Atniel brushes his right hand against his thigh, and then steps off the bus without another word. No one realizes what he's done. And honestly, that's how he prefers it.
But Elea, clearly not satisfied, conjures another fireball above her palm.
"You… how dare you turn your back on me," she hisses.
But before she can do anything reckless, a pale hand shoots out and grabs her wrist. Thin frost erupts instantly across her arm, extinguishing the fireball in a puff of smoke.
"Aezel!" Elea snarls. "How dare you interrupt me?"
Aezel, the white-haired girl, doesn't flinch. Her silver eyes are calm, but her voice carries enough steel to stop a riot.
"We only need one more mission to graduate from the academy, and I don't want you to ruin everything over this trivial matter!"
After giving it a moment of thought, Elea clenches her fist, shattering the frost with a flick of her fingers. She glares at Atniel, her pride clearly bruised.
With Elea finally back in her seat, the old bus driver exhales like a deflating goat bladder. The bus coughs to life and rumbles down the road like a hangover wyvern with joint pain.
On the roadside, Atniel watches the bus rattle away. And with a long sigh that suggests divine beings can, he tilts his head to the stars, calling out like a man phoning customer service after being placed on eternal hold.
"Elisha! Can't you pull me out of this flimsy meat suit, and drop me into something with more muscle, and less... sweat?"
But there's no response.
"Stop ghosting me, damn it. I know you can hear this."
But Elisha, his celestial guardian, has clearly gone radio silent, possibly due to divine burnout, or maybe just sheer embarrassment.
***
An Hour Later
He finally arrives at Ezlenmir Garden, a military base disguised as an architectural fever dream, a dome so large that it could fit five football stadiums.
The ceiling looks like a honeycomb abandoned by bees having enough serving their queen. This place is aggressively secure. The kind of secure that says, "We're not paranoid, but we do have turrets."
Within the dome lies a quaint little lake, surrounded by buildings arranged with military precision. Four elegant overpasses stretch across the water like someone tried to remake Venice with a military budget.
When he reaches Irvine's dorm room, Atniel eyes the desktop near the bed. He powers it on and the screen lights up with a cheerful wallpaper: Maya Helzenski, looking younger, softer, and considerably less complicated.
"Tch! Still pretending to be innocent."
He opens a browser, and starts scrolling like a theologian who just discovered Reddit.
"This browser is arcane sorcery. I'm pretty sure half of society is being raised by these cat memes and rage threads."
Then he squints at a link.
"OnlyPorn? Sounds like a purification spell gone horribly wrong."
Click.
"Oh Lord! No good! Close, close, CLOSE!"
He slams the tab shut with the speed of a monk swatting sin, and opens another tab.
He spends hours this way, clicking, reading, searching for the Nephilim like an ancient detective with a concerning knack for conspiracy boards.
Divine regeneration keeps his mind awake. But Irvine's mortal body? Not built for all-nighters. Still, he refuses to stop.
"I'll rest when I'm dead," he mutters.
But then, just before dawn, fatigue wins. His fingers go slack on the mouse, his chin drops.
And fifteen minutes into unconsciousness…
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!!!
The alarm clock screams like a tortured goose. Atniel lurches awake, arm swinging before his mind does, flailing like he's swatting a demon.
Spirit energy pulses from his palm, and…
WHUMP!
The alarm clock explodes against the wall. So does half the nightstand, and possibly the concept of peaceful mornings.
"What was that? A demon egg?"
Curious, he closes his eyes, fishing through Irvine's memories. The truth comes to him in fragments: buzzing… school schedule… mandatory attendance…
"Right. School."
He stretches, groans, and wonders if he can file a divine complaint.
"Alright, Skywrath Comforter," he mutters. "Time to pretend to be a Seed-E reject and see what kind of educational rot passes for training in this age."
Nearly three decades in the structured silence of the Second Heaven. And now? He's about to sit through roll call and try not to kill someone in class.
The thought makes him grin. Maybe this was divine punishment. Or maybe, it was exactly the kind of ridiculous journey he didn't know he needed.
***
The academy grounds are already buzzing when Atniel steps through the eastern gate. The courtyard sprawls out before him like a hallucination from a dream, one he doesn't recognize.
Tall glass-paneled buildings stand in quiet harmony with stone spires, arcane sigils etched beside streetlamps. Dozens of students cross paths, their voices a scattered assemble of laughter, curses, and spell incantations.
A few wear hybrid uniforms; half robe, half tactical gear. Some fiddle with palm-sized gadgets, tiny arcane screens projecting from thin crystals as they chat, or duel mid-air using spell simulators.
"It's only been a few decades..." Atniel murmurs. "How could the world get this... dumb?"
To him, it's been just around thirty years since he last walked among mortals. But here, time flows differently.
By heaven's reckoning, he left Bastardia at the age of thirty-three, was honored, ascended, and spent nearly three decades in the second heaven.
But here? More than 1800 years have passed. And nothing could've prepared him for the reality of it.
He walks forward, dazed, watching one student swiping at nothing but air, only to realize the girl is playing a fully immersive combat sim.
"What in the name of God's breath is this...?"
He's seen magic, wielded divine energy. But this, this fusion of mortal ingenuity and corrupted sorcery, feels like a fever dream conjured by demons with a sense of humor.
The longer he looks, the more bitter his awe becomes. Still, he has a role to play now, a Seed-E student with no talent, no money, and no reputation.
As he reaches the central rotunda of classroom corridor, he slows at a junction. A pair of voices echo from around the corner, two girls, mid-conversation.
One has pointed ears similar to Elea, but tanned skin and black hair, and dark brown fur on her bottom legs. It's a girl from the fisherman elf tribe, basically the underdogs of the fantasy world, known for their distinctive heritage of dirty blood amongst the elves.
But it's the other girl that makes his gaze harden.
Maya Helzenski.
Atniel pauses, leans his back against the wall, and tilts his head just enough to peek without being seen.
The girl walks beside the fisherman elf girl, holding her arms close to her chest, clearly anxious. Her long blond hair spills down her back, her expression carries a quiet softness.
"Lily, should we look for him outside?" Maya's voice is light, hesitant.
The elf girl huffs. "Come on, Maya. Irvine's not as weak as people say. He'll be in class today. I know it."
Maya lowers her head. "But what if he's not? I mean... you saw that video, right? What if he really tried to commit suicide?"
Atniel squints, exhaling slowly through his nose. "You let four bastards crawl on you, and now you act like a faithful bride? Perfect."
His hands twitch at his sides. He watches them turn the corner, their voices fading as they step into a classroom ahead.
It's the classroom he has been looking for. But then, something else catches his attention. Two more figures casually entering the same room.
Mathias Burke, heir to Governor Fracklosk, and that one friend of his from the mountain elf tribe.
Atniel squints. "You've got to be kidding me."
It feels almost comical. The girl Irvine loved, the demons who humiliated him, all are wrapped in a neat little classroom package.
"Well, I'll come back later," he says under his breath, already walking the other direction.
But, as he takes a single step toward escape…
Wham!
He collides with someone rounding the corner from another hallway.
A woman stands before him, shoulder-length brown hair, sharp cheekbones, and a neat suitcase in her hand.
"Donovan," she greets, voice flat and unforgiving. "I assume you were just about to run off and skip my class again."
Atniel blinks. "I'm sorry, you are...?"
"Instructor Virelle Thassik," she says curtly. "And don't play dumb with me. You've ducked my class three times in the last month, twice last week, and that's without yesterday's stunt."
She taps her boot impatiently.
"You're coming in. Now."
Atniel's shoulders sag. "Great."
No point arguing. Like a fully obedient student, he allows himself to be ushered to the classroom door.
Inside the classroom, murmurs fill the space. But the moment he steps inside, they suddenly goes silence. Every head turns, mouths half-open, frozen mid-sentence. What they see is Irvine Donovan, alive, unbruised, clean uniform, composed expression, posture upright.
His gaze sweeps the space with calm disinterest, pausing briefly on Mathias Burke and Myriil Gremenor. And the two boys stiffen in their seats.
"That punk…" Myriil narrows his eyes.
Mathias scoffs. "Guess he didn't have the spine to go through with it after all."
Myriil leans in slightly. "Yeah, but didn't you mess him up pretty bad?"
Mathias's smirk twitches. "I did. Left him a mess…"
He trails off, watching Irvine walk in without a scratch.
"…But that sure as hell isn't what I left behind."