Chapter 803: A Vicious Call
After Adam dropped the box inside Louis’ office, Desmond led him to the side door he had seen earlier. A few magi glanced at him as he pushed it open, but were already studying artifacts or sorting through heaps of iridescent ores and timber. A sour scent rose from one heap, but before he could place it, it turned peppery.
Once he stepped into the stone corridor, the glow of ores, the woody scents, and the scratch of quills faded like mirages.
Whenever he took a step, a dim light pulsed through narrow grooves engraved on the walls. They flickered out of existence the moment he advanced, giving him the sensation that the college could track his movement, that magical traps would trigger if momentary greed bested caution. At least, that’s what he would have done to protect treasures from mischievous students and teachers whose research devoured materials like an abyss.
He passed by a metallic door molded like scales, another with arm-sized roots buried into the floor, and a third with shimmering symbols he didn’t know, all in ceremonious silence.
"Most rooms are unguarded," Desmond whispered, leaning closer. "But you’d better not approach them without authorisation. We’re headed further, to the lesser storage room area."
"Most?" A frown creased Adam’s brow as he caught the detail.
"Yeah." Desmond nodded. "Well, maybe? It’s just a rumor among students, but we believe the invaluable treasures are stored on the lower floors. And who says invaluable, says guards. See? Logical deductions. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Just don’t approach any doors."
"Traps?" Adam’s voice grew heavy, and Desmond simply nodded—the only sound in the corridor, their shoes meeting the ground.
A silence made eerie by the barely audible rustles of Desmond’s uniform. Adam smelled the scent of fear coming from the icy sweat that stuck the teenager’s uniform to his back like glue.
And when he halted in front of a door, its reinforced rim crudely studded with round-edged nails, he whispered. "Did we reach it?"
Desmond let out the breath he had been holding, gasping for air. His voice cracked when he answered after three deep breaths. "We did."
Adam studied Desmond’s pale face for a moment. The silence stretched, and he eventually sighed. "You don’t seem ready to face whatever’s inside. Want to return another time?"
"N-No." Desmond shook his head and stepped to the door. "This feeling... this call... it will gnaw at me, Adam. The faster we’re done with this, the sooner I’ll recover."
"Alright." Adam cracked his knuckles. "A few rules first. If you feel funny, turn back and run. If we’re in mortal danger, turn back and run. If I tell you to turn back and run, you do it. Understand?"
"W-What about you?" Desmond’s eyes widened as a bitter taste filled his mouth. "I can’t leave you behind."
"Me?" Adam chuckled. "I’ll be running in front of you, of course."
"Tsk. Why did I bother to worry for you?" Desmond snickered.
"At least you’re not trembling anymore." Adam waved his hand toward the door with a speed that betrayed his impatience. "Anyway, open it."
Desmond glanced at his right arm—no more trembling. The corners of his lips curved as he opened the door with a nod. "Think you’re faster than me? Dream on."
Yet, his restored confidence was but the mere comfort of having a trustworthy ally beside him, courage as fleeting as morning mist dispersed by the cruel sun of the desert. Each creak of the rusted hinge mounted into a tsunami of dread as the call tugged at his hammering heart, and he turned.
He would have already bolted away if Adam hadn’t held him in place by the shoulder.
"Silence," Adam commanded, peering through the doorway without entering just yet.
The interior was as Desmond had described it—torches flickering on the walls, barely lighting a red carpet surrounded by square pillars. What lay at the end remained shrouded in darkness, but he could make the rough shape of a sphere from the way the distant torchlight glinted off its smooth surface.
No calls for him, yet he hesitated to step in. "Go in." He nudged Desmond.
"Why?" The teenager slapped his hand away, trembling. "What happened to turn back and run?"
Adam rolled his eyes. "It’s calling for you, not me. I can’t risk triggering an alarm or traps by going first." He raised his palm, cutting Desmond off. "Get a grip on yourself, Desmond. We step in together."
Desmond’s eyes darted between the room and the stone corridor before settling on the distant sphere that seemed to call him. He pinched the bridge of his nose, grimaced reluctantly, but nodded without a word.
Adam matched his pace, arcs of pure mana flashing between his fingers as he prepared for the worst. Yet, silence remained even when his shoes met the soft carpet. Sighing in relief, he raised his thumb at Desmond.
"Want to check the walls first or go straight to the sphere?"
However, Desmond didn’t answer. Hand around his neck, breath ragged, he pointed a shaky finger at the sphere, and Adam walked in front of him.
"Nothing will happen to you as long as you don’t heed the call or touch that sphere before we figure out what it is." Walking between the pillars, he reassured his companion. "Don’t push yourself. You stop whenever you can’t resist it."
To his surprise, Desmond didn’t follow him. Back against a pillar, he slid down until he sat. He waved his hand rapidly in instant refusal to approach.
With a glance that held no mockery or judgment, Adam checked that Desmond was fine, then approached the sphere on his own. Light burst from his hand where the torches didn’t reach, revealing a smooth globe.
On its surface, he recognised an archaic mapping of the archipelago, Brineheart aimed at the ceiling. An oversized silvery sword pierced the capital’s west, its thrumming edges distorting the surrounding air.
His eyes narrowed, and his mind raced for a moment. No reaction from his bones—not a demonic artifact. The enchantments... hidden. The purple lines running chaotically along mana conductive steel—a magus weapon.
But was this all there was to the mysterious room? Was it just a massive weapon planted on a map that called for Desmond? Why?
Even if just to quench his curiosity, he had to find out.
He tentatively reached for the hilt of the sword. Before his fingers brushed the leather, the globe shook. He slid his right foot back, arms raised in front of him, mana pulsing on his knuckles.
"ARGH!"
He snapped his gaze toward the painful scream, toward Desmond. The teenager was gripping his head behind him, face contorted in suppressed agony.
Not on his watch.
A bubble erupted from his fist as he hurled it back. It enveloped Desmond on contact, the surface surrounded by a cold, dark layer that created an isolation zone in space. Inside, Desmond’s face relaxed as the persistent calling seemed to struggle against the bubble’s barrier.
The moment he sighed and opened his eyes, his blood froze in his veins. "Behind!" He roared, yet no sound escaped the bubble, and, in the imposed silence, he watched the globe split.
Two mechanical legs unfolded beneath a broad torso, its surface etched with rivers, mountains, and cities that rose like living entities rather than mere decorations. Thick arms shot from the sides, gripping the sword’s hilt and immediately swinging it in a fluid, brutal arc.
Adam barely had time to hear its whistling descent and see his reflection on the shiny edges.