They stepped down from the carriage together. A breeze stirred through the stone corridor that led back to the Scholar Dormitories. Then, just before their paths diverged, Silvena turned and threw at him The Omen Scroll.
“The remaining items you requested will arrive before the departure to the Vazrun Island.” she said, her tone shifting from idle to serious.
Her gaze narrowed with interest. “I hope you won’t disappoint me, Ruvian Castelor.” Her voice was low, almost playful, but lined with expectation.
“Show me it. The ripple your plan makes….”
A second passed.
“After all,” she added, turning away, “I didn’t lend my hand just to see you swim with the rest.”
Then she left him there, alone in the corridor.
Ruvian watched her go, silent.
'Don't worry... I still need you, now and the future to comes.'
****
[Calyra’s POV]
[Meanwhile, an hour before their departure to the Ashway Bazaar…]
The library dimmed as evening light crept in through the high windows. And there, at one of the smaller tables in the lower-ranked scholar’s wing, sat Calyra.
She was a presence usually too rare for that part of the building to recognize. Her posture was immaculate, back straight, fingers carefully cradling a thin book volume.
She wasn’t truly reading it. Eyes on the page, but her thoughts… elsewhere. The idle chatter in the background had already been noticed by her.
“Isn’t that Lady Calyra?”
“What’s she doing down here?”
“Maybe she got lost?”
“Don’t be stupid—she doesn’t get lost.”
They spoke in hushed tones as if the name alone might summon trouble. And perhaps it would have, on any other day.
Calyra didn't correct them. Instead, she turned another page, slower than necessary. There was a slight tension—a thin, almost imperceptible crease just above her left eye.
‘He should be here….’ (+50PP)
The seat by the window was always the same one. He usually arrived just after sundown, quiet, settling in like clockwork.
And today… he wasn’t.
Her hands shifted, subtly. One elbow slipped to the table, her chin lowering until it met her forearm. The book remained open, unread. Her placid and calm eyes drifted sideways, toward the vacant chair.
‘Where is he?’ Calyra didn’t understand why it bothered her.
She’d simply come to read.
Talking to him was just a side quest.
Then, she melted further into the desk, forehead resting gently against the back of her wrist.
‘Oh well, maybe another time then.’
She yawned and closed the book.
****
Ruvian stepped into his room and shut the door behind him. He hadn’t taken more than a few steps before his eyes landed on something out of place on the floor.
A transmission scroll.
He bent down, picked it up, and walked over to the desk without hurry. The chair creaked quietly as he sat, elbows resting on the desk’s edge. With a flick of his finger, the scroll unfurled.
Yerin’s handwriting appeared on the paper, neat and purposeful.
{Ruvian. I managed to secure one of the intermediate-tier training chambers for us. The reservation is for the 23th and the 27th, starting right after midday.}
{Clear your schedule. We’ll be running squad exercises—nothing too intense, but I need everyone there. Focus drills, coordinated maneuvers, formation sparring.}
{Thanks in advance. Don’t be late.}
– Yerin
Ruvian reached for his notebook. He flipped it open to the current week and scanned the scribbled timetable. Electives on both days. Wilderness Survival on the 23th, and Magic Combat on the 27th.
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He traced a line through both entries with the end of his pen, lips pressing into a thoughtful line.
‘Missing them isn’t ideal. The electives are valuable. But still... teamwork comes first.’
They could drill spells a hundred different ways on their own, but if they couldn’t move as a unit… then it wouldn’t matter how skilled they were as individuals.
The Island Test would punish them for it.
Ruvian closed the notebook.
But later that night, after rinsing the day off his skin and letting the cold water clear his thoughts, he sat once more beneath the dim glow of his room’s lamps.
He activated: [Character Stats Customisation]
And began to spend some more Plot Points.
[Calculating Plot Point Expenditure…]
•Strength: F+ → E- → 200 PPs
•Agility: E- → E → 300 PPs
•Endurance: E → E+ → 500 PPs
•Vitality: E → E+ → 500 PPs
•Magic Power: E- → E → 300 PPs
•Mana Essence: 270 → 320 → 250 PPs
[Total: 2050 Plot Points]
[Available: 6010 Plot Points]
[Remaining: 3960 Plot Points]
He put the Omen Scroll inside the drawer. He tried to read it, but he couldn't understand it. It's not even the Runes Language. So, he needs to find a way to crack it first, but that would be another day. As long as the scroll was inside the academy, the Faceless wouldn't dare to infiltrate.
If they do, it's going to be a full-scale war.
****
The morning began in silence, broken only by the dull cadence of a blade against air.
Before the sun had properly risen, and well before any of the so-called “mandatory” lectures, which may or may not actually occur, depending on the mood of whichever instructor remembered Class E existed…
Ruvian had already begun moving through the forms. He pushed his body through precise, measured drills: slashes, footwork and breath control. All calibrated to test the limits of his newly enhanced frame.
Muscle memory had to be rewritten. The cheat-like system may have refined his strength, but it could not teach him how to wield that strength without wasted motion.
And so, he trained, not because he liked it, but because even unnatural growth demanded natural discipline to anchor it.
He also dedicated his usual window of time to mana control, refining the circulation pathways through his Spellcore with meditation.
Only once that was done did he wash, dress, and head to class.
****
Later, as the sun tilted westward, the alchemical laboratory burned with activity. A cool blue light bathed the stonework, giving the entire chamber the hue of a drowned cavern. The scent that hung in the air was pungent and acrid… an unsettling mix of scorched resin, and volatile tinctures still boiling in open flasks.
The long tables were cluttered with instruments: glass tubes clinking faintly under heat, mortars scored from use, and pestles stained with old essences. A cluttered world of chaotic materials.
And in the middle of it all, Corwin stood drenched in exertion, soaked in sweat. His small hands moved with desperation, barely clinging to control, grinding, measuring, straining to maintain rhythm against the pressure of time itself.
He moved with urgency… his fingers trembling, sleeves rolled back in haste. Across from him, Ruvian remained still.
He stood with one hand lightly resting on the edge of the bench, the other holding a ticking stopwatch. His eyes did not move, and neither did his voice when it came.
“Go faster,” he said, calm and cold.
Corwin gasped for breath, panic flickering in his voice.
“I—I’m going as fast as I can!”
Ruvian said nothing in return. The seconds passed without mercy, and so did his gaze. At the workstation, the cauldron let out a serpentine hiss as a precisely leveled dose of Emberleaf powder was folded into the base mixture.
The fluid within reacted instantly, its translucent amber sheen collapsing into a roiling, molten gold—dense, luminous and volatile.
“Stabilize it,” Ruvian instructed coolly, not looking up.
“Three stirs. Counterclockwise.”
Corwin’s arms trembled, his muscles nearing collapse, but he moved without resistance. He was not driven by confidence, but by the cold terror of making a mistake under Ruvian’s scrutiny.
From the far side of the chamber, Professor Howard stood rooted near the shelves, expression caught between curiosity and disbelief.
He had seen talented students before. He had seen desperate ones too. But never had he witnessed an alchemy executed at such an uncompromising tempo, not simply maintained but also perfected under relentless pressure.
For all its mystique, alchemy was a discipline of margins. One drop too many or one heartbeat of distraction… and the elixir would fail catastrophically or degrade into nothingness.
There was no grace for imprecision. And yet, even with exhaustion, Corwin moved with deliberate care.
“…Extraordinary,” Instructor Howard murmured, more to himself than to the room. His voice held the reverence of someone watching a contradiction unfold. (+200PP)
But Corwin had no strength left for praise. His breath came in uneven gulps, chest rising and falling like a bellows pushed past its limit. His fingers, raw and unsteady, struggled to cork the flask.
With the final ounce of effort he could summon, he slid it onto the table.
“Done,” he managed to say.
Ruvian clicked the stopwatch.
His gaze flicked to the reading, then back to Corwin impassively. Then, with the faintest of nods, he spoke.
“…Not bad.”
And in that silence, perhaps, it meant more than praise ever could. Despite the tremor still running through his arms, Corwin managed a faint, uneven grin. But beneath the surface, a question lingered…
“…Why?” he asked, his voice still hoarse.
“Why are you pushing me this hard? What’s the point of brewing at this speed?”
Ruvian’s gaze lingered on him for a while.
Then, unexpectedly, the edge of his mouth lifted. It wasn’t quite a smile, but something near it. “You’ll need it. For the Island Test.” He said with a casual tone.
“You keep saying you can’t fight cause you only know the basics swordsmanship, am I right?” Ruvian continued.
“Low mana. Inadequate combat training. That’s your excuse,” his eyes narrowed. “Well. Then don’t fight with a sword. Fight with alchemy.” (+300PP)
Corwin froze, his next breath catching in his throat. From the far end of the lab, Professor Howard shifted, arms crossing over his chest, brow arching in visible interest.
“Fight… with alchemy, huh, you say?” he echoed, his voice tinged with both doubt and a growing fascination. “Don’t tell me—”
Ruvian reached across the table, fingers brushing aside scattered ingredients and charred notes until they came to rest on an old leather tome. His hand moved until he stopped at a particular page.
He turned it toward them.
There, etched in tight runes and annotated margins, was a formula. A potion, heavily laced with mana, engineered to rupture upon reaction with a certain power and mana. An alchemical device meant not to mend or restore, but to detonate.
A grenade, disguised as glasswork.
Then both of their gazes snapped back to Ruvian. The smirk on his face had deepened into a smug.
“So,” he murmured, tone dry, almost amused.
“Who’s ready to start blowing things up?” (+200PP)
PP= 4660
ME= 325