Chapter 215: The Warning

The heavy, humid spring air clung to Zenith Academy like a suffocating shroud.

The morning after the attack, the central dining pavilion was completely stripped of its usual chaotic, aristocratic energy. The massive marble hall was packed with students from all twenty first-year classes, but the noise level was reduced to a paranoid, collective murmur. No one was laughing.

Vane sat at his squad’s usual oak table, his amber eyes tracking the subtle shifts in the room’s hierarchy.

Three tables away, a heated, hushed argument was breaking out. A third-year Imperial noble slammed his fist against the wood.

“It is an absolute insult,” the Imperial student hissed, his voice carrying just enough for Vane’s enhanced senses to pick it up. “An apex student is nearly murdered on academy grounds, and Headmistress Evangeline locks the gates? My father sent word this morning. Three Imperial Inquisitor vessels are anchored just outside the territorial wards, and the administration is denying them entry.”

Across from him, a student wearing the woven silk robes of the Eastern Continent scoffed openly. “The Empire does not own Zenith, Aurelius. If Evangeline let your Emperor’s Inquisitors march onto campus, the Eastern board members would pull our funding and our instructors by nightfall. The academy is neutral ground. It stays neutral.”

“Nyx is from the Independent Kingdoms,” another student whispered fearfully, leaning in closer to the table. “She has no royal backing to protect her. It was a political hit. The Merchant Lords finally sent someone to silence her.”

“It had to be an Expert-rank,” a pale second-year added, her hands shaking around her teacup. “A Rank 6 Expert at the absolute minimum, or maybe a Master. No one else could bypass a Justiciar’s Dreamscape. They said there wasn’t even a scorch mark on the trees. Just pure, terrifying speed.”

Vane slowly chewed his food, his tactical mind cataloging the rumors.

He looked around his own table. His friends were operating in a state of hyper-vigilance. Valerica Sol sat perfectly straight, her dark eyes scanning the room, her localized gravity acting as a heavy, invisible shield around their perimeter. Isole Sylvaris anchored his other side, her mismatched eyes tracking the shadows cast by the vaulted ceiling. Isaac Glacium was silently calculating defensive algorithms on his glass ledger. Ashe tore into a piece of meat with a predatory glare, ready for a fight.

Despite the catastrophic breach in security, the chimes for the morning lectures rang exactly on time. Zenith Academy did not stop for anything.

“They are pretending the terrarium isn’t cracked,” Lyra murmured, pushing her wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Instructor Rowan hasn’t altered the syllabus. We are expected in Sector 4 for kinetic drills in twenty minutes.”

“Go to the drills,” Vane commanded quietly, picking up his leather bag. “I will meet you there.”

Valerica shifted, her dark eyes locking onto him. “Where are you going, Vane?”

“To get a baseline,” Vane replied.

He didn’t wait for permission. He navigated the crowded pavilion, slipping out through the side doors and stepping into the damp, melting slush of the courtyard.

The Arcanum’s medical wing was located in a standalone spire near the western cliffs. When Vane arrived, the political reality of the academy’s internal lockdown was on full display. There were no silver-armored Imperial guards, and no Eastern mercenaries. The heavy double doors were guarded exclusively by Evangeline’s personal Wardens—men and women wearing deep blue cloaks, their faces hidden behind expressionless iron masks.

Vane didn’t try to fight them. He simply pulled out the glowing glass ledger Lyra had slipped into his bag before he left the table. The blue-haired strategist had spliced the administrative clearance codes perfectly.

Vane held the ledger up. The Warden on the left scanned the forged diagnostic request, gave a stiff nod, and stepped aside. Vane had exactly four minutes before the system ran a secondary verification check.

He walked down the sterile, brightly lit corridor of the intensive care ward. The air smelled sharply of sterilized ozone and bitter blood-root.

He found Room 4.

Vane pushed the heavy glass door open and stepped inside. The cold logic in his brain instantly gave way to a heavy, sickening weight in his stomach.

Nyx looked incredibly small.

The undisputed apex of the second years, the Low Justiciar who treated reality like a blank canvas, was lying in the center of a massive, runic healing array. Her lavender hair was spread across the white pillows, lacking its usual ethereal, floating quality.

The physical damage was brutal. The left side of her porcelain face was entirely covered in dense, glowing restorative bandages, holding her shattered jaw in place. Her breathing was shallow, sustained entirely by the ambient mana of the life-support crystals hovering above her bed.

Vane walked to the edge of the array. He looked down at the girl who had kissed him just yesterday, who had carelessly handed him a Grade SS skill simply because she was bored.

He did not use Target Analysis. He didn’t need a system to measure the pure, unadulterated violence it took to do this. The medical report had been accurate. There were no residual burns, no frostbite, no necrotic decay. Someone had walked into her Dreamscape and broken her with raw, kinetic force.

“I will find them,” Vane whispered, his voice a harsh, raspy promise in the quiet room. “I swear it on the slums. I will find whoever did this, and I will dismantle them.”

“She said you would say something ridiculously dramatic.”

Vane spun around, his right hand instinctively reaching for the star-steel dagger strapped to his thigh.

A girl was leaning against the inside of the doorframe. Vane hadn’t heard her enter. She wore the dark uniform of a second-year student. Her posture was relaxed, but her mana was tightly coiled. Vane recognized her vaguely from the upper-class rankings—Elara, the Rank 7 student of the second year, resident of Villa 7.

“Relax, Vane,” Elara said, her voice dry and completely exhausted. “I am not the assassin. Nyx is my friend. Or at least, the closest thing that lunatic has to one.”

Vane did not let go of his dagger. “How did you get past the Wardens?”

“I live in the top ten villas. I have clearance,” Elara sighed, stepping fully into the room. “Nyx stopped by my estate yesterday afternoon. She was acting entirely too smug about something, but her instincts were flared. She said the wind smelled wrong. The board was shifting.”

Elara reached into her uniform pocket and pulled out a small piece of folded parchment. It was sealed with a heavy dollop of deep violet wax, stamped with a crescent moon.

“She has the survival instincts of a feral cat,” Elara continued. “She told me to hold onto this. Said that if someone actually managed to ruin her mood, I was to deliver it to the slum rat.”

She tossed it to him. Vane caught it out of the air.

“It’s blood-bound,” Elara said, turning back toward the door. “I don’t know what it says, and I don’t care. I am going back to my villa to ward my doors until this academy figures out what kind of monster they let through the gates.”

She slipped out of the room, the heavy glass door sealing shut behind her.

Vane looked down at the parchment. He could feel the faint, residual hum of the Dreamscape locked inside the wax. He didn’t hesitate. He drew the star-steel dagger from his thigh, pressed the razor-sharp edge against his left thumb, and drew a single drop of blood.

He smeared the blood across the violet wax.

The seal hissed, glowing with a bright, blinding pink light for a fraction of a second before melting away completely. Vane unfolded the heavy parchment.

The handwriting was elegant, looping, and rushed.

My Little Rat,

If you are reading this, it means my gut was right, and my mood was thoroughly ruined. Knowing your insufferable survival paranoia, you are likely standing over my bed right now, swearing some grim, heroic oath of vengeance.

Stop.

Do not look for the thing that did this to me. Do not use your diagnostic eyes on it. Do not try to be a player on a board you cannot comprehend yet. Your fangs are too dull, and your vessel is entirely too fragile. If you step into this, it will break you exactly like it broke me, and you do not have the luxury of a Justiciar’s core to keep your heart beating.

Stay in your lane, Vane. Keep your head down, survive the evaluations, and let the pampered nobles play their games. I will deal with my own nightmares when I wake up.

— Nyx

Vane stared at the letter. The cold, sterile air of the intensive care ward seemed to drop by ten degrees.

She knew. She knew exactly who had attacked her, and she was explicitly ordering him to back down. The sheer arrogance of the letter was perfectly Nyx, but the underlying warning was absolute. A Rank 5 Justiciar was telling him that he was fundamentally incapable of surviving an encounter with this predator.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep