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...
Three days had passed since Leylin set out from the cave, his steed's hooves pounding the earth as he drew closer to his destination. Now, he stood on the outer fringes of the Abyssal Bone Forest Academy, the air thick with the acrid scent of charred wood and lingering magic.
The once-lush forests that had encircled the academy were a shadow of their former glory—more than half reduced to a wasteland of splintered trunks and scorched earth. The ground beneath his horse's hooves bore the scars of war: gaping craters, shallow depressions, and patches of ashen white where spells had seared the soil to a ghostly pallor. Amid the desolation lay scattered rubble and drifts of grey ash, silent witnesses to the ferocious battles that had ravaged this land. (Image)
"What a beautiful sight…" Leylin murmured, his voice carrying a strange blend of awe and detachment. He urged his large, dark horse forward, the beast snorting as it navigated the uneven terrain.
The sheer scale of destruction was staggering—a cataclysm so vast it had reshaped the very geography around the academy, leaving behind a haunting tableau of ruin.
As he rode, the rhythmic thud of hooves was suddenly joined by the clinking of armor. Two figures emerged from the haze ahead, their silhouettes broad and imposing against the desolate backdrop.
Leylin recognized them at once—Grand Knights, clad in the same weathered plate armor they'd worn three years prior when they'd escorted him beyond the academy's borders on Dorotte's orders. Their faces were lined with the weariness, yet they straightened as they approached, raising their fists in a crisp salute.
"Lord Leylin," the taller of the two began, his voice gravelly but deferential. "We came to serve you under Master's orders, as we did when we saw you safely out on your mission. The academy's security has tightened—all personal gateways are sealed shut. You'll need to enter through the main gate now."
Leylin nodded, his expression unreadable as he dismounted, the reins slack in his hand.
"Lead on, then," he said simply, falling into step beside them as Abigail slithered from the saddlebag to coil around his shoulder.
The knights exchanged a brief glance but said nothing, their boots crunching against the debris-laden path as they guided him forward.
After a dozen minutes of travel, the trio reached a sprawling graveyard that loomed like a monument to the fallen. This was the academy's underground entrance, its granite tombstones rising from the earth in solemn ranks.
Yet the scene before Leylin was one of devastation—half the headstones lay shattered, their fragments strewn across the ground, while many graves had been pried open, exposing the dark, yawning passages beneath.
The surrounding walls of stone and packed mud bore the telltale scorch marks and pockmarks of spellfire, a testament to the violence that had swept through. Each tombstone, Leylin knew, had once served as a private conduit for the academy's professors, a network of secret routes now reduced to rubble. The necessity of the main gate became painfully clear. (Image)
Though he'd long anticipated the academy's losses, the sheer scale of this desolation struck him. The Abyssal Bone Forest Academy, once a formidable seat of power, now lay wounded and exposed, its grandeur tarnished by war.
Bang! A dull thud echoed as Leylin and the knights approached the heart of the graveyard. There, a massive tombstone towered above the rest, its castle-like form a stark silhouette against the overcast sky.
This was the grand entrance, the common path for all acolytes—a structure both imposing and battered. Cracks spiderwebbed across its surface, and a chunk of its peaked roof had broken away, leaving the remainder teetering precariously, as though a single gust might bring it crashing down.
"Halt! Outsider!" A metallic voice rang out, sharp and commanding, just as Leylin stepped toward the threshold. "If you cannot produce proof of identity, you'll pay in blood!"
The two stone statues that had once flanked the entrance—the Winged Earthworm and Two-Headed Dog—were gone, reduced to heaps of rubble. Before Leylin could react, a shadow stirred atop the ashen castle, descending with alarming speed. It was a hulking figure, taller than a man by two heads, its elongated arms dragging along the ground.
Despite the tombstone's fractured state, the structure held firm under the creature's weight, a silent testament to the academy's enduring craftsmanship.
Bang! The figure leapt, its shadow swallowing Leylin and the knights in a dark shroud.
Thud! It landed heavily, kicking up a cloud of dust that stung Leylin's eyes. Squinting through the haze, he discerned its form—a Granite Ape, its body sheathed in rugged stone, its massive hands braced against the earth. (Image)
In the Magus World, such creatures rivaled official Magi in strength, their presence a formidable deterrent.
"I sense the energy of a proof item on you," the ape rumbled, its voice like grinding boulders. It leaned closer, its snout sniffing at Leylin and the two with a gust of fetid breath that made the knights flinch.
"Take it out!"
One of the servants fumbled hastily, retrieving a blue metal card Leylin had entrusted to him, along with two grey wooden tokens. He held them out with trembling hands.
The Granite Ape snatched them up, popping them into its maw like a child with candy. It chewed noisily, eyes half-closed as if savoring the taste, before swallowing with a guttural grunt.
"Dorotte's apprentice," it said after a long pause, its gaze settling on Leylin. "Rare for a professor to care so much for their student. Enter, brat!"
Leylin stepped past the beast, the cool darkness of the entrance swallowing him as he descended the familiar stone stairs. The air grew damp and heavy, the same as it had been when he'd left years ago, yet the academy felt hollow.
Where once acolytes had thronged the corridors, now only silence reigned. He estimated the academy's numbers had dwindled to less than half their former strength. Even the Trading Post and Mission Area, once bustling hubs, stood eerily deserted.
At the mission desk, one knight presented Leylin's records—a crystal ball and a scale from the Great Snake Mankestre—to log his mission's completion.
The other escorted him onward, their footsteps echoing in the stillness. Leylin's sharp eyes roamed the Mission Area as they passed. Though the crowds had thinned, the mission boards were more crowded than ever, their parchment notices curling at the edges. Rewards had doubled, he noted, despite the tasks' difficulty remaining unchanged—a desperate bid to bolster what remained of the academy's forces.
The path wound through the gardens, their once-manicured beds now overgrown with thorny weeds, before arriving at Dorotte's experiment lab.
The knight rapped on the door—Dong! Dong! Dong!—then stepped aside, standing sentinel as Leylin entered.
The lab was sparse, dominated by a lone experiment table. At its center stood Dorotte, a skeletal figure cloaked in black robes, the green embers of his eyes flickering like distant stars. (Image)
"Welcome back, Leylin," he rasped, his voice a dry whisper that carried a hint of warmth. "Congratulations on your success. I knew your genius would shine through—Level 3 before twenty, and dabbling in blood experiments no less. You've walked a rare path, one even I might've missed if I weren't your mentor."
He gestured vaguely, his bony fingers trembling. "My first body modification nearly cost me both hands—clumsy work, that. Thankfully, my necromancy and alchemy pulled me through. You, though—you've a steadier hand than I ever did."
"No matter," he continued, the embers flaring briefly. "Reaching Level 3 so young marks you as a core acolyte here. Register at the Administrative Area, and your welfare and status will rise—better resources, greater authority. It's yours by right."
Leylin nodded, but impatience gnawed at him.
"Teacher," he interjected, unable to hold back, "can you tell me more about the path forward?"
Dorotte's skeletal jaw clacked as he laughed, a hollow, rattling sound. "Obsessed, aren't you? I see it in your eyes—every time we speak of official Magi, they burn with that mad hunger. So young, so focused, teetering on the edge of insanity. But that's what we are, isn't it? Mad Magi."
He waved a hand toward a pair of black chairs draped in a leathery material that gleamed faintly, disturbingly akin to human skin. Leylin settled into one without hesitation, its surface cool and unyielding beneath him. "This might take a while," Dorotte said. "Let's sit."
The skeletal Magus leaned forward, the green embers in his sockets steadying as his tone grew grave. "You're a Level 3 acolyte, a mere step from official Magus. Tell me, Leylin—what is a Magus?"
Leylin's gaze drifted inward, his mind weaving through two lives. In his past as Voldemort, he'd wielded power that bent the world to his will—dark, unyielding, a force of domination born from ambition and sacrifice. In this life, as Leylin, he'd clawed his way through the Magus World's brutal hierarchy, piecing together fragments of arcane truth. He exhaled slowly, his voice measured yet resonant.
"A Magus," he began, "is a seeker who transcends the mundane, a being who seizes the threads of nature's energy and weaves them into mastery. They are not bound by the frailty of flesh but elevated by the crucible of their will. In my… past experiences, I've seen power shaped by intent, where spells were tools of conquest. Here, I've learned it's a deeper alchemy—knowledge forged in blood and tempered by discipline. A Magus is both creator and destroyer, a paradox of control and chaos, standing apart from humanity yet commanding its forces. They are the architects of their fate, unbound by time's decay, their souls alight with the fire of eternity."
Dorotte's embers flared, a rare gleam of approval. "Well said. An official Magus transcends human limits—harnessing nature's fury, extending their lifespan beyond mortal reckoning. Even the weakest outstrips a Level 3 acolyte by leagues. They are extraordinary."
His voice softened, a flicker of something almost wistful in its rasp. "That power, that devastation—it's why, a thousand years ago, the magisterium of the South Coast, gathered at Luxe Castle, agreed to shroud the path to Magus in secrecy. Knowledge is controlled, endorsed by all factions."
"How does one claim such power?" Leylin pressed.
"By joining them," Dorotte replied. "Before advancing, a Level 3 acolyte signs a contract with their mentor or faction, swearing under the Trial's Eye never to reveal the steps to Magus. Violators face a thousand years of soul-scorching torment. I signed such a pact myself to gain what I needed—resources, guidance. The contract binds me; I can't share specifics with you."
He tilted his head, the bones creaking. "But I can offer general truths. To become an official Magus, you need three things: a spiritual force of sufficient strength—which you've surpassed—a rank 1 defensive spell model, and Grine Water to aid the breakthrough. The spell becomes your innate shield, a fortress of magic woven into your being."
Leylin's eyes flickered with realization. "So, spiritual force, a rank 1 defensive spell, and Grine Water. That's the key?"
"Precisely," Dorotte nodded. "But those spells and potions are hoarded by the great factions. You won't find them on any academy counter or in Poolfield's markets. They're locked away, bartered only to the loyal."
A sour taste rose in Leylin's throat. He'd scoured the kingdom's markets himself, finding no trace of rank 1 spells. Acolyte magic—rank 0 spells—was a mere shadow of what Magi wielded, a deliberate distinction to keep the lower ranks in check.
Unbeknownst to Leylin, Grine Water, too, was an enigma—a potion so complex, its formula and ingredients monopolized by the elite.
"Then why summon me back?" Leylin asked abruptly. "Does the academy offer a way to obtain them?"
"It's possible," Dorotte said, his tone measured. "Advancing to Level 3 before twenty marks you as a potential Magus. You're eligible to sign a contract with the academy—a glorified servant's pact. You'd vow secrecy under the Trial's Eye and serve for a century after advancing. In return, you'd get a rank 1 defensive spell and Grine Water, free of charge."
Leylin's mind recoiled. The Trial's Eye—an otherworldly entity of pure Rules, devoid of will—was the ultimate enforcer of such oaths. A century of servitude, even to the point of death, was a chain he'd never accept. He shook his head firmly.
Dorotte's embers dimmed slightly, reading his refusal. "The academy's treatment of foreign Magi like us isn't harsh. They avoid sending us on suicide missions. But I know you, Leylin—you'd never take this path. I spoke of a gift—rest assured, it ties to your advancement."
Leylin leaned forward, curiosity piqued. "What is it?"
Dorotte's skeletal grin widened, his jaw trembling with suppressed mirth. "The war isn't over, my boy. The Lighthouse of the Night mediated peace between the Magi, yes—Sage Gotham's Hut and Whitewoods Castle relented. But the news is incomplete. For acolytes, the bloodshed continues."
Leylin's brows furrowed, his expression darkening. "A special clause?"
"Exactly," Dorotte said bitterly. "Behind our enemies stands another guild, rivaling the Lighthouse. Under the treaty, the Magi stepped back, but they demanded a bloodbath—a clash of acolytes in a secret plane. The Trial's Eye witnessed the pact; we can't refuse without dooming every professor, even the Chairman, to oblivion."
"A bloodbath?" Leylin echoed, the word heavy on his tongue. Secret planes,pocket dimensions forged by powerful spells were fortresses for labs and resources, impenetrable to acolytes. A bloodbath, though, was a ritual of slaughter, a sanctioned duel where death settled all scores, its contracts unbreakable.
"Our enemies want to erase our legacy," Dorotte continued. "They've recalled their acolytes, and we've summoned ours, you, Jayden, Merlin every genius fifth-grader for this massacre. All three academies' acolytes will converge in one place, barred from wielding Magus-level artifacts by the plane's defenses."
"How does this aid my path to Magus?" Leylin pressed, his voice edged with urgency.
Dorotte's grin returned, sly and knowing. "Before the bloodbath, the academy's hosting a competition—rich rewards, doubled remuneration, discounted spells and potions. They're desperate to strengthen acolytes. In the secret realm, your mission is to kill Level 1 acolytes earn 1 point, Level 2s earn 3, Level 3s earn 10, with higher values for notable foes. Amass enough contribution points, and you can trade for a rank 1 spell or Grine Water, no contract required."
Leylin's eyes narrowed, his mind racing. "A chance to rise without chains…"
"Perform well," Dorotte said, his tone turning grave, "but don't advance as I did. There's regret down that road, two paths I've prepared for you instead."
"What do you mean?" Leylin asked, confusion flickering across his face. "Are there multiple ways to Magus?"
"I'm bound by my contract, I can't say more," Dorotte admitted. "But trust me, the standard path brings sorrow. Now, tell me do you know of the Branded Swordsman, little Leylin?"