"He ran away?!"
The words tore from the Headmaster's throat, echoing against the silent trees.
For six hours straight, John scoured the wilderness, his eyes scanning for any ripple in the air or a single trace that might lead to Zockair. He pushed himself until his muscles screamed and his breath came in ragged stabs.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, dark shadows across the land, the trail remained cold. When night finally fell, thick and suffocating, John finally succumbed to the bitter reality of his failure. Exhausted and hollow, he turned back toward the city.
Upon his arrival, he spotted the Headmaster. The old man stood like a silent sentinel, guarding the entry to the dungeon. His expression was a mask of concern and worry, but John wasn't in the mood for pleasantries.
