The air inside the chamber was suffocating. A thick, unnatural pressure hung in the atmosphere, unseen but felt in the marrow of Seikan’s bones. It was the weight of something old, something powerful—something wrong. Across from him, Salsiar stood unnervingly still, his golden, predator-like eyes fixed on Seikan with an amusement that barely concealed his malice.

  Seikan didn’t speak. There was no need for words. He had already analyzed the situation, the room, the exits, the obstacles. Every detail had been calculated, every variable accounted for. He knew that brute force was useless against a creature like this. Salsiar was not human, not truly. He was a being that existed outside of wizarding logic, beyond the reach of simple spells.

  But Seikan had never been a simple wizard.

  The first attack was immediate, a bolt of sickly green light slicing through the air like a dagger. Avada Kedavra. A spell designed to be unavoidable, unblockable—but only if the victim allowed it to be.

  Seikan didn’t move. He didn’t dodge. Instead, his wand flicked upward. Protego! The defensive charm was not enough to stop a Killing Curse on its own, but Seikan had no intention of blocking it directly. His free hand twitched, and with an unseen force, a heavy wooden chair from the side of the room was yanked in front of him. The curse struck the chair instead, and with a hollow thunk, the wood darkened and collapsed into lifeless ash.

  Salsiar narrowed his eyes. “Clever.”

  Seikan ignored him. Words were a distraction. Instead, he moved.

  A flick of his wand sent a barrage of runes flying, glowing sigils of ancient power searing through the air. Salsiar responded with a lazy wave of his own hand, black tendrils of energy coiling outwards to intercept the magic. The moment of impact sent a shockwave through the chamber, the force rattling the desks and chairs around them.

  Seikan was already repositioning. His movements were methodical, precise. He knew that wizards fought with their wands. But true magic—his magic—was not confined to a single tool. He understood spells. He understood their function, their behavior, their weaknesses.

  Another flick of his wrist, and the desks between them lifted, hovering in the air for less than a second before hurling forward like projectiles. Salsiar batted them aside effortlessly, but Seikan had already predicted that. It was a feint.

  With a whispered incantation, the shattered remains of the desks erupted into Runes of Binding, dark chains of energy lashing out from the debris. They wrapped around Salsiar’s limbs, crackling with arcane energy designed to suppress movement and drain magic.

  For the first time, Salsiar’s expression changed.

  But it was not fear.

  It was delight.

  “Ah,” the demon mused, testing the bindings as if they were nothing more than silk threads. “So you do have something beneath that frigid exterior.”

  Seikan’s grip on his wand tightened. His mind was still sharp, still cold, but his pulse was hammering in his ears. It was not fear. It was rage.

  Sevrin had told him everything. This was the creature that had ordered his son’s death.

  His son.

  Seikan did not speak of love. He did not show it. He did not know how. But he felt it—deep, buried beneath the ice of his exterior, beneath the layers of control and calculation. It was there, smoldering like embers beneath ash.

  And now, for the first time in years, the embers flared into something more.

  Seikan did not hesitate.

  A rune burned into the air before him, an intricate sigil drawn in a single, fluid motion. The temperature in the room dropped instantly. The torches lining the walls flickered and dimmed, the shadows stretching unnaturally.

  Rune of Decay.

  The moment the magic activated, the chains constricting Salsiar pulsed with a sickly glow. They began to rot away at the demon’s form, leeching the very essence from his being.

  Salsiar let out a slow exhale.

  Then he grinned.

  The air exploded.

  A pulse of raw, malevolent energy surged outward, obliterating the binding runes in an instant. Seikan barely had time to react, throwing up another desk as a makeshift shield before the force sent him skidding backward. His boots scraped against the stone floor as he came to a stop, eyes locked on his opponent.

  Salsiar’s form was changing.

  The illusion of humanity cracked like shattered glass. His features stretched, warped—his flesh shifting into something darker, something monstrous. His eyes burned like molten gold, his grin splitting wider, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth.

  “You have potential,” Salsiar mused, voice reverberating with unnatural resonance. “But you hesitate. That is why you will lose.”

  Seikan remained silent. He was already moving, already planning. There was no hesitation in his mind—only the next move, the next calculation.

  He would not lose.

  Not to this.

  Not to him.

  The fight did not pause.

  Salsiar lunged.

  Seikan moved.

  A blast of blackened energy cut through the air where Seikan had stood only a moment before, the force shattering the stone floor in a violent eruption of dust and debris. But Seikan was already several steps ahead, his mind operating at a speed beyond conscious thought. He had spent his entire life studying spellcraft—not just in theory, but in its behavior, in the way magic moved. He knew how spells flowed, how they interacted. And most importantly—how to weaponize them.

  Salsiar’s next attack came without warning, a streak of molten gold arcing toward him with a sickening, twisting motion. It didn’t move like a normal curse; it slithered, hunting for a target like a living thing.

  Seikan flicked his wand—Protego!—but instead of blocking, he angled the barrier downward at the last second, redirecting the spell into the ground. The instant the energy struck the stone, Seikan moved again, wand flashing through the air as he pulled a desk into his hands.

  Salsiar sneered. “Another shield? You’re running out of tricks, professor.”

  Seikan didn’t answer.

  Because the desk wasn’t a shield.

  With a single, calculated motion, he hurled it forward.

  Salsiar reacted as expected, raising an arm to blast it apart with magic—just like Seikan wanted.

  A split-second before impact, Seikan flicked his wand downward. Depulso!

  The desk dropped midair, evading Salsiar’s counterattack entirely, and before the demon could react—

  It slammed into his legs, knocking him off balance.

  Seikan didn’t waste the opening. Bombarda!

  The force of the explosion sent Salsiar skidding backward, his form twisting unnaturally as the sheer impact of the attack rattled the chamber. For a brief, fleeting moment, Seikan thought he had managed to stagger him—

  But then he saw it.

  The grin.

  Salsiar straightened, rolling his shoulders as the unnatural golden glow in his eyes flickered with something sinister. “You fight well,” he admitted, amusement curling through his voice. “Most wizards waste their spells. But you—you understand magic in a way that few ever do.”

  Seikan did not react to the praise.

  Because it was not praise.

  It was bait.

  And Seikan did not take bait.

  But then—

  Salsiar’s expression shifted.

  The air grew heavier.

  And the next words that left his lips carried a weight that sent something cold running through Seikan’s veins.

  “You don’t have to die here, you know.”

  Seikan’s grip on his wand tightened.

  “I’ll make you an offer,” Salsiar continued, tone almost casual. “Hand over the Vareen boy, and I will allow you to leave this place alive.”

  A slow silence stretched between them.

  Seikan did not speak. Did not move.

  He simply stared.

  And then—something changed.

  The quiet fury that had burned beneath the surface, the rage he had suppressed for so long—

  It cracked.

  Salsiar’s grin widened, as if sensing it. “I know you care about your students,” he murmured. “And I know you are… fond of them. But is it worth your life?”

  Seikan’s knuckles were white.

  Sage was dead.

  Because of him.

  Because of this thing.

  And now—

  Now he was standing here, daring to suggest that Seikan hand over another student?

  Soya.

  A child.

  A Muggle-born child.

  A boy who had nothing, no magical family, no legacy, and yet still fought—who learned magic faster than anyone had any right to. Who carried a power none of them understood.

  And Salsiar wanted him.

  Seikan inhaled slowly.

  And then, finally—

  He spoke.

  “You truly do not understand me.”

  The room shifted.

  Salsiar tilted his head, intrigued.

  Seikan took a single step forward.

  “I do not make deals with things like you.”

  The temperature in the chamber dropped.

  For the first time, something in Seikan’s presence felt dangerous.

  “You believe yourself above men. You believe yourself beyond wizards.”

  Another step.

  Salsiar’s grin didn’t falter, but he did not move either.

  Seikan lifted his wand, but this time, he did not raise it to cast.

  He simply pointed it at Salsiar’s chest.

  “I am not a man.”

  Salsiar’s eyes narrowed.

  “I am not a wizard.”

  The walls creaked. The torches dimmed.

  “I am something far worse.”

  Salsiar finally frowned.

  Seikan exhaled—slow, measured.

  “I am a father,” he whispered. “And you killed my son.”

  And then—

  The room exploded into fire.

  Soya stood outside the classroom, frozen.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The sounds coming from within were unlike anything he had ever heard. Spells colliding, stone shattering, the deep, unnatural hum of something wrong twisting the very air around them. It wasn’t like a duel between students. It wasn’t even like a duel between wizards.

  This was something else entirely.

  Sevrin was still nearby, standing a short distance from the door, arms crossed, his face unreadable. Lykaios was perfectly still, staring at the closed door, listening. The only indication that she was affected at all was the faint twitch of her fingers against her wand, as if debating whether or not to go back inside.

  But none of them moved.

  Because none of them could interfere.

  A new impact shook the walls, and Soya flinched.

  Then—

  Footsteps.

  Casual, leisurely, unbothered footsteps approaching from down the hall.

  Soya turned his head in time to see none other than Boromus Spellchecker—Headmaster of Austramore, eccentric and impossible to predict, a man who often seemed lost in his own world—strolling toward them as if this were any other normal morning.

  The Headmaster’s long robes trailed behind him, mismatched patches sewn in by hand, his wild silver hair as unkempt as ever. He hummed softly to himself, seemingly oblivious to the violent battle happening behind the door in front of him.

  He came to a stop just outside the classroom, staring at the closed door.

  Then, with the mild curiosity of a man checking if a shop was still open, he reached out and gave the handle a light wiggle.

  It did not move.

  Boromus let out a soft sigh, shaking his head. “Ah, doors,” he mused to himself. “Always locking me out of my own school. Rude.”

  Soya blinked.

  Was he—was he serious?

  Another violent crash came from within, followed by the unmistakable sound of a spell igniting something. The temperature in the hall wavered, as if the very magic in the air was recoiling from the sheer force being used inside.

  Boromus barely seemed to notice.

  Instead, he pulled out his wand—an ancient, deeply grooved thing, thicker than most wands, its surface worn down by years of use. Without pausing, without hesitating, without even looking concerned, he flicked it toward the door.

  “Depulso.”

  The door exploded off its hinges.

  Not in a dramatic, fiery blast. Not in a way that sent shrapnel flying.

  No—just one, clean, casual BOOM—and the heavy wooden door shot inward like a battering ram, crossing the room at full speed—

  —And slamming directly into Salsiar’s face.

  The demon staggered, his form shifting and distorting from the sheer impact. A noise somewhere between a grunt and an animalistic snarl escaped his lips, and the moment of shock was enough for Seikan to step forward, wand raised, already preparing his next move.

  But before he could strike—

  Boromus strolled inside.

  Soya could only watch in stunned silence as the Headmaster walked past him, past Lykaios, stepping over the remains of the now very open doorway. His expression was entirely neutral, as if he had not just casually assaulted a powerful demon with a door.

  He took in the scene with mild interest, then turned his gaze to Seikan.

  “Ah, there you are,” Boromus said, his tone light. “I felt immense, lethal magic being used and feared some of my students were making a bit of a mess of things.” He tilted his head, glancing between the debris and the smoldering scorch marks on the walls. “But I see it’s just you, Seikan. Playing with a friend.”

  Seikan did not react.

  Salsiar, now standing, shaking off the impact, looked—annoyed.

  He let out a sharp exhale, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off his frustration. “Who in the hell are you supposed to be?”

  Boromus blinked.

  For a moment, he seemed genuinely surprised by the question.

  Then, with a pleasant smile, he gestured to himself.

  “Oh, I suppose you wouldn’t know me,” he said cheerfully. “Boromus Spellchecker. Headmaster of this fine establishment.”

  The instant the words left his mouth—

  Salsiar froze.

  His eyes widened—truly widened—for the first time since the fight began.

  Boromus tilted his head, watching. “Ah. That name means something to you, doesn’t it?”

  The moment stretched.

  And then—

  Salsiar moved.

  Not to attack. Not to fight.

  But to run.

  Without hesitation, without a single word, his body morphed, shifting into a swirling, black mist. The movement was violent, unnatural, as if the very fabric of the room rejected his presence.

  And then, with an earsplitting howl, the mist erupted outward—

  —And shot through the shattered window, disappearing out of sight.

  A heavy silence followed.

  Soya barely dared to breathe.

  Then—

  Boromus sighed, tucking his wand back into his robes.

  “Well, that was dramatic,” he murmured, glancing toward the ruined window. “Couldn’t even stay for tea.”

  Seikan, still standing in the center of the destruction, let out a slow breath, lowering his wand.

  Boromus smiled pleasantly.

  “So,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Would you like to explain what in Merlin’s name just happened, or shall I assume you already know I’m going to find out either way?”

  The air in the ruined classroom was still thick with residual magic. Faint embers flickered where spells had scorched the stone, and the heavy scent of charred wood lingered from the destruction. Seikan stood amid the wreckage, his wand lowered, his breathing measured.

  Boromus, unbothered by the chaos around him, turned to face him fully, hands tucked comfortably into the loose folds of his patched robes. His expression was pleasant, but his sharp, knowing gaze missed nothing.

  “Well then,” the Headmaster mused, stepping carefully over a pile of splintered desks. “That was quite the show, Seikan. I’d ask if you’re all right, but something tells me you wouldn’t answer honestly even if you weren’t.”

  Seikan exhaled slowly. “I’m fine.”

  “Ah, of course,” Boromus said lightly. “And I suppose now would be a good time for you to tell me why there was an ancient demon throwing spells at you inside my school?”

  Seikan remained silent for a moment, his mind sorting through everything that had happened in the past hour. Then, finally, he spoke.

  “I don’t know much,” he admitted, his voice level. “Sevrin brought me this information only recently.”

  Boromus’s gaze flickered toward the boy still standing just outside the threshold of the ruined door. “Did he now?”

  Sevrin, for once, looked less composed than usual. His arms remained crossed over his chest, but there was a stiffness in his shoulders that hadn't been there before. He was watching everything carefully, calculating, but there was no defiance in his expression—only quiet observation.

  Seikan continued. “From what I was told, Salsiar has been here for some time. Hidden. He arrived during the attack months ago and has remained ever since. He’s been possessing Professor Marilla, using her to move undetected.”

  Boromus nodded absently, pacing a slow circle around the wreckage, humming as if considering something mundane. “Mm. That would explain the rather unusual inconsistencies in her behavior this term. Not to mention why I kept getting the distinct feeling I was being watched whenever she was in the same room.”

  He paused, tapping his chin. “How terribly impolite of him.”

  Seikan did not react to the humor. “He’s been interested in Soya.”

  Boromus’s expression did not change, but something in the air around him shifted—a subtle, almost imperceptible disturbance, like the first ripple on the surface of a still lake.

  “I see,” he murmured. “And what, exactly, does he want with the boy?”

  Seikan shook his head. “That, I don’t know. But he made it clear that Soya is important. He was willing to offer me my life in exchange for handing him over.”

  Boromus let out a low whistle. “Generous.”

  “I declined.”

  Boromus chuckled. “Of course you did.”

  A pause.

  Then, his gaze slid back toward Sevrin. “And you, young Verelle?”

  Sevrin’s green eyes flickered, but he did not look away. “What about me?”

  “You seem to have had quite a bit of information before anyone else did,” Boromus said casually. “And yet, from what I gather, you were working under Salsiar until very recently.”

  Sevrin’s lips pressed together in a thin line. He was silent for a long moment, his mind turning behind his cold expression. Then, with his usual measured tone, he finally answered.

  “I did,” he said simply.

  Boromus raised an eyebrow. “And why, pray tell, did you stop?”

  Sevrin’s expression did not change, but something in his posture shifted. “Because I realized I had no future under him.”

  Boromus tilted his head. “Is that all?”

  Sevrin hesitated.

  Then, his eyes flickered toward Seikan before settling back on the Headmaster.

  “He ordered me to kill Sage,” he said flatly. “So I did.”

  Boromus was quiet.

  Then, after a moment, he smiled.

  Not cruelly. Not mockingly.

  Just softly.

  And then—he laughed.

  Sevrin’s expression darkened. “What’s so funny?”

  Boromus shook his head, looking mildly amused as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Oh, my dear boy,” he said, voice warm with the kind of humor reserved for the deeply ironic. “You did a poor job of it.”

  Sevrin stiffened.

  “What?”

  Boromus sighed, shaking his head as if he found the whole thing mildly inconvenient. “Sage Blackthorn was found not long ago. And, much to my personal relief, he is very much alive.”

  Sevrin did not move.

  He did not react.

  But Soya could see it—the way his fingers curled just slightly at his sides, the way his normally razor-sharp expression faltered for just a fraction of a second.

  Boromus smiled pleasantly.

  “He’s currently in the Medical Wing,” the Headmaster continued, “no doubt being a rather miserable patient. But yes—alive. Which means, dear Sevrin, that you failed.”

  A silence stretched through the corridor.

  Sevrin remained still.

  And then, with a slow, exhale—

  “…I see.”

  Boromus clapped his hands together. “Marvelous! Now that that’s settled—Seikan, do make sure your sons stay alive, will you? It’s such a dreadful bother keeping track of them when they start vanishing like this.”

  Seikan sighed. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Good man.”

  And with that, Boromus turned on his heel, his mismatched robes sweeping behind him as he began strolling down the hall as if he had not just single-handedly forced an ancient demon into retreat with little more than his presence.

  Soya, still trying to process everything that had just happened, turned toward Sevrin.

  He had expected some kind of reaction.

  Anger. Frustration. A sharp, biting comment.

  But Sevrin only stared at the floor, his expression unreadable.

  Soya wasn’t sure, but for just a moment—

  He thought he saw the faintest flicker of something uncertain in his eyes.

  And then, as quickly as it came, it was gone.

  The chaos had settled.

  With Salsiar gone and Boromus wandering off in his usual eccentric fashion, the aftermath of the battle left a strange silence in its wake. Seikan stood in the ruined classroom, his sharp green eyes scanning the unconscious form of Professor Marilla, who lay motionless on the cold stone floor.

  Soya had barely had a moment to process everything that had happened before Seikan turned toward him.

  “Vareen,” Seikan said evenly.

  Soya tensed, instinctively wary. He hadn’t done anything wrong—at least, not recently—but there was something about Seikan that always made people feel like they should be guilty of something.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Seikan glanced down at Marilla’s body. “Help me carry her to the Medical Wing.”

  Soya blinked.

  “…You could do that yourself.”

  Seikan gave him a dry look. “I am aware.”

  Then why—

  Oh.

  Soya exhaled through his nose. He wants to talk to me alone.

  He didn’t argue. Without another word, he knelt beside the unconscious professor, taking hold of her legs while Seikan slid his hands under her arms, taking most of the weight. Together, they lifted her with little difficulty, though Seikan found himself doing most of the balance work.

  The hallway was quiet as they walked.

  Soya waited.

  Seikan wasn’t the kind of man to waste time with small talk. If he had something to say, he would say it. And sure enough—after a long moment of silence, he spoke.

  “Salsiar was after you.”

  Soya swallowed but didn’t stop walking. “…I noticed.”

  “Do you know why?”

  Soya frowned. “No.”

  Seikan’s gaze flickered toward him, unreadable.

  “No ideas at all?”

  Soya hesitated.

  For a long time, he had kept it to himself. The way his drawings moved sometimes, how the ink swirled in ways that shouldn’t have been possible. The runes that appeared on his parchment—runes he had never learned but could write as if he had known them his whole life.

  He had ignored it.

  Because it didn’t make sense.

  Because if he ignored it, maybe it would just go away.

  But now—

  Now Salsiar wanted him.

  Now Seikan was asking.

  And Seikan wasn’t like the others. He knew things. If there was anyone who might have an answer—

  It was him.

  Soya took a breath.

  “There’s… something,” he admitted carefully. “But I don’t know what it is.”

  Seikan’s expression didn’t change. “Explain.”

  Soya adjusted his grip on Marilla, his mind scrambling to find the words. “…Sometimes, when I draw, the ink moves. Not like smudging or anything. It—shifts.” He swallowed. “And sometimes, I’ll draw runes I don’t remember learning. But they’re real. They’re actual runes, and I don’t know how I know them.”

  Seikan’s steps slowed slightly.

  Soya didn’t stop. He exhaled and pushed forward. “And in duels—things just make sense.” He struggled to explain it. “Like, I don’t have to think about it. I know where to step before I need to step there. I move before I should know how. I learn spells quickly, like I already know how to do them before I’m even taught.”

  Seikan said nothing.

  Soya let out a frustrated breath. “I thought it was just—I don’t know. Instinct? Maybe I was just good at it. But now…”

  “Now you’re not so sure.”

  Soya nodded.

  A long silence followed.

  Seikan’s mind was working. Soya could see it—the way his expression didn’t change, but his grip on Marilla shifted slightly, his fingers tightening as he processed what had just been said.

  Then, finally—

  “You’re not the only one who’s noticed.”

  Soya glanced up. “What?”

  Seikan didn’t look at him, his gaze fixed ahead as they walked. “The other professors have noticed something strange about you as well.”

  Soya blinked. “They have?”

  Seikan nodded. “You pick up spellwork faster than students should—faster than most professors have ever seen. You move in duels with precision that cannot be natural for someone with no prior training. And now…” He glanced at Soya. “Ink magic.”

  Soya frowned. “Ink magic?”

  “It’s unheard of,” Seikan admitted. “But not impossible.”

  Soya’s stomach twisted. “…And that’s what Salsiar wanted?”

  Seikan’s gaze darkened slightly. “It would explain why he’s taken such a specific interest in you.”

  Soya was silent.

  His heart pounded in his chest.

  He had always known something was off about himself. The way he understood magic before he was supposed to. The way spells fit in his mind before he had even learned them. The way his drawings—his art—felt like something more than just ink on parchment.

  But he had never said anything.

  Never questioned it.

  And now, for the first time—

  He had to.

  Soya exhaled through his nose, pushing down the sudden weight in his chest. “So what do I do?”

  Seikan was quiet for a long moment.

  Then—

  “You learn,” he said simply. “You study. And you find out what you are before Salsiar does.”

  Soya’s grip on Marilla tightened.

  Right.

  That was the only option.

  Because if Salsiar wanted something from him—

  Then Soya would make damn sure he never got it.