where everything fell apart.
Since the mont she thought she had finally buried every lingering feeling, every mory, every part of him that clung to her heart like a ghost refusing to be exorcised.
And yet... today brought it all back in one cruel instant.
The sudden break of no contact between them had been difficult.
She had told herself it was necessary, that moving forward required distance, silence, and ti.
And for a while—it had worked.
She was healing, little by little. Stitch by stitch.
But now... now it felt like she had unraveled completely.
Back to square one.
As if nothing had changed.
A fresh wave of emotions crept up her throat—grief, longing, resentnt, affection.
It was a tangle that knotted itself so tightly she couldn’t breathe.
She wondered—was he feeling the sa right now?
Or had he, like everyone else, simply moved on?
lissa turned toward her bed without a word and collapsed into it.
Her body curled slightly, one arm thrown over her face to hide her expression from the empty room.
Her chest trembled as she sniffled quietly, but then her restraint gave way—and she began to cry.
She cried like soone who had held it in too long.
Tears slid down her cheeks, soaking the soft sheets beneath her.
Her sobs ca in sharp, uneven breaths as the pain she’d buried so deep clawed its way back out.
Her hand tightened over the pillow she clutched, pressing it to her face in a vain attempt to muffle the sound.
She was a woman now. Composed. Dignified. A club patron and an instructor.
But tonight, she wept like a girl who had been left behind without closure.
A soft knock ca at the door.
"Honey, are you okay?"
A man’s voice—warm, concerned—spoke from the other side.
lissa’s breath hitched.
"Yes, Father!"
She called out, her voice a little too high, a little too quick.
She scrambled to sit up, hurriedly wiping her eyes with the corner of her pillow.
Her hands moved swiftly to fix her hair, to steady her posture, to return to the image of composure she always wore like armor.
The doorknob turned, and her father stepped into the room.
***
[Noel’s POV]
It had been a few days since I started teaching.
And yet, every ti I stepped through the tall doors of Ganesha Hall, I felt the weight of a thousand expectations pressing against my shoulders.
The kind of weight that settles not on your back but on your voice—on your gaze.
A hall where curiosity burned brighter than ambition, and where silence held more tension than noise.
Right now, I stood at the elevated instructor’s platform, the light from the wide arched windows spilling over the rows of seats and tal drafting tables.
"Today’s lecture is on Runic Circuitry & Glyph Engraving."
I began, my voice calm, composed, and resonating through the vast hall.
Dozens of eyes turned toward —so eager, so wary, and a few still unsure of how to read .
"Let’s begin with the basics."
I said, flipping a page on the large schematic board beside .
With a flick of my wrist, the scroll auto-unrolled, revealing several etched diagrams in glowing ink.
"Translating magical effects into inscribed or etched patterns.
That’s what we’re doing.
Think of it as writing code... only the dium is tal, and the output can explode if you’re careless."
A few nervous chuckles spread across the room.
Good.
"These patterns serve as instructions—commands—for chanical or magical reactions. You don’t just draw them... you build them."
I turned, picking up a crystalline stylus and pointing to the tools laid out on the display desk beside .
"You’ll be working with Runic Etching Looms—used to layer and align glyphs in sequence...
Engraver’s Compasses, for precision etching...
...and for the advanced students—Steam-assisted Rune Presses that use mana pressure to engrave enchantnts into harder materials like mithril or dragonbone."
The boy with glasses—nervous as ever, his ink-stained fingers fidgeting against the sides of his notebook—raised his hand hesitantly.
"Yes, Leor."
I called.
"Um... Instructor, if... if the Loom misaligns during heat synchronization, should we reverse or reinforce the output sequence?"
Smart question.
I walked over to his desk.
"Reverse it, and you risk shattering the dium.
Reinforce it by doubling the stabilizing glyph here—"
I pointed gently at the diagram on his slate.
"—and you’ll channel the overflow without disrupting the output sequence."
His eyes lit up behind the thick lenses.
"Oh. That makes sense now."
I nodded.
"Good. Precision, not panic."
Across the room, the second-year princess of the empire had her hand raised as well.
’shit...’
I composed myself despite her looking at with those boaring eyes she always looked at with.
Tall, graceful, with yellow-threaded braids and a natural command in her voice.
"Yes, Princess Talia?"
"What happens if the rune press compresses an alloy that resists magic conduction?"
"A good question.
Depending on the resistance, the glyph will either fail or distort.
If it distorts, you’ll likely end up with unstable results.
A failed enchantnt is safe. An unstable one can cost you your arm."
There was a faint hush.
"That’s why I always say—Respect the sequence. Respect the material."
I stepped back to the center and surveyed the class—first-years, second-years, and even a few ambitious third-years all packed together, scribbling furiously.
’I heard word got out that my class was interesting...but I didn’t expect this number of third-years added to my register...’
I let the students work under light guidance for another twenty minutes before closing the lecture.
"That’s enough for today."
Chairs shuffled. Books closed. Ink bottles sealed.
"Before you leave..."
I continued, walking back to the front.
"...those of you who haven’t submitted your Mana Conduction assignnt from last session—see in my office imdiately after this."
"I already have your nas so don’t think of not coming..."
So froze.
A few already knew I’d be calling them.
"One final announcent."
I added.
"I originally planned to select one class representative."
A few heads perked up in curiosity.
"But after observing your group dynamics and competence levels, I’ve decided on three."
Murmurs swirled like wind in a canyon.
"Leor Dawnsen."
I said, gesturing to the boy with glasses.
He almost dropped his pen in shock.
"Princess Talia Elyndral."
She stood gracefully, accepting the title with a simple nod.
"And Grassia Saint Gress."
The room broke into claps—so genuine, so obligatory.
I held my hand up to silence them.
"These three will act as extensions of my will in and outside of class.
Respect them.
Despite two of them being first-years, they earned this place."
Then my gaze narrowed slightly.
"Any reports of disrespect or mistreatnt directed at them... will be handled personally by ."
I let my eyes settle on Dimitrus, the broad-shouldered brute who had mocked Leor on the first day.
He stiffened as my voice dropped.
"Is that clear, Dimitrus?"
His jaw clenched, but he nodded.
"Yes, Senior Instructor."
"Good."
I dismissed them with a wave, my coat flaring slightly as I turned.
Clara, as always, trailed a few paces behind , silent and vigilant as I made my way to the office.
---
The air inside the office was cool, the walls lined with reference scrolls, glowing stones, and shelves of arcane blueprints.
I leaned against my desk as the students who had failed to submit their Mana Conduction work entered, one by one.
I didn’t bother with pleasantries.
"Speak."
I said flatly.
"Each of you—one reason."
The first girl shifted awkwardly.
"I... was swamped with other coursework.
I didn’t manage my ti right."
The next, a boy with a faint scar across his brow, said.
"I didn’t understand the instructions properly."
The third didn’t even look up.
"I... forgot."
I crossed my arms, silent for a mont.
"I’m not going to lecture you..."
I said finally, my tone colder than before.
"...but understand this—what I assign is for your own comprehension.
Your own improvent."
They looked up.
I let the weight of my words hang.
"I’m doing you a favor.
If you can’t handle the pace or the expectations of this class, there are dozens of other course offerings in the academy. Lighter. Simpler."
I walked past them slowly, letting the chill in the room deepen.
"You selected my course in the form issued at the start of the term.
You made a choice.
So why... would you willingly enter a forge only to fear the fire?"
They remained silent.
"Understand this—next ti, it won’t be a conversation.
It will be a removal."
Each of them lowered their heads and murmured apologies.
I didn’t console them.
Instead, I returned to my desk, scribbled down three notes, and handed each a sealed slip.
"Derits. One for each of you. See that it ends here."
They nodded quickly, the gravity of my words well understood now.
"You’re dismissed."
And they left—shoulders straighter than when they had entered.
I stood in silence, the office finally quiet again.
---
After so minutes, Clara stood from her usual spot near the side window of my office.
Her chair creaked slightly as she straightened her skirt and slung her satchel over one shoulder.
"I need to run sowhere..."
She said, brushing back a strand of hair that had fallen across her face.
"Lectures are done for the day, so... I’ll see myself out, if that’s alright with you?"
I leaned back in my chair, watching her with mild detachnt.
My fingers drumd faintly on the edge of my desk.
"Yeah. That’s fine.
No more work for you today, anyway."
She gave a slight nod—polite, professional, and just a touch unreadable—and turned to leave.
But as she did, I noticed sothing.
She reached for the small leather-bound journal that was always in her locked drawer—a nondescript thing with a ribbon bookmark tucked neatly inside.
The sa journal I had peeked into a few days ago.
The one where she’d been... supposedly recording sothing.
Privately. About .
I watched her fingers close around it and slip it carefully into her satchel.
A dull thud settled in my chest.
Did the ISD Minister assign her to investigate ? Privately?
The thought circled like a vulture.
It wasn’t paranoia—it was probability.
And more than that... it reminded .
I needed to look into things as well.
Into what the original Noel had done with all the money he’d siphoned off.
Where it had gone. What it had been used for.
There were no receipts. No ledgers. Just gaps.
I sighed and leaned forward, fingers swiping across the air to pull up the system window. A yellow interface flickered to life, glowing faintly in the air before .
[STATUS WINDOW]
But, as always, it did nothing beyond analyzing current stats.
Mine. Other characters.
No tiline. No clues.
If this had been one of those high-stakes, action fantasy gas, I might’ve been given so sort of breadcrumb trail to follow.
Hidden mory nodes.
Event triggers.
Sothing.
Anything.
"...Not even side quests?"
I muttered, narrowing my eyes at the motionless panel floating before .
The window pulsed faintly... and said nothing.
Typical.
Then—sothing clicked in my mory.
A quiet instinct.
’Which reminds ...’
I turned to the left side of my office, to the door I hadn’t bothered with. Not once.
It was almost easy to forget it was there—tucked into the shadowed alcove of the room, partially obscured by a tall, dust-covered scroll rack.
My feet carried to it automatically.
I stared at the handle.
I hadn’t even glanced at this door since I first arrived.
It was a strange thing—brass-bound, thick, almost vault-like in construction.
I reached for the handle.
It didn’t budge.
I twisted harder.
Nothing.
Grimacing, I planted my shoulder against it and shoved.
Still locked tight.
The keyhole was different—stranger than the one on the main office door.
Smaller, deeper. Finely carved.
This wasn’t the kind of lock you could pick with magic or finesse.
It was built to keep out.
Or rather... built to keep others out.
It clicked in my mind.
A research room.
A professor’s sanctum—private, sealed, only accessed by those of distinguished rank.
Most senior scholars had one.
A place for experintal spellwork, dangerous research, confidential theories.
I glanced back across the office.
No keys. Not in the drawers. Not under the desk.
Not even tucked into the panel compartnts.
I instinctively brought my hand to my nose.
A scent lingered on my fingers—faint, flowery, cool.
"...Clara’s perfu."
My eyes drifted back to the locked handle.
Had she been inside?
Did she have the key?
No.
No, the lock looked ancient. Untouched.
Stiff from years of neglect.
Peering through the side slit, I could see thick cobwebs inside. Dust suspended in ti.
’Could the key be back in my office at the ISD?’
It would make sense.
If the forr Noel kept personal research private, he might’ve kept that key far from here.
"...I’m surprised the Academy hasn’t torn the door down..."
I murmured aloud, my voice echoing slightly in the stillness.
"...considering I’ve been absent for three years."
Just then, a soft glow lit the corner of my desk.
My communication crystal.
Pale blue turning faintly red.
I frowned and picked it up.
"Soone’s calling ..."
The glyph on its surface pulsed with a familiar pattern.
"But this is the ISD comm crystal..."
***
Noel coughed.
—cough—
—cough—
—cough—
His body shuddered with each wracking gasp, like his lungs were trying to escape his chest.
A coppery taste coated his tongue, thick and warm, as though he had been gargling rust.
He staggered forward, boots scraping across fractured marble, the sound echoing far too loud in the cathedral’s vast, breathless space.
Stained-glass windows lood around him, fractured and bleeding shards of crimson and violet light.
Mosaic saints stared down with hollowed-out eyes.
Arches soared above, crowned by an impossibly tall ceiling that stretched into darkness—its height lost in the haze of blood-scented mist curling above the pews.
And all around him—bodies.
Dozens.
So suspended like puppets on invisible strings, their feet dangling inches above the marble floor, blood trailing down their legs in slow, weeping lines.
Others lay scattered in heaps, white Imperial uniforms stained deep red, limbs bent at impossible angles, heads missing.
One had a spine pulled halfway from his back.
Another clutched at their own throat with frozen fingers, as if trying to hold their scream inside even in death.
The air hung thick, weighted with the stench of copper, rotting viscera, and burnt hair.
Every breath Noel took made him gag, the scent creeping down his throat like smoke from a burning corpse.
He coughed again.
His hands trembled as he lifted them into his line of sight.
Blood.
Everywhere.
Painted across his knuckles.
Seeping into the folds of his sleeves.
His white shirt clung to him like a second skin, soaked through and dark.
A cut above his brow bled freely, warm lines crawling down his cheek and dripping from his chin.
His breath hitched.
Then he looked up.
And froze.
The cathedral’s vaulted ceiling was moving.
No—writhing.
A thick, inky mass spread across it like rot beneath skin.
It clung to the stone in impossible ways, flowing without direction, oozing between arches and gargoyles like oil with a will.
It pulsed in and out, breathing slow and deep, like the entire structure had a ribcage and was alive.
Then it stopped.
Right above him.
And at its center—an eye opened.
A single, vertical slit.
Burning red.
It split the darkness like a crack in reality, veins of molten crimson threading outward as the creature looked directly down at him.
The eye twitched once, and a low, thunderous groan filled the cathedral.
Like the grinding of tal teeth behind a wall, or a scream heard underwater. It wasn’t sound.
It was pressure.
Noel staggered, nearly retching.
His ears rang, blood dripped from his nose, and behind his eyes, sothing began to throb—as if the eye was reaching into his skull and pressing down on his thoughts.
Then he sensed it—another presence.
His peripheral vision flickered.
Slowly, stiffly, he turned his head.
And saw it.
A figure stood a few feet to his right.
It didn’t breathe. It didn’t move.
It simply existed.
Its face was blank.
Smooth and taut like lted wax over bone, with burns trailing along where eyes and a nose should have been.
Its skin was charred black in so places, blistered pink in others, like it had walked out of a furnace that refused to finish the job.
And then it smiled.
A wide, wet, unnatural smile.
Lips too thin.
Teeth too many.
The grin split the face far past the edges of a human mouth—stretching almost to its ears. If it had ears.
Its head tilted slowly, almost with curiosity.
And that’s when Noel saw the impossible.
Hovering around its skull were rings—two of them—diagonally intersecting like ancient geotric symbols, rotating lazily in midair.
Eyes.
Dozens of watching, blinking, twitching eyes stared out from the rings.
All of them watching him.
The being didn’t move its feet.
But it was closer now.
And as Noel stared, heart thudding like thunder, his breath ragged and rasping, his knees trembled beneath him.
His vision began to blur.
Blackness crept in from the corners of his eyes.
His limbs were too heavy.
His heartbeat was slowing—like the world around him was dimming.
Then—
—GONG—
A single, heavy church bell tolled.
Noel dropped to one knee, blood pooling beneath him.
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