Chapter 512: 512

The others, hearing only his words and not the meaning behind them, nodded.

They turned away, some murmuring their agreement, admiring the scale and clarity of the portal. To them, it was beautiful. A marvel of magical engineering.

None of them saw what Rattan saw.

None of them felt what he felt.

And no one noticed the way his smile faltered the moment their backs were turned.

And just like that, the wait was over.

It was time to return to the academy.

The students moved with excitement and chatter, but Rattan felt none of it. Ever since witnessing the horrors through the portal, he had been adrift—quiet, hollow, moving through the days like a ghost wrapped in flesh. He barely remembered packing, barely registered the moments between then and now.

Now, as he stood on the magical platform that carried them upward—rising steadily toward the open space above—his gaze drifted downward.

And what he saw made his breath catch.

Below them, lined up like cattle, were his people—ratmen in ragged clothes and rusted armor. Some held weapons far too large for their shaking hands. Others simply stared forward, eyes vacant. Children stood among them, clutching onto trembling parents or clinging to scraps of cloth like they were talismans against death.

All of them were being readied.

Ready to be sent into the portal.

Ready to die.

Rattan’s heart seized in his chest.

Had fate not twisted the course of his life… had the guardian not intervened… he would be standing down there now. Among them. Marching toward that hell.

And then his eyes landed on the construct—the vast, intricate portal that had taken a week to assemble.

The one he helped build.

His hands clenched into fists, knuckles pale, shaking. He didn’t notice when his nails bit into his skin, didn’t flinch as blood trickled from between his fingers. He only felt the crushing weight of guilt sinking deeper into his chest.

He had helped build the machine that would devour his own people.

He had drawn the runes. Aligned the channels. Channeled the mana.

He had made it easier for them to die.

The platform rose higher, carrying him farther away from the blood-soaked truth below—but the weight of it only grew heavier, anchoring itself deep in his soul. The higher he climbed, the more it hurt.

Rattan did not look away. He couldn’t.

His silence was not from pride, or strength, or detachment.

It was grief and shame.

And the slow-burning fury of someone beginning to realize that maybe, just maybe… his new position didn’t free him.

It chained him.

While Rattan writhed in silent torment, tears streaming down his face as he watched the brutal massacre of his people, another conversation took place deep within the unseen corridors of his mind.

A space that did not feel like flesh or spirit—just a quiet void suspended between worlds.

Phanthom stood within it, untouched by the horror Rattan was witnessing, his essence radiating stillness like the eye of a storm. A flicker of divine presence shimmered nearby—Ikenga, the being who had created him, observing without judgment.

The silence between them broke as Ikenga’s voice echoed softly, like distant thunder:

“Was that necessary?”

Phanthom, still watching through Rattan’s eyes as the second demon played with the mutilated child like a toy, did not turn.

“Are you questioning the right or wrongs of my actions, milord?” he asked, a subtle amusement threading his voice.

There was a pause before Ikenga answered.

“Right and wrong mean nothing to me. I am only curious…

Why did you do it?”

Phanthom’s gaze narrowed as he watched Rattan’s fist clench hard enough to bleed.

“You taught me that emotion sharpens ambition. That pain tempers resolve. He has fire—but it’s unfocused. He still clings to the illusion of safety. I only peeled his eyelids open.”

Ikenga’s tone remained unshaken.

“Weren’t you meant to fan the flames of ambition… not drown him in despair?”

Phanthom chuckled, low and hollow.

“A fire must burn its roots to grow. You say fan—I say purge.”

There was no reply for a long moment. Just the sound of battle echoing through the portal, and Rattan’s soft, broken sobs.

Then, softly, Ikenga spoke again.

“Very well. But be sure he does not turn the fire on you.”

Phanthom said nothing. But a faint, wry smile formed across his unseen face.

Fast forward to the present…

In the upper levels of a towering mage spire that pierced the clouds like a spear of knowledge and ambition, a quiet stillness permeated the alchemical chambers. Flickering blue fire from suspended sconces cast soft light across rows of glass vials, brass instruments, and ancient tomes bound in strange leathers. The air smelled of ozone, dried herbs, and faint traces of brimstone.

A young goblin stood at the center of it all, dwarfed by the sheer size of the chamber but commanding its attention nonetheless. His green skin was flecked with specks of dried powder and faint scorch marks from prior mishaps. Despite the mess that surrounded him, there was precision in his movement—a deliberate care that revealed both discipline and obsession.

His name was Nixbolt (Rattan), though few used it now. Not out of disrespect, but because few dared to speak too casually around the prodigy cloaked in mystery.

Before him, a thin copper coil hovered above a distillation basin, steam rising in rhythmic puffs as he adjusted the flow of heat beneath it. His amber eyes reflected the bubbling liquid, narrowed in intense concentration. Every drop that fell into the receiving vial was timed, every shift in temperature anticipated.

He barely blinked.

There was no room for error. Not here. Not now.

On the edge of the table, a slender staff pulsed faintly with light—his connection to his “guardian,” Phanthom, dormant but always present. The staff occasionally shimmered, as if aware of the silent storm that brewed inside him.

A knock came at the chamber door, light and hesitant.

“Nixbolt? The Tower’s Council requested your presence. Something… about the warfront again.” The voice belonged to a peer, though the deference in their tone spoke volumes about how others viewed him now.

Rattan didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t even look up.

Instead, he carefully turned off the heat under the basin, watching the last drop of golden liquid fall into the flask. Only then did he speak—his voice calm, but cold.

“Tell them I’ll come. After this is done with”

The assistant lingered a moment longer before quietly retreating.

Alone again, Rattan finally leaned back, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The room returned to silence, but his mind did not.

Though years had passed since that day by the portal, the memory of the demon and the child lingered like an imprint behind his eyes. No amount of knowledge, no height of magical prestige, no new title the empire offered could burn it away.

His people were still dying.

And he was still pretending to be someone who no longer cared.

The vial glowed faintly in his hand. Opening it, he swung his head back as he drakn the portion with it’s effect showing immediately as things around him levitating, he opened his eyes as he let out a breath.

“The peak of mage apperntice” He thought to himself, the council couldn’t not have chosen a better time to call for a meeting.

“One day soon,” he whispered to the empty room, “you’ll all see what it means to truly fear the ones you tried to erase.”

The door to the alchemical lab clicked shut behind him.

Rattan walked through the winding halls of the mage tower, his staff now firmly in his grasp. He moved like a phantom himself—his steps measured, soundless. Students parted for him. Teachers gave a nod, but their eyes lingered a moment too long, not out of admiration—but calculations.

As he ascended the marble stairs to the topmost floor, the runes etched into the walls pulsed with a gentle hum, resonating with his presence. The council chamber was ahead.

Two heavy doors creaked open of their own accord as he approached.

Inside, a circle of robed figures awaited him—each seated on a floating obsidian platform arranged like spokes around a central dais. The room itself was bathed in pale light from a chandelier of suspended mana crystals that drifted like stars overhead. Magic buzzed faintly in the air, layered, complex, ancient.

At the center stood an old goblin with a snow-white beard, his eyes sharp behind thin lenses—Archmage Kroza, the current head of the academy.

“Apprentice Nixbolt,” Kroza said, voice smooth yet heavy, like velvet stretched over iron. “You’ve proven to be quite the interesting goblin. No exceptional talent early on, but something changed after your return from the expedition to the Underdelve.”

Rattan stood at attention, his expression neutral, hands behind his back. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. Kroza wasn’t done.

“Spiritual awakenings aren’t uncommon among mages. A moment of clarity, a brush with the unknown, a sharpening of one’s path… happens more often than you might think. What gives us pause, however, is the direction of your clarity.”

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