The Academy bell tolled once. The cursed vibration crawled through the cracked stone walls of The Lost Ones' ruin like the breath of something ancient stirring awake.
Eryndor's eyes snapped open.
He rose from his makeshift bed, fingers flexing once before reaching for his cloak. His crimson gaze scanned the darkness. The others were still sleeping—or trying to—scattered across the ruined hall in exhausted heaps.
The front gate creaked. Eryndor's voice came cold and sharp.
"Up."
The Mana-Cursed Girl jolted awake, unstable mana flickering wildly around her fingers. The Unborn shifted silently in the shadows, chains dragging faintly as he rose to his feet.
The doors exploded inward. Figures stepped through. Tall. Humanoid. Faceless masks of cracked porcelain fused to flesh, runes seared into twisted limbs. They wore the black, seamless cloaks of the System's enforcers. Correctors. They moved in perfect silence. The lead Corrector raised a hand.
[Suppression Event Initiated.]
[Target: Eryndor Vaelith. Secondary Targets: Faction "The Lost Ones."]
[Objective: Terminate.]
Eryndor stepped forward, cloak billowing faintly in the stale air.
"So they finally sent the hounds."
The first Corrector lunged.
The room detonated into chaos.
The Lost Ones scrambled under the silent onslaught.
A student screamed as a blade of void metal tore clean through his summoned barrier. Another was dragged into the darkness before he could even react.
The Unborn intercepted a pair with a savage swipe of his chained fists, sending them crashing through a crumbling pillar. But for each one felled, more slipped silently through the shadows.
Eryndor moved like a phantom. Every strike he dodged revealed another flaw. Every missed blow mapped a pattern. The Correctors fought with cold efficiency, but they were bound by perfect predictability. It would be their weakness.
The Mana-Cursed Girl cried out as her unstable power surged violently. A Corrector seized her arm, runic blade poised to sever flesh and soul alike.
Eryndor appeared behind it in a flash. The jagged dagger he drove into its exposed spine was alchemy-forged, a relic of the Severance Grounds. The Corrector convulsed violently, then fell into dust.
The girl collapsed to her knees, gasping. Eryndor's voice stayed flat.
"Get up. There's no time to fall apart."
The doors exploded inward again. A single figure stepped through. Taller. Covered in shifting distortion fields. Its porcelain mask bore three crimson slashes. The lead Corrector. Eryndor smiled coldly, drawing his second blade.
"Finally."
The lead Corrector moved without warning.
Space twisted around it as if reality itself tried to recoil. One instant it was standing before Eryndor, the next it was behind him, blade whispering toward the base of his neck. Eryndor ducked low. The weapon carved nothing but air. Eryndor spun and slashed, his cursed dagger catching the edge of the distortion cloak. It hissed violently but did not cut deep.
The duel began.
The Lost Ones could only watch. They had seen Eryndor fight before—ruthlessly, coldly—but never like this. Never against something that bent the very laws of existence.
The Corrector blurred again, vanishing and reappearing with every step, its runes glowing brighter as it adapted to each failed strike.
Eryndor's breathing slowed. Pattern recognition. Every flicker of movement, every microsecond of displacement… it followed a program. Predictable.
The Corrector lunged forward, blade extended. Eryndor stepped aside a heartbeat early.
The Corrector missed for the first time. Eryndor's dagger plunged deep into the creature's side.
The distortion field faltered, flickering wildly. The Corrector twisted violently, trying to compensate. It launched a flurry of strikes meant to overwhelm any opponent.
Eryndor flowed between them like water. Cold focus. No wasted motion. No anger. Only survival.
The final opening came. Eryndor pivoted under the last wild slash, drove his alchemy blade upward into the base of the mask, and twisted hard.
The runes cracked. The Corrector convulsed once, violently, then disintegrated into a blinding burst of corrupted light and ash.
Silence.
Eryndor stood alone in the center of the ruined hall, chest rising and falling heavily.
The System's voice descended once more, emotionless and cold.
[First Suppression Attempt: Failed.]
[Target: Eryndor Vaelith.]
[Escalation protocol authorized: Stage Two pending.]
[Observation priority increased.]
Eryndor exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as he stared down at the fading ashes of his would-be executioner.
"Come, then," he murmured. "I'm still here."
The Lost Ones stood around him, shaken, exhausted, but alive.
The bell tolled again. War was coming.