The man, drenched in a regal shade of blood — or maybe just blood — drifted closer, each step a funeral drumbeat against the stone. My knees were already buckling, my ribs humming pain in C minor, and my eye — the Eye — bled like it was trying to cry out of sheer disgust.
And then… it opened.
Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Not in some vague, anime power-up sense. No. It split open across my face like a wound remembering how to scream. I didn't open it — it opened me.
The man in red, who seemed to think tailoring himself in arterial fashion was a personality, halted mid-step.
He leaned back. Smirked.
"Oh," he said, voice like warm syrup on broken glass, "an artifact. How quaint. Well then—"
He spread his arms, and his grimoire bloomed to life, crimson and gold like a dying sun stitched into leather. Pages flipped with reverence, like even the book feared disappointing him. Heat surged from his palms, a furnace disguised as flesh.
He grinned. A scholar of sadism.
"Let there be flame," he said, voice silk-wrapped in malice. "Let there be pain."
The spell hit before the words even finished forming.
"Sear of the Inner Flame," he whispered — like a damn lullaby for torture.
And then it started.
Oh gods—oh hell, it burns.
Not the skin. No — that'd be merciful. This—this thing digs inward. Finds the veins, the Essentia threads, the parts of me that aren't supposed to feel — and lights a match.
I can't scream. I can't even breathe. My nerves aren't sending pain anymore — they're just screaming. My bones feel like they're boiling. My soul—my soul—feels like it's on fire, like it suddenly remembered it was made of kindling.
Thoughts? Gone. Just heat. Just fire. It's unraveling everything. Every circuit in me meant to hold magic is just... melting.
Oh gods—oh gods it hurts.
Who the hell makes a spell like this?! This isn't magic — this is sadism. A sauna for the soul. A full-body cremation from the inside out.
I think I laughed. Or choked. Or maybe that was my throat giving up.
My nerves stopped transmitting pain and just started screaming. My thoughts fractured, staggered, collapsed inwards.
I could feel it burning through my pathways like molten ink, etching pain into places no spell should reach. They called it innovation — I called it sanctioned cruelty wrapped in sigils and silver.
Oh fantastic. A torture spell that doubles as an internal sauna. All that's missing is scented candles and a charcuterie board of my regrets.
He watched. Enjoyed. Of course he did. This wasn't about answers — it was art to him. But I wasn't done yet.
Because something in me — the eye, the artifact, the thing pretending to be passive — began to turn.
And it turned toward him.
And then —It all stopped.
Just like that, the flames vanished. The pain blinked out like someone hit mute on suffering. My skin, my nerves, my everything still remembered what had just happened, but the spell?
Gone.
No — not gone. Absorbed.
The eye — my eye — the cursed, sentient, probably passive-aggressive artifact lodged in my skull had swallowed the spell whole. Like it was wine and pain was just the vintage.
The man in red actually blinked.
"Interesting," he said, voice tilting sideways in surprise. "An artifact capable of absorbing high-tier magic…"
He sounded astonished, like he'd just seen a pigeon recite poetry. To be fair, so had I.
Then it hit me — that rush.
Like something had poured lightning into a bowl made of bone and Essentia and whispered: "Use it."
I didn't hesitate. I stood — more like snapped to my feet — like I'd been launched by divine spite. My body buzzed. My fingers twitched with intent.
This was my turn.
I raised my right hand, crossed my middle finger over my pointer like a crooked prayer, and spoke the words I swore I'd only ever mutter in a fever dream or final moment:
"Zeno's Domain — Senseless."
Reality didn't crack. It didn't shake. It just… forgot how to move.
The space around me went thick. Not visibly — no dramatic wind or shifting shadows. No, this was subtler. A silence that pressed on the lungs. An air that no longer asked to be breathed — it dared you to.
He tilted his head. Smirked.
"Did you just try casting without a grimoire?"
A pause, then laughter. Cold, clinical."Hah! Desperation's a hell of a drug. Alright — I'll cut off an arm, consider it mercy. You've got until the end of the month to squeal. Should be plenty of time."
He pulled out his sword. Not fast — deliberate. Like a surgeon savoring the pre-op moment. He stalked toward me.
"The Inquisition's cleansing this sector in four weeks. So either talk before then... or get cozy with the corpses."
He raised the blade high, lining it up for a clean slash, aiming right for my shoulder.
"Well? You gonna talk?"
I didn't blink. I didn't breathe.
I just stared back, dead-on. Not brave. No. I was terrified. The kind of fear that eats your thoughts and shits out instinct. But fear didn't mean surrender — not here.
This was a gamble. A high-tier opponent. A spell I invented.A nuclear-level bluff I was about to go all in on.
"No?" he asked, amused."Alright. I'll take an arm as compensation."
His blade came down.
And I?
I let it.
Because some bets...You don't fold.
And then... it just stopped.
The blade — moving faster than sound, a flash of precision and searing heat — simply dissolved in mid-air. One arm's length from my throat, the attack unraveled like it had second thoughts.
No impact. No clash. Just... nothing.
Like reality vetoed it.
Joe — or whatever name this crimson-coated sadist went by — froze mid-swing. His expression shifted from confidence to confusion to something sour and twitchy. Eyebrow ticking. Jaw clenching. Fist curling tight enough to crack bone.
"Well," he muttered, voice taut with irritation, "what an annoying little artifact you've got."
Then he smirked, and it was not the kind of smile you wanted directed at your body.
"Fine. Two can play at that."
With a theatrical flourish, he sheathed the blade in his hand and reached behind his back. When he drew again, it was different — heavier, curved, and carried like it belonged to a man who'd decapitated kings for sport. He angled it downward, executioner-style, like the opening scene of a tragedy.
The room thickened. No flames, no wind — just pressure. The kind of air that made breathing feel like a privilege.
And then he stepped forward.
Each footfall was heavy, deliberate. Thunder dressed in velvet.
I didn't move. I couldn't. The air felt dense, like I was standing inside a lung that refused to breathe. My eye twitched again — the gifted one — and I saw it. Not light. Not color. Heat. Licking off his blade like it had a soul of its own.
He was calm. Too calm. That annoying kind of calm that tells you you're about to get maimed for character development.
"I imagine you're wondering who stands before you… before the blade finds its mark."
He tilted his head a little, like a dog amused by its food trying to bite back.
"Kael Vaezan. Son of Duke Vaezan of the Veyrithian Empire. Youngest Archmagus crowned by the Institute."
Oh. Wonderful. Royalty and a prodigy. I should've charged admission.
"Bearer of a dragon's mark… branded in honor, now blackened by truth."
Of course. There's always a dragon mark. These bastards collect trauma like trading cards.
"And the Apostate of Flame. One of the Six who've glimpsed the Ash Gospel… and did not look away."
Now that one — that one actually landed. My stomach flipped like it had opinions.
Then he raised the blade.
"So tell me, Viktor… will you burn with your pride—"
The sword moved. Fast. Final.
"—or live without your hands?"
In less than a second, the sword came swinging down—fast, brutal, full of that theatrical finality cultists love to flex.
But it didn't land.
Didn't even scratch the surface.
My spell held. State-of-the-art, boys.
He swung, but the blade stopped short—an arm and a half away, exactly where I'd etched the boundary of the spell. Perfect. Now I knew it worked. Not just in theory, not just in training. It held against a sword older than most dynasties, wielded by a royal cultist lunatic with a god complex. Great. Now I had a defensive spell that could actually keep me alive. And I mean long-term alive.
He bit his lip so hard I thought he'd start bleeding royal blood. Then he roared.
"How. HOW! How did my blade—passed down through generations, an artifact of the unknown past—not pierce the veil of some fallen peasant?!"
Gods, the man sounded like his whole bloodline just got cancelled.
He swung again. And again. And again.
Desperation looks good on tyrants.
By the fourth swing, I was already stepping in. Confidence kicked in like a drug, and I grabbed him by the collar—yeah, that royal silk—and yanked him forward like I owned him.
Voices echoed from down the hall.
"Professor! Professor!"
Perfect timing. Of course the students show up when I'm mid-threat.
I leaned in, close enough he could see the veins in my eyes, and growled—
"Whatever poetic bullshit you were spouting—keep it. Try something like this again, and you won't be the youngest Archmagus anymore. You'll just be a cautionary tale."
His eye twitched. Then he smiled.
Not the kind of smile you forget.
And just like that—gone. Blinked out. Disappeared into thin air like the smug ghost of a bad decision.
But his voice lingered. Cold, smug, echoing.
"I'll return… and I won't come alone. The one who dragged you into this will come too — and trust me, compared to them, I'm mercy."
And there I was—just standing there like nothing happened. No death duel. No cultist lunatic. Just your average hallway.
That's when Elizabith came out from one of the side corridors, all bright-eyed and full of misplaced concern, heading straight toward me.
"Professor, we heard noise and were wondering what happened," she said, genuinely worried.
Of course it's her. Of all the students. Elizabith, who has more energy than a lightning spell in a thunderstorm.
I gave a calm smile. "Nothing major. Just a couple of outsiders scuffling over souvenirs near the entrance. I settled it before it escalated. But thank you for your concern, Elizabith."Then I narrowed my eyes slightly. "That said, I did say not to leave the class... and you disobeyed."
Had to scold her—because obviously, she showed up right when I was about to unlock my protagonist arc.
She shifted awkwardly, crossed her legs like she was embarrassed, gave a small nod, and turned back toward class. I followed, because apparently, I still had a period to teach.
Yep. Definitely nothing happened.Right, guys?
I muttered to myself, low and bitter.What the hell was that? Apostate of Flame? Future Apostate?
Great. Just great. Seems like everywhere Viktor goes, bullshit blooms like weeds in a graveyard. What a guy.
Screw you, Viktor. Leaving me with this flaming trash heap. This was supposed to be a good isekai—not the dollar-store knockoff where the main character gets PTSD and a migraine before lunch.
And that bastard Kael… he knew about the Purification happening in Luminece. How? Who was he, really?
…Yeah. Not like I'm gonna get any answers standing here talking to myself.
I shoved the thoughts down and stepped into the classroom—because apparently, I'm still a teacher.
I stood behind the pulpit — yes, it's called a pulpit, not a podium, thank you very much — brushing off some dust like I didn't just fight for my life twenty minutes ago.
Straightened my robe. Fixed my collar. Gave myself that half-smirk of someone pretending to be prepared. I am, of course, not prepared.
"Alright, quiet down. Take out your books. Today we start with a recap of yesterdays Chapter."
God, even saying that made me sound like I knew what I was doing. Fake it till you make it, right?
The class actually listened. Huh. Progress.
Then — right on cue — Elizabeth stood up. Of course it's her. If you told me she brewed her morning tea with sunlight and ambition, I'd believe you.
She didn't just speak. She delivered a thesis.
"Elemental Alignment refers to the innate connection a mage has with one or more of the six elements," she began, with all the poise of a duchess and the confidence of someone who's never forgotten her homework.
"This affinity comes from a combination of their heritage, bloodline resonance, personality and much more. Most mages bond with one element — some with two, a rare few with three or four. But affinity isn't about quantity. It's about how efficiently your body channels the element's nature."
She paused for a breath — not because she was unsure, but like she knew she had everyone's attention. Including mine.
"When casting across multiple elements, harmony becomes essential. Some elements complement each other — Earth and Water for shaping terrain, Fire and Air for aggressive offense. Others — like Water and Fire — naturally conflict. Combining those is incredibly difficult. But if done correctly... the result is some of the most devastating magic known."
She said it like a warning. A prophecy wrapped in a footnote. I was honestly starting to feel like I should be taking notes too.
I nodded, casually, like I wasn't mildly awed.
"Well said. Anyone want to add on?"
Silence. For a moment, anyway.
Then a kid to the left of Zeke stood. Didn't know his name — yet. Dark hair. Crimson eyes. Graceful posture like he was born to walk on marble. Honestly looked like he stepped out of a royal painting titled Melancholy and Arrogance in Minor Key.
Before he could speak, a voice behind him whispered, not even hiding the envy:
"Man, I wanted to answer."
Now that? That warmed me up. Nothing gets a teacher going like competitive nerds.
The elegant mystery boy spoke with a kind of casual polish that made me think he probably had a personal tutor who was knighted for his grammar.
"To build on her explanation… each element contains subcategories that define how it behaves. Fire can express as heat, flame, explosion, even blinding light. Water can manifest as current, mist, ice, or pressure."
He kept going — calm, precise.
"So while two elements might seem incompatible in theory, it's their subcategories that allow nuance. For instance — steam, formed from Water and Heat. Or molten stone, from Earth and Fire. These combinations depend on the mage's control, not just alignment."
Damn. Kid was good.
"Elements aren't rigid laws — they're languages. The better your fluency, the more complex your sentence."
...Okay, that last line was actually poetic. I'm gonna steal that.
I leaned back, folding my arms across my chest. Tried to look unimpressed. Failed.
"Yup... I'm definitely gonna be studying for hours tonight," I muttered under my breath. "I'm practically the dumbest person in this room."
The worst part?
It was kind of nice.