This quest was... difficult.
Maybe even impossible.
It required Lan to kill Gareth—a boy who, at the moment, was far stronger than him. Though Lan could begin his path of cultivation, that path was sealed shut until he obtained the rewards tied to this very quest.
A cruel catch.
He couldn't cultivate without the items.
He couldn't get the items without completing the quest.
And the quest demanded a public execution.
That put Lan in a tight spot—one he refused to let become a wall.
"Thanks, Doc," Lan said as he backed out of the infirmary.
"Alright, Lanard. I can only hope I don't see you again soon," she replied with a faint smile. Concern crept into her voice despite the jest.
"Don't worry, Doc," Lan grinned slightly, eyes cold and amused. "I've got a strong feeling you won't."
He closed the door behind him, sealing the silence between them.
Then he glanced again at the panel.
---
[ QUEST ]
BLOOD FOR BLOOD
Publicly execute Gareth.
Reward: Meridians Unlocking Pill (Rare), Soulroot Elixir (Rare)
---
He exhaled, slowly.
He needed those two items more than anything else in this world.
The Meridians Unlocking Pill—as its name suggested—would unseal the pathways in his current body, finally allowing him to draw mana again. Cultivate. Become something.
In his past life, Lan had been a formidable cultivator. But Alchemy? That had never been his domain. He understood the principles—but never deeply enough to craft a pill of such complexity.
Without this quest, he had no hope of acquiring one in time.
Then there was the Soulroot Elixir—rarer still. A treasure few ever laid eyes on, much less consumed. Without it, his foundation would remain fractured.
He needed those rewards.
Which meant Gareth had to die.
Soon.
And although finding a way to kill Gareth might be an issue...
Doing it publicly wouldn't be.
Arcanis Academy was known for its brutality—a furnace designed to burn away weakness.
Murder within its walls was often overlooked, even encouraged. If one student slaughtered another in broad daylight, the punishment—if any—might amount to a reprimand. A slap on the wrist. All in the name of natural selection.
Thousands applied. Less than a thousand were allowed to take the entrance test. Only a few hundred were ever accepted.
And by the end of the second year?
Barely two hundred were left standing.
Those two hundred, however, were the best. The ones who endured.
It was then that the true game began—the Great Selection. Noble houses, royal factions, mercenary guilds—they descended to recruit from the survivors.
The higher a student's rank, the greater the power of their recruiters.
The Top Ten were typically claimed by royalty.
Lan turned down another hallway, his jaw tensing as he stretched it. The ache still lingered from the last beating. He pushed through it and opened the next door.
A classroom.
The moment he stepped inside, the whispers began.
"Isn't that Lanard?"
"How is he still walking?"
"Thought they finally did him in."
"Seems Cecil put him back together again."
"Gods. Why won't he just die already?"
He heard every word.
Let them whisper.
Let them watch.
None of them—not one—had the faintest idea of what was coming.
"Lanard, nice of you to join us," the instructor said without looking up. "Please. Take your seat."
He nodded and walked down the aisle slowly, deliberately. The voices hushed behind him, a wake of silence trailing in his steps.
He ignored their stares. Their murmurs. Their pity.
He reached the back of the room. His chair sat in its usual shadowed corner, half-split by the light bleeding through a tall arched window.
And then he sat.
Not in haste.
Not as a boy limping toward recovery.
But with quiet intention.
He pulled the chair back. The screech of its legs against the stone floor rang louder than expected. A few students flinched. He didn't glance up.
He lowered himself slowly, spine straight, limbs controlled. The pain flared slightly his ribs but he did not let it show. He exhaled, long and slow, as his body met the seat.
Settled.
Still.
He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, leaning forward as if nothing in the world concerned him more than the lesson.
As if nothing had ever been broken.
As if nothing would be.
The instructor, a severe-looking woman with silver-streaked hair and piercing violet eyes, tapped the blackboard with a slender rod.
"Mana blockages," she began, her voice crisp, "are the bane of any mage's existence. They occur when foreign energy disrupts the natural flow of mana through the body's channels."
Lan listened.
Every word.
"The most common causes are external—spell backlash, cursed artifacts, or, in rare cases, poison."
Poison.
His eyes sharpened.
"Certain toxins, like Blackvein Moss or Frostbloom Extract, can crystallize inside mana channels, rendering a mage powerless for hours—or even days."
A slow smirk crept onto Lan's lips.
Oh.
That could work.
The instructor continued, oblivious to the gears beginning to turn behind his stillness.
"Of course, such substances are highly regulated. The academy's alchemy labs strictly monitor their usage—"
Lan stopped listening.
He'd heard what he needed.
Gareth was stronger. Faster.
For Now.
But if Lan could block his mana—
Even just for a few minutes—
The playing field would be leveled.
Lan didn't fight fair.
Not anymore.
He didn't need some grand, masterwork poison.
No rare toxin smuggled through black markets.
Just something simple.
Accessible.
Overlooked.
And Lan already knew exactly where to find it.