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The sun was pale when Aster stepped out of the Mourning Hall. Pale and cold, as if it, too, had seen too much.
The wind met him first—soft, but edged with something brittle. Ash, maybe. Or regret. The courtyard stretched before him, scattered with students slipping away in quiet groups, their heads bowed under the weight of grief they couldn't name. Aster walked alone, his boots clicking softly against stone still stained in places by burn marks and blood.
His thoughts drifted in scattered loops, like dead leaves on water. He didn't feel like returning to his room. Not yet. Not with the quiet waiting there, thick and accusing. His limbs moved on their own, taking him past the cracked archway of the central plaza, beyond the untouched fountain where moss now crept up the sides of marble cherubs with broken wings.
Without thinking, he veered toward the ruins.
What was once the northern quadrant had been sealed off by spell wards immediately after the attack. Now, the barriers shimmered faintly like bruised glass, a curtain of magic thinned enough for sanctioned entry. He passed through without resistance. Either the wards had failed, or someone had let them lapse.
The academy smelled different here. Not just of smoke or soot, but of abandonment. Of something old and hollowed.
He moved through the broken campus slowly.
First came the remains of the Arcane Library—a building he had never once entered during his time here.
He paused at what had once been the front steps, now buckled and split like shattered teeth. The great oaken doors were half-scorched, hanging from bent hinges. One was missing entirely. Inside, the smell of burned parchment was sharp and sour.
Aster stepped in.
Books were strewn like fallen leaves—some scorched, others soaked with whatever enchanted fluid had failed to stop the fire. Their covers bore gilded titles, half-legible. He crouched beside one near the toppled shelf, brushing ash from its surface.
"Advanced Magic Theory: Circuit Alignment and Efficiency."
He blinked. "If I knew what half those words meant two months ago..."
Nearby, another title caught his eye.
"Elemental Counteractive Theorems: Volume II."
He exhaled—part laugh, part sigh. "Of course. Everything I needed… just lying here. Two buildings from my dorm."
It was almost funny. In a bitter, broken sort of way.
He rose again, walking deeper into the ruins, past collapsed archways and the skeletons of once-mighty shelves. Not long ago, this place might've been his salvation. A well of power, if he'd just… tried.
But he hadn't.
Because he hadn't expected to live long enough for knowledge to matter.
The realization settled in his chest like a lead coin.
He left the library and followed the overgrown path toward the outer wings.
A few club banners still fluttered weakly from scorched poles, their sigils half-torn but proud.
The first he recognized was the Swordsmanship Guild—a wide circular courtyard where stone dummies lay crumbled in rings. Practice weapons still jutted from their holders like forgotten memories. Some were cracked. Others shattered entirely.
He stopped at one rack, lifting a broken training sword. It was light in his hand, unfamiliar.
He remembered walking past this place once, hearing the shouts of students mid-spar, their strikes sharp, confident, precise.
He'd never joined.
Too embarrassed, he told himself. He hadn't wanted to look foolish. Not when everyone else had walked in with backgrounds and instructors and family lineages full of sword saints.
He dropped the blade and kept walking.
Next came the Weapon Enhancement Club. What had once been a sleek hall of alchemical tables and rune-inscribed benches was now a warped mess of scorched wood and spilled reagents. Some potions had evaporated mid-brew, leaving glass crusted in strange neon layers. A few benches still glowed, pulsing gently beneath the rubble.
They'd taught weapon enchantment here. Basic reinforcement, magic layering. Techniques Aster could've used a hundred times.
But he'd never entered the building.
He had thought… what was the point? He'd assumed he wouldn't survive orientation, let alone become someone worth empowering. And so he'd stayed where it felt safe. In his own little square. Watching the world shift around him while he stood still.
Now all of it was gone. Clubs, buildings, students, teachers.
And he was still here.
Aster closed his eyes for a moment. The wind passed through the broken walls like a whisper, tugging gently at his coat.
"I could've done more," he murmured.
His hand drifted to his side, brushing the object wrapped in cloth and hidden by a half-shredded cloak.
The scythe.
It hadn't been part of him, not at first. It had appeared during the breach. No explanation. No system log. Just a strange, glacial shimmer and a curved blade that sang against demon flesh like it had been forged for that very moment.
He hadn't even begun to understand it. The power it held. The way it moved. Sometimes it felt like it was moving for him, not with him.
"Still don't know what you even are," he muttered to the weapon. "Ice that erases monsters. An edge I didn't earn."
He frowned.
"Whoever wrote this world… sure is bad at writing."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Too tired to be sarcastic. Too bitter to be joking.
He turned around.
The sun had risen higher, casting long broken shadows across the courtyard. He started making his way back—through the fractured remains of corridors and gardens now claimed by roots and rubble.
He wasn't sure how long he wandered before spotting a familiar shape ahead.
A man leaning against a shattered column, arms crossed, one eye hidden behind an iron monocle device. His coat was patched. His boots muddy. But his stance was unchanged—straight-backed, vigilant, and annoyingly amused.
Professor Deadeye.
The survivalist instructor. His specialty wasn't flashy spells or ancient theory. It was the ugly stuff. Surviving with a broken leg. Identifying poison in enemy rations. Knowing when to hide instead of fight.
He had taught with brutal honesty and dry humor. Never raised his voice, never babied anyone. And yet—there was always a joke buried under his warnings. Some way to lighten the blow.
Aster slowed, then stopped a few steps away.
Deadeye turned to look at him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Deadeye's gaze swept over Aster—bandaged, sleepless, still humming faintly with suppression runes. His expression didn't change, but his eye lingered. He'd heard the rumors. Of the kid who wasn't supposed to survive orientation. The one with no affinity, no backing, no talent—who somehow cut down demons like ghosts in the fog.
And yet here he stood.
The same student who used to sit in the back row of his class, always quiet, always distant. Watching. Never speaking.
Deadeye had his theories. Everyone did. But none of them mattered. Not now.
Before he could speak, Aster did.
His voice was rough. But level.
"So, teach… what's run your brain this ragged this morning?"
Deadeye blinked.
Then, he smiled.
And the chapter ends.
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