Chapter 293 (Patreon)

The descent into the ancient temple felt less like entering a place and more like stepping into a held breath that refused to release. Artin moved at the front of the formation, his presence a quiet axis around which the knights aligned themselves. Their armor whispered and clinked in disciplined rhythm, weapons already drawn, every sense sharpened. The enchanted candles lining the stone walls flickered with an unnatural steadiness, casting long shadows that seemed to watch rather than simply exist. 

Each step echoed farther than it should have, rebounding through the corridors like a warning sent ahead of them. It did not take a tactician to understand what that meant. Whoever lived in this place already knew they were coming.

Without a word, Artin shifted. His form collapsed inward and reassembled into something smaller, sleeker, a black cat that slipped from the line of knights like spilled ink. The transformation was fluid, and in seconds he was no longer a commander but a silent scout. He padded forward, paws making no sound against the cold stone as he advanced down the staircase, his golden eyes cutting through the dim light.

At the base of the stairs, the temple opened like a wound. Multiple doorways stretched ahead, each one slightly ajar, each one breathing out something different. Some carried the metallic tang of blood. Others held the stale scent of herbs and chemicals, thick enough to cling to the lungs. There was life here, plenty of it, yet none of it stirred in panic. No scrambling. No shouted alarms. Just… indifference. That alone set Artin’s instincts on edge. A place that did not react to intruders was either foolish or prepared. And nothing about this felt foolish.

He slipped into one of the rooms through a narrow gap in the door. The moment he entered, a rough hand snatched him mid-step.

“Why is there a cat here?” a burly man muttered, his voice low with suspicion as he lifted Artin by the scruff.

Artin did not struggle immediately. Instead, he observed.

The room was crowded, not with warriors, but with workers. Dozens of them. Their hands moved in repetitive, practiced motions, packing the green crystal-like substance into hollow containers shaped like crude wooden dolls. The air was thick with the scent of it, sharp and sweet in a way that felt wrong, like something pretending to be harmless. Tables were lined with tools, sacks, and finished products ready to be moved. This was not simply a hideout. This was the factory.

And these were not fighters. They were pieces in a larger machine.

Artin twisted slightly, just enough to loosen the man’s grip, then sprang free in a blur of motion. The burly man cursed, but the black cat was already gone, darting deeper into the underground labyrinth before anyone could react.

The next room mirrored the first. Workers. Supplies. Production. Everywhere he looked, the same quiet repeated itself, as if the entire operation had been running long before anyone thought to look for it. And still, no resistance. No guards rushing in. No alarms.

That was the most unsettling part.

It meant the real threat was elsewhere.

Artin pressed forward, deeper still, until the air itself seemed to change. The final room revealed itself not with noise, but with silence.

At the center stood a throne.

It was not carved from wood or stone, but assembled from bones, layered and fused into a grotesque monument. The structure radiated a presence that prickled against the senses, something ancient and wrong. Yet the throne was empty.

No guards. No leader. No movement. Nothing.

Artin slowed, his small feline form pausing at the threshold as his eyes scanned the room. Then he felt it. Not a presence, but the echo of one. Mana lingered in the air, faint but undeniable, like the afterimage of a lightning strike burned into the sky. Someone had been here. Recently.

And they had left.

Artin’s body rippled as he shifted back into his human form, boots touching the stone floor with quiet certainty. His expression hardened, the weight of the situation settling into something sharper, more urgent.

“We’re late,” he murmured to himself, voice low but steady.

His gaze lingered on the empty throne for a moment longer, as if expecting it to speak. He exhaled slowly, already turning back toward the staircase.

We need to call Pit.

….

The weekend slipped away like water through loosely held fingers, leaving behind only fragments of memory and the faint ache of things left unfinished. By the time the academy gates opened once more, the grounds were already alive with motion. Students poured in without pause, an unending current of cloaks, polished boots, and nervous anticipation. 

The air itself seemed louder than before, thick with voices layered over one another. It was said that this year’s intake had surpassed even the previous batches, swelling the academy with fresh ambition. For the commoners, passing the assessment had become more than just entry, it was a doorway to a different life, though whispers of hidden conditions followed closely behind that promise.

Kana walked through it all with a quiet yawn, her body still reluctant to surrender to the rhythm of early mornings. The morning fatigue clung stubbornly, though her eyes remained sharp, taking in the small changes around her. 

Beside her, Suri moved in complete contrast, light on her feet, humming a tune that refused to stay contained. There was a brightness to her, the kind that only came from recent victory. The reward from their little excursion still lingered in her mood, even if the investigation itself remained ongoing. She had tried, quite insistently, to share the gold with Leo and Mica, only to be rejected without hesitation. Leo was expected. Mica, less so. Discovering that her family dealt in exotic goods and creatures painted her in an entirely new light, their family might be one of those merchants who were richer than the nobles.

The classroom greeted them with a different kind of noise. Not louder, but fuller. Where the old copper room once felt spacious, almost relaxed, this new Mythril class carried a density that pressed in from all sides. 

Twice the number of students meant twice the presence, twice the stories, twice the unknown variables waiting to unfold. Kana paused for a fraction of a second as she stepped inside, her gaze sweeping across unfamiliar faces and curious silhouettes. She remembered one of the new students on the first day of introduction last week. One in particular caught her attention, a boy with an odd composure, introduced earlier as having a [Clockwork] class. The class name felt… strange. She had no idea about the class at all.

Then came the chill.

It slid down her spine without warning, sharp enough to cut through the lingering haze of sleep. Kana’s body reacted before her thoughts did, her gaze shifting instinctively until it found the source.

Joan Clarke?

The girl stood not far away, her attention locked onto Kana with a focus that felt almost tangible. It wasn’t hostility, not exactly, but it wasn’t neutral either. There was intent there. Something waiting.

Kana blinked once, her thoughts turning over themselves as she searched for a reason. Had she said something? Done something? Nothing came to mind. And yet, the feeling remained, quiet but persistent, like the first tremor before something larger.

She exhaled slowly and moved on, choosing not to dwell on it. 

Kana and Suri took their seats near the front beside Rin and Yuri, the familiar presence grounding the shifting atmosphere of the room. Behind them, Boris gravitated naturally toward the back, where the boys had already begun their usual low chatter, a steady hum of commentary and half-hidden excitement.

Time stretched just long enough for conversations to settle into place before the door opened again.

Wor-en entered with the same presence as always, though this time his arms were filled with a stack of parchments thick enough to command attention. The room gradually quieted as he made his way to the front, the soft rustle of paper becoming the only sound that lingered.

“Good morning, Second year. Mythril class,” he began, his voice calm but carrying easily across the room.

He lifted the parchments slightly, as if presenting something far more significant than simple schedules.

“I have your class schedules.”

There was a faint shift in the room. Anticipation. Curiosity.

Then he continued.

“But like we said before, you are no longer required to attend them.”

The words landed, and for a brief moment, confusion flickered across several faces. A few students leaned toward one another, whispering, already trying to interpret what that freedom truly meant.

Wor-en did not give them long.

“However…” he added, his tone sharpening just enough to cut through the murmurs.

“How would you pass the class assessment without attending it?”

Silence followed.

“I’m warning you,” he continued, his gaze sweeping across the room with quiet authority, “do not underestimate advanced classes. That is where most students fail.”

The murmurs returned, softer now, more cautious. Plans were being rewritten in real time, quietly adjusted to meet reality.

Kana rested her chin lightly on her hand, her thoughts already moving ahead. Freedom was never truly free, not in a place like this. It was a test disguised as a choice.

And somewhere in that crowded room, with Joan’s gaze still lingering at the edge of her awareness, she could already feel it.

This year would not be simple.

…..

The rhythm of the academy settled quickly, like gears clicking into place after a long pause. For the second-year Mythril class, mornings belonged to regular studies, while noon was reserved for the advanced classes.

Kana found herself drifting into History II, a class she had chosen more out of quiet curiosity than necessity. The room was large, built to hold far more students than it probably should, and yet it was nearly full. Rows of desks stretched in neat lines, occupied by students who looked… oddly the same and different. Many wore spectacles, their posture straighter, their expressions more inward, as if their battles were fought not with blades but with thoughts. 

Roy slid into the seat beside her, casual as ever, as if he belonged anywhere he chose to sit. Kana glanced at him, then leaned slightly closer.

“How’s my new gift?” she asked, her voice low enough to stay between them.

Roy gave a small nod, thoughtful rather than excited. “They’re good,” he said after a moment, as if weighing his words carefully. “Close. Almost there… but not quite as tough as that guy.”

Von.

The name lingered unspoken between them. Strength and speed could be measured, improved, even matched. But raw skill… that was something else entirely. It was the difference between someone who fought and someone who understood fighting. Von had that edge, something sharp and unpolished that refused to be replicated easily.

Kana gave a small nod of agreement, her gaze drifting forward just as the room quieted.

Professor Enry entered with the same unhurried presence as before, his expression carrying that familiar blend of patience and quiet authority.

“It’s him again,” Kana murmured under her breath.

“Of course,” Roy replied with a faint shrug. “I think he’s the only one who teaches history.”

The first session unfolded gently, more like a conversation than a lecture. Introductions circled the room, names and classes weaving together into a tapestry of unfamiliar faces. Professor Enry asked questions not to test, but to draw answers out, and the students responded eagerly, their voices carrying the quiet confidence of those who preferred knowledge over noise.

Kana listened, observed… but did not fully engage. Not because she lacked interest, but because her mind had already begun drifting elsewhere, like a compass needle twitching toward something unseen.

By the time noon arrived, the academy’s atmosphere changed again.

The lunch halls filled with the second-year Mythril class, voices rising, laughter threading through the clatter of trays and cups. It was brief, almost fleeting, before the next phase of the day called them forward.

Advanced class. Dungeon Exploration I to be exact.

Kana made her way to the training field, the open space stretching wide beneath the afternoon light. The air here felt different, heavier, charged with expectation. Unlike the morning’s quiet, this place carried the promise of movement, of impact, of failure made visible.

She stepped onto the field and immediately felt it.

Height.

Most of the students there were third years, their builds more refined, their stances more grounded. They towered over her, not just in size, but in the weight of time spent honing themselves. There were fewer of them, around twenty in total, but each one felt like a condensed force, something sharper than the larger groups she was used to.

Kana was expecting it. She looked so small among the third year class, not to mention most of them were boys.

At the front stood Wor-en. His presence alone was enough to steady the field, to pull attention into focus without a single command.

Another round of introductions followed, shorter this time, more direct. Names were exchanged, classes revealed most were [Scout] and [Swordsman], but beneath it all lay something unspoken. This was not a place for comfort. This was where limits would be tested, whether one was ready or not.

On the surface, the day unfolded perfectly.

And yet…

Kana frowned slightly, her gaze drifting as the session continued. There was a faint tug at the edge of her thoughts, something just out of reach. Not a memory, not quite. More like a missing piece she couldn’t name.

It lingered there, quiet but persistent. Like a word on the tip of her tongue. And no matter how she tried to grasp it… it slipped away.

What am I missing today?

Post note:Kana will remember it. Right?First chap of the week.

Hope you enjoy the chap! 🙂

Next Chapter