Vol 5, Chapter 22

◆ Dungeons beneath the Academy — Magister and Rector of the Academy, Igni's POV. ◆

The dull thud of a staff echoed through the stone walls of the underground passages.

Damp, despite the many enchantments, the walls stretched for many kilometers. The Academy was like a block of cheese—too much needed to be kept away from the bright light of the sun… and from overly curious eyes. Laboratories, workshops, heavily shielded research departments. All of it required an extensive network of corridors… perfect for moving around unnoticed.

Magister Igni al Kegan was making use of that fact.

Walking was tiring, but this time the Magister was even grateful for these quiet minutes, with only the echo of his own steps for company.

For the first time in decades, he was faced with such a complex situation. The Second Prince of the Kingdom was dead.

That alone was a major problem—he had been the figure through whom the Commonwealth pushed its interests.

Worse still, he had been killed. Killed on their territory. And he was not the only one…

The Magister tapped his staff against a damp wall, and the stone slid upward with a grating sound, revealing a narrow spiral staircase. Ten meters of climbing, which left the old man short of breath, and he emerged from the hidden passage directly into his daughter's house.

A house crawling with investigators.

"Lord Igni, she's on the fifth floor," his personal assistant informed him politely, but without obsequiousness.

His expression was stone, though a flicker of apprehension passed through his eyes.

"I know the way," the Magister declined assistance and headed for the next set of stairs.

After more steps that made his knees ache, he entered the room.

An open balcony.

Curtains stirred gently in the morning breeze. The rising sun shone through them, illuminating the grim faces of the experts and the bed stained with dried blood.

His gaze moved over the body: an opened ribcage, a steel rod protruding from the temple.

Nala was dead. And had been for days.

"Time of death?" he asked calmly.

"Between two days and a week. It's hard to pinpoint—killer used a preservative," the assistant reported after clearing his throat.

"Samples already sent to the alchemists?"

"The result… inconclusive. Again, an unknown manufacturing technique, though the materials clearly indicate the Kingdom. An alchemist of such skill could easily have avoided leaving such a trace—unless they wanted us to find it."

"The enemy is trying to provoke us," the Magister concluded, sweeping his gaze over those present.

They lowered their eyes. No one could be sure they wouldn't be turned to ash if the Magister's anger flared. Wars had started over less than the murder of a daughter of one of the most powerful mages in the world.

"There's more… my lord," the assistant said hesitantly, handing him a document, unable to speak its contents aloud.

It was a report from a specialist—one of those released from an exceptionally comfortable prison only under the escort of senior mages. A rare, officially forbidden specialist.

A long scroll filled with neat handwriting. Igni took out glasses from his robe, put them on, and scanned the precise letters.

"Heart missing?" the Magister confirmed, lifting his eyes to the body. An empty cavity yawned where the organ should be.

"The servants say that three days ago the lady forbade anyone to enter this room under penalty of death. We questioned them, but they truly believed they had spoken to the lady herself. Though by then she was already certainly… hm."

"Send the servants for reprocessing. After your questioning, they must have doubts, and I do not need rumors—not in such a delicate matter. Officially, we will announce that my daughter left on an expedition to the center of the world. No one will be surprised if she does not return," the Magister ordered, returning to the report.

"… no trace of a soul found in the body. Thus, I dare to suggest that along with the heart, the killer stole her soul for further use…" The Magister finished reading, carefully rolled up the scroll, and handed it back to his assistant.

The old man approached the bed.

"So, they not only killed my daughter, they also stole her likeness? Now I see why she avoided me in recent days. Illusions would never fool my eyes… but tell me, why did they fool everyone else? Why didn't the inspection detect the fake? How did they replicate her source? What exact technique did the killer use? Well? Do you have answers?" With each question, the Magister's voice rose, until the windows and his subordinates trembled.

"We… don't know. The research department has been informed. In theory, it's possible… but only in theory. They're asking for funding to investigate. The preliminary version is that it was the work of a necromancer of the highest mastery."

"Or a demonologist," another investigator added quietly.

"I see," the Magister said coldly, turning away from them all.

Silence fell, and no one dared break it.

The Magister looked at his daughter's body, but felt no parental grief. Only regret that such a successful genetic line had ended. She could have produced many talented mages. Yes, his union with the House of Water had been a fortunate one—what a pity…

Perhaps this regret was what passed for parental feeling? It had been centuries since he'd truly felt it.

He had forgotten what it was, after producing so many descendants in an effort to slow the coming catastrophe.

With each passing year, there was less and less magic. Bloodlines were dying out, houses were dying out. Genetic experiments only slowed this regression, but could not reverse it.

Every gifted person consumed magic, but also generated it. Every spell, every magical effort benefited everyone. By channeling raw power through themselves, they refined it, and when it dispersed back into the world, there would be just a little bit more. The more magic in the air, the stronger the mages themselves. Like a plant enriching the air, every mage unconsciously worked to make the next generation a little stronger. And stronger still. Century after century.

Mathematical models predicted the inevitability that in a world where magic had appeared, the intensity of the magical field would inevitably grow. Generation after generation, mages would become stronger, until the moment came when they reached the level of gods and began creating worlds of their own.

In reality, however, this was not happening. Magic had been leaking from the world, like from a punctured wineskin, for the last thousand years. Before the Age of Discord, the leak was less noticeable; after it, even the blind could see it.

For a long time, large-scale mage losses were blamed: the necromancer uprising that wiped out a significant portion of the strongest mages, the series of rebellions by mages sensing the central authority's weakness, and finally, the global bloodbath of the Age of Discord and the empire's final collapse. In historical terms, these events followed one another almost without pause, causing irreparable damage.

It seemed the problem could be solved—there was a correlation between a mage's power and their lineage. All that was needed was a scientific approach. The Commonwealth threw itself into the task with zeal, weeding out the useless and breeding those with potential. The Kingdom of Steel did much the same, though for natural reasons tied to its government structure.

For a couple of centuries, this worked. But nature cannot be deceived. Despite achievements and genetic mastery, the Commonwealth's power continued to fall with the overall depletion of mana.

No matter the breeding efforts, mages were degrading.

Their science had reached a dead end. Experiments with human-chimera hybrids had failed, as had attempts at living mana generators.

And still, magic kept disappearing.

Identifying the culprit was simple—both in general and in this particular case…

The Magister's gaze swept over his daughter's opened ribcage, and he shook his head. Two archmages killed… Who could benefit from this more than the Theocracy?

On a global scale, the loss of two archmages might not be so obvious—the replenishment of magic came mainly from the far more numerous adepts. But… how many genetic lines had the world lost with the deaths of that pair? Truly, a tragedy.

No doubt they were celebrating at the Holy See today. The Magister could easily picture their gaunt, pale faces breaking into smiles.

The Theocracy… it was all the Theocracy's fault.

For in the aftermath of the Discord, not only had the strongest metal mages broken away, but an entire state had emerged, dedicated to destroying magic. Cowardly shielded on one side by the great desert and on the other by a neutral kingdom.

The Theocracy was a closed country, highly skilled in counterintelligence. Its numerous rural population could easily report any strangers—outsiders stood out like a sore thumb. Even in the cities, spies rarely lasted more than a couple of weeks. They didn't always disappear without a trace—sometimes the Holy See would publicly parade repentant, defected spies at official events.

Faith was a terrible force.

Few knew for sure what went on in that realm of fanatics…

For a hundred years, academic circles had argued whether the Theocracy was to blame. Those defending the priests claimed magic had always been leaking, but it had gone unnoticed thanks to the high number and strength of mages. Those accusing them pointed out that before the Theocracy's creation, the outflow had been dozens of times smaller.

And the arguments would go on forever.

For the debaters, the truth didn't matter.

They were just lobbyists for two camps: for the Theocracy's destruction, and against war with it. Most of the "warmongers" didn't care whether it was guilty—they cared about the land and resources they could pocket… all in the name of finding a solution to this global problem, of course!

The "pacifists" didn't care either. They simply didn't want to die, knowing the conflict would be fierce. They cared only for their own hides, not the fate of the world. A hundred or two years of luxury, peace, and comfort was all they wanted. The catastrophe coming in ten thousand years? Not their concern at all—it was far too far away!

The Magister despised both camps. There was no sincerity in them.

Only a few, like him, truly understood the problem. For the past thirty years, the Magister had lobbied for the Theocracy's destruction, fully aware of the high mage casualties it would bring.

The failures of research had convinced him it was the only way.

And not just the failures… Every year, something happened to confirm his convictions.

Like now. The treacherous wretch who had brazenly infiltrated them as part of the Kingdom's delegation, the vile traitor to magic and his gift, the outcast Condor. Oh, Robert would pay for helping the Theocracy's spies walk the Academy like it was their own home!

That degenerate had not only spied for the enemy, he had single-handedly committed sabotage on an unprecedented scale, draining all the magic from their barrier that protected valuable plants from the natural environment!

A core array equal to a third of Merlin had simply ceased to exist—crumbled to dust, drained of every drop of energy.

Many rare plants would die, and the alchemical laboratories had suffered damage that would take decades, if not a century, to recover from.

At the thought of such colossal damage, the Magister's face twisted in a grimace.

The investigators, noticing this, held their breath. Some could not stop their bodies from trembling in fear. They all thought the Magister's rage came from his daughter's death—after all, she had been the only one of his offspring to reach such heights. Their imploring eyes turned to his personal assistant, silently begging him to distract the Magister somehow.

The assistant gave a discreet cough.

"My lord, shall I arrange a secret burial?"

The Magister raised his brows in surprise.

Due to the problem of magic leaking from the world, the Commonwealth indeed resorted to rather harsh measures. Not only peasants and demonic beasts were considered resources in this country, but mages themselves belonged to the state. If a mage died, their body was sent for processing: to be turned into elixirs, potions, and potential boosters for other mages. Some would call it cannibalism, but the Magister would call it rationality.

However, as everywhere, people had feelings. Man is an irrational creature, and so relatives could pay the treasury compensation to reclaim the body for burial.

What surprised the Magister was something else: that his assistant had suggested it, knowing him well. Yes, Igni had valued his daughter when she was alive, but… now, she was nothing more than meat.

"No," he replied curtly. "Dismantle the body into ingredients. Quietly."

Even if he had wanted to do otherwise, as one of the country's leaders, he had no moral right to.

Those present paled. The investigators had decent means, enough to buy back the bodies of loved ones. Alas, as always, the rules for the rich and poor were different. And so the decision of the Magister, the elite of the elite, made them flinch.

In high society, sending the dead for processing was frowned upon. It was considered the lot of the poor.

Naturally, the Magister couldn't care less about such prejudices. He had lived too long to bow to fleeting societal norms.

The opinions of others concerned him least; what concerned him most was…

"What of this… hm… esteemed guest, Condor? Did he agree to cooperate?" the Magister asked his aide, barely restraining his anger.

"No. He only smirked and advised us to address the Third Prince."

"The Third Prince, then…" the Magister mused.

Without a doubt, that bastard was involved in all of this. He must have bribed the ambassador with a potion to help the killer pass unnoticed through the portal.

Igni remembered how that brat had pissed himself before the whole arena when he grabbed the sword that had fallen from the heavens. It seemed like only yesterday, and now that impudent whelp, not even fifty years old, dared oppose him? Him?!

The young generation of the Dorns had grown far too arrogant. Their father still knew his place, but the rest… If the Third Prince was beyond his reach, so be it. One of the heads of the delegation would serve just as well for a public example. When he returned, steeped in fear to the point of trembling at every rustle, they would remember that the Kingdom had never been the equal of the Empire's heirs.

The aide coughed and continued his report.

"We also learned that his companion is missing. After questioning witnesses, we discovered they had sailed on the frigate Espluar. We have already dispatched two warships to intercept. She will be in our hands within two weeks."

"The Ashiran girl, correct? This is too critical a time to damage relations with them… We'll do without interrogations; she's unlikely to know anything Condor doesn't. Sink the ship. Let her vanish without a trace. As for this 'second' head of the delegation, I order you to deal with him thoroughly, regardless of his status. Use the full extent of non-physical methods. Let him learn true fear."