The ink on the previous page remains perfectly dry, yet the man who penned it feels like a phantom from a fractured lifetime.
Log Entry #141 (Continued)Timestamp: 06:12 Hours
The raid on Sivan Ruarc Vigo's subterranean laboratory terminated exactly two hours ago. I regained consciousness mere minutes before grasping this pen, my gaze locked on the sterile, whitewashed ceiling of the Academy's Medical Wing. The scent of ancient dust and dry parchment that traditionally clings to my robes has burned away. In its place, the sharp, astringent bite of medicinal alchemy suffocates my lungs, undercut by the phantom stench of scorched ozone.
Frantic reports from the rushing medical staff confirm the unthinkable: the First Headmaster's estate no longer exists. The subterranean laboratory, the reinforced bedrock, the victims Cedric spoke of, the illicit texts—the blast vaporized everything into a sheer, glass-lined crater. The suspect, Instructor Vigo, vanished within the devastation. No corpse remains. Only an abyss of atomized stone.
I sit upright only by the grace of the Commissioner. A small, charred disc rests on the steel tray beside my bed—a Judicial Board artifact awarded upon my promotion to Vice-Commissioner. A violent fracture splits it down the center, its protective enchantment utterly extinguished. Had it not deployed a localized stasis field the exact microsecond the shockwave struck, I would currently drift as ash over the sixth sector.
The healers assured me my lacerations, though numerous, remained superficial. A high-ranking Academy priest has already knitted my flesh back to prime condition. Yet, pristine physical health offers zero remedy for the crushing guilt anchoring my chest.
In the opposite cot, Cedric lies perfectly still. His chest rises and falls to the shallow, manufactured rhythm of a magically induced slumber. Beneath the sterile white linens, he appears horrifyingly fragile. I sit here and study him, my hands trembling—not from physical trauma, but from a profound, sickening remorse.
I operate as an enforcer of the Judicial Board. I have hunted zealots for years. I calculated the tactical risks. Yet, blinded by arrogance, I permitted a grieving, magically deficient boy to march me into the abyss. I dragged a child onto an execution ground. I should have locked him securely within the Archives and descended those stone steps alone.
And had I done so, I would be dead.
My mind violently recoils whenever I attempt to dissect the anomaly we witnessed. What, exactly, surged through that elixir?
The raw volume of Mana that erupted from the Head Instructor's mortal vessel defied all mathematical laws. It radiated a crushing, absolute density—a phenomenon wholly alien to my years of combat experience. The pressure rivaled, perhaps even eclipsed, the unfathomable depths of the God-rank Tower Masters seated upon the Magic High Council.
Vigo unleashed a King-rank wind matrix. I know the anatomy of that spell intimately; I weave it myself. Yet, gorged on that monstrous, hijacked mana pool, his matrix discarded the constraints of King-rank magic. It struck with the apocalyptic, world-shattering mass of a God-rank catastrophe.
The true terror, however, resided in his expression. Anchored in the eye of that localized hurricane, his anatomy rapidly unraveled, yet his magical exertion remained utterly effortless. He projected absolute calm. He looked as though he could conjure that apocalyptic tempest a hundred times over without draining a single drop of his reserves
Has Black Magic breached such a terrifying frontier? If rogue scholars can artificially engineer God-rank supremacies within the damp cellars of our own Academy, Geenna teeters on the edge of a second cataclysm, induced by humans themselves.
A fragment of my soul screams to answer the Commissioner's silent summons. Duty demands I return to my post in the capital. I need to marshal the full weight and authority of the Judicial Board to hunt the practitioners of Black Magic and sever these shadowed criminals before they tear Geenna apart.
But I stare at my calloused hands, recalling the effortless manner in which Vigo's magic brushed my desperate shield aside. Even wielding the Board's vast authority, would I possess the raw strength required to enforce it?
I raise my gaze. I watch Cedric.
He survived the Ash Mage. He survived Vigo. The shadows of this world gravitate toward this boy with terrifying persistence. If these monsters corner him a third time, and I sit miles away in the capital... who will he trust? Who remains to stand as his shield?
He arrived at my door drenched in freezing rain. He placed his absolute trust in me.
I failed his brother. I refuse to fail him. I will not abandon this floating island until I guarantee his total safety.
Interrogation Status: Cedric Drevayne — ~~INCOMPLETE~~
Interrogation Status: Cedric Drevayne — ONGOING
A suffocating silence ruled the Medical Wing. The sharp, astringent bite of healing salves hung heavy in the enclosed chamber, barely masking the phantom stench of scorched ozone that clung to the patients.
Alaric Ordain sat anchored to a stiff-backed wooden chair beside the cot. Stripped of his heavy Judicial robes, he wore a pristine, unadorned medical tunic. He kept a vigil over the boy resting beneath the crisp white linens.
Arthur's amber eyes snapped open.
He bypassed the groggy bleed of waking entirely; his gaze crystallized instantly, locking onto the sterile ceiling with razor precision. Beneath the blankets, thick bandages bound his left arm, burying the physical trauma. Yet his posture triggered Alaric's alarms. The boy lay unnervingly still. He clamped his jaw so tight the tendons fluttered beneath his pale skin.
He wasn't staring at the plaster; he was staring through it. His mind violently dissected the subterranean catastrophe—the terrifying impotence of his withered Mage Circuits, his failure to conjure a basic tether spell, and the glowing script of Sacinis .99:1 permanently branded into his photographic memory. He had faced the terrifying apex of human evolution, only to realize he was little more than dust in its wake.
Alaric leaned forward, drawing a protest from the wooden chair. Shell-shock, the former Vice-Commissioner diagnosed, misinterpreting the boy's hyper-analytical paralysis as profound trauma. He is trapped in the blast.
"Cedric," Alaric murmured.
Arthur's gaze dropped like a falling blade, anchoring onto Alaric. "I am ready for the interrogation."
The sheer abruptness jolted the Enforcer. Alaric blinked, studying the rigid, defensive lines of the boy's shoulders. He woke seconds ago and instantly demands the inquiry, Alaric weighed, a deep frown etching his brow. He might lack the clarity for this, but if the Board intervenes, another window may never open. He trusts me. I must trust him.
Reaching across the steel bedside tray, Alaric retrieved a fresh ledger and an ink pen. He squared his shoulders, deliberately pulling back his paternal warmth to let the cold, professional weight of the Judicial Board settle over the room.
"Do you acknowledge appearing here today of your own free will," Alaric began, measuring every syllable, "possessing sufficient clarity to recall these events? And do you understand your absolute right to halt this inquiry should the burden become too great?"
Arthur didn't blink. "Yes."
"Under the eyes of the Law, before the authority of the Judicial Board, and beneath the silent witness of the High Council—do you solemnly swear that your testimony shall be the absolute truth, devoid of fabrication, exaggeration, or intent to deceive?"
"Yes." The response struck like a gavel. Clipped and immediate. Arthur stared dead ahead, fully aware that every syllable he prepared to deliver would be flawlessly, technically true.
"Please detail how the event unfolded that night," Alaric instructed, his pen hovering above the parchment.
Ice filmed over Arthur's amber eyes as he dragged his mind back to the night his world shattered. "I was in bed when an explosion from the ceiling woke me around curfew." His voice flatlined, stripped of all inflection. "Two intruders breached the room. One possessed a massive build; the other matched our height and wielded an obsidian lance. They possessed overwhelming power. We stood no chance."
Arthur swallowed hard, the muscles in his throat fighting a visible tremor. "In the end, I was injured, and my brother died."
Alaric's pen faltered. The raw, unvarnished weight of the confession suffocated the sterile air. He forced the nib back to the paper. "When they breached, did they address either you or Arthur by name before engaging, or was the assault immediate?"
"They addressed neither of us," Arthur answered seamlessly. "The assault was immediate."
"Did the spearman speak to his companion or reference any external support before I arrived?"
"He commanded his taller companion to stand down, intending to handle the fight alone. He made no other references."
Alaric nodded, meticulously inscribing the tactical data. "I recovered a mask from your floor. Did it belong to you, or your brother?"
"Neither," Arthur replied. "It belonged to the spearman."
Alaric's head snapped up, a spark of investigative adrenaline cracking his stoic facade. "You saw the Ash Mage's face?"
"Yes."
"Did you recognize the operative?"
"No."
Alaric leaned over the ledger. "Can you describe their features?"
Silence smothered the cot. Arthur's rigid posture fractured. He furrowed his brow, narrowing his eyes as he dragged his focus through his flawless, photographic memory. Yet, where the spearman's face should have been, there was only a terrifying void. For the first time in his life, his perfect recall had completely failed him; he could not visualize a single feature, as if the memory itself had been burned away or magically excised. Palpable tension radiated from him, a quiet, churning frustration vibrating beneath his skin as he grappled with this impossible blind spot.
"No, I..." Arthur's voice finally broke the quiet, fractured by a rare, genuine strain. "I can't quite remember. I apologize."
Alaric's shoulders sank a fraction. He swallowed the disappointment, quickly burying it beneath a considerate sigh. "That is fine." He tracked the boy's escalating stress, noting the white-knuckle grip his uninjured hand maintained on the sheets. I am pushing him too deep into the trauma.
"But I remember his words," Arthur continued, his tone flatlining once more. "After the mask fell, he called me his 'child' and asked for forgiveness. But he was certainly not my father."
Alaric frowned, halting his pen against the parchment. The response defied logic, bordering on the fanatical rhetoric spewed by the cultists chained beneath the Judicial wing. Yet, observing the deep lines of strain tightening around Arthur's eyes, Alaric tactically pivoted away from the assassination.
"Your testimony in the Archives," Alaric shifted, his cadence steadying. "Was it true?"
"Every word."
"Vigo utilized live subjects—seamen, beastmen, plain humans. Did he disclose who smuggled them onto this flying island, or where they were staged before reaching his cellar?"
"He never named his supplier directly," Arthur answered concisely. "But I suspect certain guest lecturers assisted him."
"You mentioned Vigo's influence was a blind spot. Did you witness other faculty, guards, or students entering his private office during your night sessions?"
"The Academy permitted his sanctioned alchemical experiments in the upper lab, drawing occasional visitors. However, none were ever present during the cultivation of his 'Magnum Opus.'"
That makes sense, Alaric reasoned, scribbling the note. Black Mages isolate themselves during the final stages of their work.
"Did Vigo reference secondary storage vaults, off-site archives, or auxiliary laboratories?"
"No," Arthur stated.
"The high-ranking priest shackled in the lower cellar," Alaric pressed. "Did his vestments bear any insignia linking him to a specific order or temple?"
Arthur stared dead ahead, projecting the grim scene onto the sterile wall. "The robes were heavily bloodstained, but they were originally white. And he was held over a Golden Sun crest inscribed onto the floor."
Alaric's grip strangled the pen. A priest of the Celestial Sun Church. The political fallout of that single detail promised legal catastrophe.
"During your servitude to Vigo," Alaric asked, his voice plunging to a grim register, "did he ever reference the 'Ash Mage' or express interest in the assassination attempt?"
"He referenced it once," Arthur replied, his delivery chillingly detached. "He weaponized the tragedy to coerce my continued obedience. I complied."
A suffocating wave of pity washed over Alaric. The mental image of this grieving, isolated boy, forced to participate in atrocities simply to survive a predatory instructor, turned his stomach.
"Just a few remaining inquiries," Alaric said gently, offering a reassuring nod. "We can halt here, if you need."
"No, I can continue," Arthur insisted instantly.
"When discussing the elixir, did Vigo disclose the origin of the formula, or was it entirely his own creation?"
"He claimed a god-like entity revealed it to him in a dream, decades ago."
Alaric documented the delusion. "Do you believe any other faculty members were involved in his research? Anyone who might realize you know the truth?"
"No."
Alaric carefully laid his pen beside the ledger. He exhaled slowly, actively shedding the heavy, suffocating mantle of the Enforcer. "That concludes my questions. I apologize for the discomfort this undoubtedly caused, but it is over now. Thank you for your cooperation."
Arthur slowly turned his head. The cold, analytical calculation in his amber eyes dissolved, yielding to a raw, unfeigned sincerity. He bowed his head against the pillow.
"Thank you for trusting me... and for saving me," Arthur whispered, the weight of absolute truth anchoring every syllable. "Through both of these attacks, I truly couldn't have survived without you. I am eternally in your debt."
A fierce tightness seized Alaric's chest. He looked at the boy—the survivor he had just shielded from a God-rank blast, the child he had sworn a silent oath to protect.
Alaric let out a soft, warm chuckle, a genuine smile finally shattering his stoic armor. "Do not carry that weight. I am simply doing my duty."
He reached out, offering a firm, grounding pat to the edge of the mattress. "But know this—I am rooting for your success."