The Aurelian Academy was a sanctuary of blinding perfection. Here, the "poverty of the soul" that Liana spoke of was a myth. Erin stood at the center of the Great Arena, his silver-filigreed practice blade glowing with a divine, golden hue. With a single, fluid strike, he disarmed two senior knights, the holy mana from the High Priests of Elandor humming through his veins.
"Magnificent, Erin!" the Headmaster beamed from the balcony. "The Goddess truly smiles upon you."
Erin offered a humble bow, the perfect image of a top student. But as he wiped the sweat from his brow, his fingers brushed his neck, and for a second, he felt a phantom chill—the sensation of wet ash and the smell of charred meat.
That night, the silk sheets of his dormitory felt like sandpaper.
Erin plunged into a nightmare he had lived a hundred times. He was back in the ruins of Nopheria. He saw the grey, bloodied hand reaching out from the debris. He felt his own golden radiance pouring into the survivor's shattered chest.
"By the grace of Syrial, you will be healed," his dream-self whispered.
But in the dream, the Goddess Syrial didn't just stay silent. She appeared above the pit, her face twisted in that same look of disgust Erin had sensed but never dared to admit. He watched as the boy in the pit—the one with the "heavy soul"—was struck down by celestial light. Erin reached out to stop the spears, but his hands were made of glass. They shattered. He watched the boy die again, eyes rolling back, dull and lifeless.
Erin bolted upright, gasping for air. His room was silent, scented with lavender, but his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"It was just a shallow grave," he whispered, trying to convince himself. "I gave him a prayer. I did what I could."
The next morning, the Academy was abuzz with a grim report. A squad of teachers and top students was being sent to investigate a "slaughter" in the woods near the northern wastes. Captain Varos, looking as stern as ever, tapped his map. "Bandits were wiped out. Not by soldiers. By something... unnatural."
Erin joined the expedition, flanked by Liana and a few younger students. As they entered the woods, the temperature plummeted. The lush green gave way to the sickly grey-brown Erin remembered from Nopheria.
"Ugh, this place is wretched," Liana complained, holding a scented handkerchief to her nose. "The Goddess really has forgotten this forest."
They reached the clearing, and the chatter died instantly.
One of the younger girls, a freshman named Sophie, let out a strangled sob and turned away, retching. The "bandits" were scattered across the frost-covered ground. They hadn't been killed by blades; it looked like the very shadows of the trees had risen up to tear them apart. One man was frozen solid, his skin a bruised, necrotic purple, his face twisted in a silent scream of absolute despair.
"This is impossible," Varos muttered, his hand trembling on his sword hilt. "There's no mana signature here. Just... cold."
Erin walked toward the center of the carnage. He felt a vibration in his silver blade—the holy filigree was reacting, turning a dull, agitated grey. He looked toward the deep thicket, where the mist was thickest.
A tall, jagged shadow stood there. It didn't have the "summer sky" silks of the Academy. It wore the tattered rags of a grave.
For a heartbeat, the figure turned its head. Erin saw a flicker of red—a predatory, glowing crimson that cut through the fog like a wound. It was the boy from the pit. But the "heavy soul" was no longer dying. It was overflowing.
"Arkin?" Erin's voice was a pathetic whimper.
The shadow didn't move. It just stared, a cold, hollow gaze that made Erin feel like his own "blessing" was a filthy lie. Then, with a flicker of black smoke, the figure vanished into the trees.
Panic, cold and sharp, seized Erin. On the march back, he broke formation, sprinting toward the outskirts of the Nopheria ruins. He found the mound of ash and dirt where he had buried the survivor.
The shallow grave was wide open. The earth had been clawed outward. The prayer he had whispered over the body felt like a joke—a curse that had failed to take.
Arkin wasn't in the ground. He was in the woods. And he was coming for the light.