The Wraith devoured the landscape, its engine a constant, aggressive hum against the vast silence of the wastelands. Ten days. That's what the navigation system estimated for the journey to Lucem Fermius Academy, located clear across the continent. Ten days of endless, empty roads, a monotonous blur of rock and sand under a relentless sun.
Sephorae drove with a focus that was constant, his one hand gripping the wheel, the other resting on the katana at his hip. He was a machine, just like the car he piloted, functioning on a strict cycle of drive, recharge, and repeat.
At night, he would pull the Wraith into a sheltered garage, the silence of the desert a stark contrast to the roaring engine, and he would simply sit, watching the stars through the transparent roof of the cockpit, a silver mask turned to the heavens. He didn't sleep, not in the traditional sense. He would close his eyes, and the memories would come—a constant source of pain. They weren't just data; they were the visceral, terrifying experiences of a life that seemed to belong to someone else.
⛽ Oases of Irony
The recharging stations were oases of light and noise in the desolate landscape. He would pull the Wraith up to the glowing pillars, the car's battery draining in a matter of minutes, the energy flowing into it with an audible hum. While he waited, he would buy food, always the same: simple, nutrient-rich rations, enough to keep his body functioning, nothing more.
He paid with the gems from the treasure chest, the immense wealth they represented a bitter irony. He had been a Vespera, a prince with access to limitless funds, but now he was a pauper, disowned and cut off, his father's cruelty all but guaranteed to kill him.
Only one contact remained, a single, severed tie to his old life: his personal maid, a fact that gnawed at him a little, but nothing took precedence over what he had experienced. He would drift off for a moment only to wake back up in a panic, heart racing, his clawed fingers drawing blood before the demonic arm instantly healed the minor wound.
The other customers at the stations would stare at him—the one-armed man in the silver mask. They couldn't see the demonic arm, hidden by a blue glove under his sleeve. Their whispers were a constant, annoying buzz around him. He ignored them all; their presence was as grating and annoying, because of his incessant need to not be seen, as the sand that blew against the car's chassis, confirming his feeling that the world was stacked against him—which it was.
The Red Magic Pro was his only companion. He would scroll through the news feeds, the world moving on without him, the headlines dominated by the latest exploits of Nathaniel Brightmore and the other prodigies at the academy.