The dean stared at the pitch-black, charred skin of Clei's left hand. The embers floating around him dimmed, casting long, flickering shadows across his weathered face.
"This sinister aura..." Charles murmured, his remaining eye narrowing in deep concentration. "It's not just an ordinary Phantom. Perhaps an Arbiter? Or..."
He cut himself off, his jaw tightening. He kept the rest of the thought buried in his mind, unwilling to voice a fear so terrifying that it could shatter the boy standing before him.
He looked up, his gaze softening. "Clei, what did Silas tell you about this mark?"
Clei blinked, his mind racing back through the years. He had asked Silas about it countless times when he was younger. Silas would always brush it off, his expression turning grim, telling him it wasn't something he needed to worry about. Eventually, Clei had just stopped asking. The thick, fire-resistant gloves were his own request; he simply didn't want to look at the ugly, cursed thing on his hand anymore.
Clei answered quietly, "He… really didn't tell me anything about it."
Thorne, who had been observing silently, let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Then tell me, boy, how much do you actually know about the Umbral Blight?"
Clei hesitated, recalling the worn, leather-bound books Silas had left in his spatial ring. "It was... a sort of plague," Clei said carefully. "It turned humans and Aetherborn alike into Hollowed—empty, mindless husks driven only by corruption. It caused millions of deaths throughout the Human Realm before it was stopped."
Thorne's icy blue eyes locked onto Clei, the temperature in the room dropping another degree. "So, it seems Silas hasn't told you much. The Umbral Blight is far more than a mere plague."
The Monarch of Ice leaned forward before speaking softly, "Behind the Phantoms are existences capable of tearing the very fabric of the world asunder. The Arbiters… and some existences that go against this world's logic. And you must understand, Clei... the mark on your hand is intimately related to them."
Before Clei could process the weight of those words, Thorne reached out and grasped Clei's left wrist.
Instantly, a blast of freezing, absolute-zero mana surged up Clei's arm. Clei gasped, his eyes widening in panic. He could still see his arm, but he could no longer feel it. It was as if his limb had been completely severed from his body, isolated in a void of pure, numbing cold.
"As strong as Silas is," Dean Charles sighed, shaking his head, "it seems his expertise lies in destruction, not containment. His seals are far too weak."
Ping.
A sharp, metallic sound echoed through the starry expanse of the room.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Three more followed in rapid succession, sounding like heavy iron chains snapping under immense pressure.
Suddenly, the charred skin of Clei's hand split open. A horrific, shadowy mass burst forth. Jagged, ink-black tendrils uncoiled into the air, whipping wildly. At the center of the mass pulsed a crimson-tinged core, forming a grotesque, shadowy claw that reached out with a mindless, ravenous hunger.
"What the hell have those madmen from the cult done?" Thorne snarled, his blank expression finally cracking into a scowl.
The tentacle-like horror thrashed violently, lashing out against the air. But before it could strike Clei's face, a shimmering, translucent barrier of ice and fire slammed down around it. The combination of the two opposing elements was nonsensical, yet held together by the sheer, overwhelming will of the two old men.
No matter how much the dark mass trashed and shrieked, it couldn't break the barrier.
"At the very least," Thorne noted, his voice grim, "despite Silas's lack of skill in sealing, the mark has not yet tainted your physical body. Your soul is still your own."
Clei stared at the monstrous appendage that had erupted from his own flesh. His breath hitched in his throat, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. He was terrified.
"May I know..." Clei's voice trembled, his stoicism entirely shattered. "What is... that?"
Looking at the writhing, ink-black tendrils, he finally understood. He realized why the villagers of Althea had looked at him with such primal, unadulterated horror. He realized why they had called him a demon. If he had seen this without knowing it was his own hand, he would have reacted with the exact same fear.
Dean Charles didn't answer immediately. Instead, a massive burst of ashen mana erupted from his frail body. He began to chant in an ancient, unknown language, the syllables heavy and resonant. Glowing, intricate magical circles materialized in the air, layering over one another until they completely enclosed the thrashing tentacle.
With a final, forceful push of his mana, the dark mass was violently compressed, sucked back into the charred skin of Clei's hand. The split flesh sealed shut.
Suddenly, Dean Charles doubled over, coughing violently. Thick, dark blood seeped from his lips, splattering onto the polished stone floor. The effort of suppressing the Umbral mana had taken a massive toll on his already broken body.
"Old friend, get some rest," Thorne said, his tone unusually gentle. "I'll handle everything else."
As Charles wiped his mouth, the charred, blackened appearance of Clei's hand receded. The skin returned to its normal pale tone, and the mark shifted. It transformed into an intricate, dark-ink tattoo of a closed eye, surrounded by a stylized flame. It looked like beautiful, mysterious body art, completely masking the horrific Umbral mana beneath.
"I'll rest first," Dean Charles wheezed, forcing himself to stand. "We will talk again in a few days."
With a soft poof, his body dissolved into a swirl of warm ash, vanishing from the room.
The moment he was gone, the suffocating, eternal cold returned. The temperature plummeted, forcing Clei to immediately unleash his fire mana to its absolute limit just to keep his blood from freezing in his veins.
Only Thorne and Clei remained.
"Charles has enhanced the seal on your left hand," Thorne explained, his voice echoing in the freezing air. "Originally, Silas asked us to find a way to remove it entirely. But after seeing it, we both realized that perhaps only Reimus... or the Pope himself, could truly deal with something of this nature."
Thorne's icy gaze softened slightly. "Reimus is a dear friend of ours. If you get the chance, you need to talk to him. As for the Pope..." Thorne's expression darkened. "He would more likely kill you on the spot than help you. Be very mindful of the Holy Church."
Before Clei could react, the Monarch of Ice sighed, a cloud of frost escaping his lips. "As much as I'd like to say the Church would never touch the child of Silas, there are always a few madmen in the Obsidian Order who would burn the world to ash just to prove a point."
Hearing the old man's comment, Clei's mind flashed back to Inquisitor Severin on the road to Anatolia. Of all the existences to go against, Clei knew from his limited time in the Great Forest that the Church was the most gargantuan, untouchable power in the entire Human Realm.
His blood ran cold. Perhaps it would have been better to just stay hidden in the Great Forest, he thought, a fleeting moment of regret washing over him.
Thorne seemed to read his mind. "Don't worry. Old Charles is one of the greatest scholars in the world. Unless your left hand touches a Divine Artifact of the Church, I'm sure that mark of yours won't get detected."
Clei gave a stiff nod, though his right hand subtly clenched into a fist. He remained cautious, but the reassurance grounded him.
Despite the heavy warnings, Thorne still hadn't explained what the mark actually was. Both terrified and deeply curious, Clei asked, "What exactly is it?"
"It's a long story," Thorne said, shaking his head. "And unfortunately, as much as this old man would like to prattle on, your mortal body will give out if you stay with me any longer."
Thorne reached up and slowly lowered the high collar of his heavy, frost-lined robe.
Clei's eyes widened in sheer shock.
Beneath the fabric, Thorne's neck and collarbone were completely encased in solid, translucent ice. The frost crept up his jawline and down his chest, freezing his flesh in a state of suspended, crystalline animation.
"I may be powerful," Thorne said quietly, pulling his collar back up, "but I can barely control my mana with half of my body destroyed. Anyway, let's just say that a group of madmen has sealed a terrifying existence in your left hand, and perhaps only Reimus would know how to deal with it without killing you."
Clei stared at him, his mind struggling to comprehend the scale of the tragedy. Just what kind of apocalyptic foe could cause an S-Rank Monarch—an existence at the absolute peak of human power—to turn into something half-alive?
Suddenly, Thorne's demeanor shifted. The gentle mentor vanished, replaced by a chilling, absolute void.
"Truth be told," Thorne said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm register, "if you were not Silas' son..."
A wave of pure, unadulterated killing intent exploded from the old man.
Clei gasped, stumbling backward as if physically struck. The air in the room turned to solid lead. For a single, agonizing second, Clei felt his very soul being crushed, reduced to a fragile toy beneath an unfathomable weight. It was the absolute certainty of death.
I would have killed you already. The unspoken words hung in the freezing air.
Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the killing intent vanished.
Thorne's demeanor softened once more, returning to its gentle, albeit stern, cadence. "I won't apologize for startling you, but you should understand: you need to get strong, and fast. Charles may have sealed that mark, but even I can't help but feel a threat from it. Only by becoming stronger will you be able to stand up even against me."
Clei stood frozen, his chest heaving. He felt what the old man did was excessive, but deep down, he understood. He wanted to learn more. He wanted to find his father. He wanted to know the truth about this mark. And, as an orphan who had been exiled and hated, he desperately wanted to know why his parents had abandoned him.
He realized then that to answer all of these questions, and to never be threatened or helpless again, there was only one path. He needed to get stronger.
Clei straightened his posture, swallowed his fear, and bowed deeply to Thorne. "Thank you, Sir."
Thorne threw his head back and laughed, a sound like cracking glaciers. "And here I thought you would throw a tantrum after that. Monarchs… we can feel the emotions of other people. I am glad that you're just as stable as your talent. Silas is right. Your future… is limitless."
"Enough chitchat," Thorne said, his tone returning to its formal, authoritative cadence. "When you get stronger, visit this old man in the frozen wastes north of Kaelenor. As for the mark, I guess it won't be bad for you to understand more."
The old man waved his frozen hand. A thick, ancient tome materialized out of thin air, dropping heavily into Clei's hands. "The comprehensive details about the Umbral Blight are in there. Read it and figure it out yourself, or wait until Charles has recovered his strength and you can ask him."
Before Clei could even open the book, the scenery around him suddenly shifted. The starry sky, the floating books, and the freezing cold vanished in a blur of spatial distortion.
A second later, Clei found himself standing in the quiet, sunlit hallway outside the Dean's office. The heavy wooden door was closed.
Clei stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. He looked down at his shoulders and realized a thin layer of frost had already enveloped his clothes. The conversation with Thorne had only lasted a few minutes, and yet… the power of an S-Rank was truly unfathomable.
He then looked down at his left hand. It looked completely normal, save for the intricate, dark-ink tattoo of the closed eye on his palm. Still deeply shaken by the horrific, writhing monstrosity he had just witnessed erupting from his own flesh, Clei immediately pulled his thick, fire-resistant glove back on.
His thoughts were a chaotic mess. He had heard too many terrifying things today. The secrets of the Umbral Blight, the threat of the Church, the horrific injuries of Thorne, and the fact that Silas was away on a dangerous mission. He needed time to process it all. But before he could spiral into his own anxieties, he had a practical matter to attend to. He needed to return to the Main Hall and get his dormitory accommodations sorted out with Miss Leena.
Taking a deep breath of the warm, sulfur-tinged air of the caldera, Clei tucked the ancient book into his spatial ring and began the long walk back down the mountain from the Dean's manor.