Clei hesitated at the threshold of the Main Hall, his gaze darting between Roderick and Teresa. Why would the Dean want to see me? he thought, a knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach. He was just a D-rank student who had arrived late. Even if he was considered a genius for reaching this rank at fifteen, it wasn't exactly grounds for a private audience with the head of Ignis Academy. And then there was the "special guest." Who could possibly be important enough to warrant such secrecy?
Roderick noticed his hesitation and let out a gruff huff. "Stop overthinking, kid. I don't know why the old coot wants you, but you have nothing to worry about. He's probably just curious because you're a D-rank at your age."
Despite the insult, there was no real malice in his tone. It was the familiar grumbling of an old soldier talking about a commander he respected deeply.
Clei looked toward Teresa, seeking reassurance. She met his gaze and gave a firm, encouraging nod. "Go on, Clei. Don't keep the Dean waiting. You can find Leena later to sort out your dormitory arrangements after you've spoken with him. Everything will be alright."
Taking a steadying breath, Clei walked beside Roderick as they left the Main Hall and began the ascent toward the Magister's Keep. The path wound upward along the caldera's slope, the air growing thinner and charged with dense, ancient fire mana.
"Magister," Clei asked quietly, breaking the silence. "What is the Dean like?"
Roderick's expression softened, the annoyance replaced by a profound, unspoken admiration. "There are many words to describe him. A genius, a powerful mage, a lazy old man. But all in all, the word that describes him best is… Hero. You see, twenty years ago, during the Umbral Blight, it was thanks to him and Bishop Florentine that Anatolia suffered far less than even Lydia. He even stood shoulder-to-shoulder with King Ferius on the frontlines. If only he wasn't so severely injured back then, perhaps the strongest human in the realm would be him, not Ferius."
Clei nodded slowly, his curiosity deepening. The man who led this fortress-like academy was a living relic of humanity's darkest hour. But then, Roderick's earlier words echoed in his mind. A special guest?
As if reading his thoughts, Roderick frowned slightly. "I don't know who the guest is either. But listen to me: keep your fire mana circulating. For some reason, the Dean's room is extremely cold." He glanced down at Clei. "You can relax around the Dean—he won't hurt you. But the guest... just be respectful. There should be no danger, but you need to understand your place."
They reached the top of the winding path, arriving before a massive door carved from dark, petrified wood. Roderick knocked three times, the sound heavy and deliberate.
A swirl of ashen mana materialized at the door, dissolving the wood into mist before reforming it silently inward. A warm, weary voice drifted out. "Thank you, Roderick. Young one, come inside."
Clei looked up at Roderick one last time. The Grandmaster gave a single, firm nod. Taking another breath, Clei stepped across the threshold.
The moment he entered, the world outside ceased to exist.
He was no longer in a building built into a mountain. He stood in a vast, impossible space where the ceiling stretched into an endless, starry sky. Floating shelves lined with ancient, leather-bound books orbited slowly around him like planets. The air smelled of old parchment, ozone, and faint, lingering smoke. It felt less like an office and more like stepping into another dimension entirely.
However, as soon as he walked forward, a freezing cold hit him like a physical wall. It forced him to immediately circulate his mana. The coldness wasn't deliberately targeting him, but it was as if the entire room was submerged inside a glacier. Despite channeling his fire mana to its absolute limit, he was barely able to keep his breathing steady, his breath turning into white frost.
Suddenly, a warm, soothing current flowed through the air, easing the biting cold. Clei looked forward and eventually managed to take steady steps on the polished stone floor. Ahead, a smaller archway glowed with soft light. As he approached, the archway opened without a touch.
Inside sat two old men in ornate, high-backed chairs.
The man on the left radiated warmth. Embers drifted lazily around him like fireflies, and a single eyepatch covered his right eye. His remaining eye was sharp and kind, and he offered a gentle smile toward Clei.
Clei observed that the warm current of mana protecting him from the extreme cold seemed to have come from this old man.
The other old man, however, had an expression that was utterly blank, unreadable as a frozen lake. Where his arms and legs should have been flesh and bone, there was only solid, translucent ice—crystalline prosthetics that gleamed with an eerie, inner light. Through him, Clei finally understood Roderick's warning.
So he's the source of the cold, Clei thought, his instincts screaming. The old man with ice for limbs was incredible. He didn't know how strong he was, but from the overwhelming ice mana surrounding the old man, he was, perhaps, even stronger than his father.
Unsure which was which, Clei bowed deeply, keeping his gloved hands clasped behind his back. "I am Clei Vane, a new student. May I know why the Dean called me here?" He directed his question toward the ice mage, assuming the stronger presence must be the leader.
The ice mage's blank expression suddenly cracked before he threw his head back and laughed, causing the frost in the room to shake violently. "Hahaha! Your student thought that I'm the Dean! You've fallen hard, Charles"
Clei froze, a nervous gulp catching in his throat. Ignis Academy. Of course. Why would the Dean of a Fire Academy be an ice mage?
The friendly old man scowled, though there was no real heat in it. "Enough of that, Thorne. Who told you to show off in my office? If I wasn't injured, I'd burn your ice to the ground."
"And yet, here you are, shivering in your own study," the ice mage retorted smoothly, his laughter fading into a dry chuckle.
The Dean sighed, ignoring Thorne, and turned his warm gaze back to Clei. "I am Charles Ember, the Dean of Ignis Academy." He jerked a thumb at the ice mage. "And this grumpy old man here is just an old dog who lost his limbs."
Thorne scoffed. "Says the man who lost an eye and half his mana capacity. At least my ice doesn't melt when I sneeze." He then looked at Clei, his tone shifting to something more formal. "Many have forgotten my true name over the years, but you may refer to me as the Monarch of Ice, Thorne."
Before Clei could process what he just said, the old man's gaze lingered over his body, as if seeing through his very soul.
Thorne nodded slowly, a rare note of praise in his voice. "Truly a talented mage. Even I was not as strong when I was your age. It seems Silas has truly picked up a golden child. But that thing… it's quite troublesome."
Clei's eyes widened. First, the shock of the title. Monarch. To be called a Monarch, there was only one way—to be a true, bonafide S-Rank existence. But more than that, the name mentioned by the old man made him forget everything else.
"You know my Father?" Clei blurted out, his usual stoicism shattering. "Can you tell me where he is?"
Thorne's expression dimmed, and even Dean Charles looked somber. The playful banter vanished, replaced by a heavy, solemn gravity. After a long moment, Thorne said quietly, "He's away on a very important mission. Even I don't know when he'll come back."
"Where?" Clei asked, his voice tight.
Dean Charles sighed, his remaining eye filled with a deep, sorrowful pity. "You're still too weak to know, child."
Clei's jaw tightened. He wanted to argue, to demand an answer, but before he could speak, a sealed parchment materialized in the air and floated gently into his hands. It was from Silas.
Clei broke the wax seal and read the familiar, sharp handwriting:
Since you are reading this, it means you have finally left the Great Forest and stepped into the wider world. Charles will take care of you, so follow whatever he says. I know you have a thousand questions, but the answers will only make sense once you are strong enough. Reach A-Rank first. Only then will you be ready to know more. I am proud of you, my son. Good luck.
The two old men watched him in silence. After a while, Clei folded the letter carefully and kept it in his spatial ring. He had a million questions burning in his chest, but the words reach A-Rank first made him swallow them all. He bowed deeply toward the Dean. "Thank you, Dean."
Dean Charles smiled gently. "A year ago, Silas came here and told me that one day, his son might come to Anatolia. He entrusted you to my care. As for this old man here, he just happened to be visiting, but perhaps this is a good thing, as your father also asked me to do one more thing for you." The Dean's gaze dropped. "Let me see the mark on your left hand."
Clei hesitated. He looked at the two old men, his heart hammering. But then he remembered his father's letter. Charles will take care of you. He was afraid, but he realized that against the combined might of the two old men, he could never put up a fight. Even if they decided to dissect him right here, right now, he wouldn't be able to do a single thing to stop them.
Slowly, he removed his thick, fire-resistant glove and presented his left hand to the old men.
Both Thorne and Dean Charles frowned as they observed the mark. Beneath the glove, his hand was a canvas of nightmares. From his wrist to the tips of his fingers, the skin was pitch-black, resembling charred wood that had been burned from the inside out. Jagged, blackened veins crawled across his knuckles, pulsing with a faint, unnatural heat whenever his emotions ran high. At the center of his palm, the mark formed a strange, broken circle—like a crescent moon shattered in half.
The room fell dead silent. The embers around Dean Charles flickered nervously, and the frost on Thorne's prosthetic arms thickened.
Dean Charles looked at Thorne somberly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Perhaps… we need Reimus after all."