Chương 18

The blunted practice sword struck the post and bounced hard enough to jar Cal's shoulder. He drew it back, turned his wrists, and cut again. Without meaning to, John slipped a sliver of Martial Aura into the movement with each stroke, tightening muscle and lending weight to the blade. He noticed only when sweat cooled too quickly along his spine. His reserve was dropping, and the first thing mana loss stole was the body's good sense about temperature. He should stop. The sword rose again.

His thoughts kept revolving around a particular matter, distracting him and preventing him from committing to any other course of action except mindlessly hacking away at the post: Aren Mills was here. Six months earlier than John would have preferred. John had returned to dinner after washing the yard from his skin, then sat through Nessa's account of the accident as though he had nothing better to occupy him.

Getting her to continue had required patience, skill and a dash of guile to mask his interest in the matter from the other more perceptive ladies present. Nessa herself mistrusted questions from him, especially questions about students. Fortunately, Nessa also enjoyed gossiping and was eager for any listening ear that would make itself available for her ministrations. By the time the dishes were cleared, she had repeated the nickname some noble students had bestowed upon Aren.

"Mule," she'd said, lowering her voice despite being inside Elara's suite. Supposedly, the slur was partly for his provincial accent, partly for his clumsiness and partly for his freakish mana. John could not imagine the slur would go away anytime soon, given the recent accident with the brazier. It was a mildly cleverer insult than what John remembered Aren being called in the books. The practice sword hit the post. Again, and again, and again.

The dull ache in Cal's shoulders simmered slowly into something slightly pleasurable after a while, as though his body had acclimated to the pain and then began craving it in turn. Ignoring the feeling, John adjusted his stance and continued. According to Nessa, an upper-class student, the one gracious enough to bestow upon him his newest title, had knocked Aren's book from his hands earlier that week. The book landed open in a puddle.

The ripples had barely stilled when one Petra Wick crossed the muddy water and stepped between them. Supposedly, Petra had retrieved the book, closed it gently, and handed it back. Then she looked dashingly at the other student and said, quote, "You've mistaken cruelty for wit." Then, if Nessa's possibly slightly embellished report was to be believed, she walked away with Aren before the other boy found an answer. John knew Petra Wick. Or he, rather, he knew of her death. The sword rose. His shoulder turned.

The edge landed square against the post. In the novel, late in Aren's first year, Petra had escaped with him beneath the Academy into the Undercroft during what he mostly remembered as the academy zombie arc. John faintly remembered a scene with hordes of pale, humanoid, flesh-magic monsters emerging from the darkness, students, noble and lowborn alike getting killed by the dozen, and Aren kneeling in a dead-end without a flame to command. Petra had put herself over him when the creatures came.

Her back and shoulders had covered his head, a frail roof of wool and bone. Aren would instinctively use Wind and Earth magic during that incident, revealing to the reader for the first time on paper that his talents exceeded his freakish mana whilst also foreshadowing the full revelation of the Null Affinity. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. By the time the Academy mages reached them, Aren was alive. Petra wasn't.

The minor noble daughter had been credited with using her Earth magic to save them both, earning her a posthumous commendation. John's next cut went wide. The practice blade struck the post at an angle and tore loose a long splinter. He stopped long enough to examine the damage, then shifted half a pace so the next stroke would land on sound wood. A few months, then. Before the zombie arc, that is. He had really hoped for half a year.

That estimate had rested on nothing better than the serial's wandering sense of time. Journeys grew or shrank between chapters. Terms lasted according to the needs of examinations, murders and romantic misunderstandings. John had treated the confusion as a margin for preparation. Aren's presence removed most of it. He cut again. The Undercroft ran beneath the Hall of Measures and the West Wing, a buried network older than much of Asterhall above it. Its chambers had once stored water and food against siege.

Other passages led past monastic graves, foundation wards and the Academy's leyworks. A forgotten postern opened somewhere through the western wall. The serial had never decided which of those mattered, and John had not been taking notes for a raid. The serial would later reveal that an upper-class Wood mage had converted one of the abandoned chambers into a workshop to experiment with heretical fleshcrafting. He had grown the pale things there, feeding them mana while they developed inside their vessels.

They were nearly finished when the ancient magic wards that had been repurposed to contain them failed, releasing them onto academy grounds in the dead of the night. Destroying them before the wards failed and they emerged should be simple, provided John found the chamber while the mage was elsewhere. The practice sword came down. The impact travelled through his palms and settled in his aching shoulders Inside that same workshop lay enough magical material to finance several better plans. Prepared resources.

Rare compounds. Supplies valuable to mages and difficult for a retainer to purchase without questions. John remembered cabinets and sealed containers from the chapter's description, though none of their labels had survived the journey from casual reading to present necessity. There had also been a stash of gold and silver, alongside a handful of rare gems; enough that it had been obvious from the start that whoever owned the lab was wealthy enough to rule out all but the most powerful mages and influential nobles.

But the most valuable thing in the workshop remained an unnamed amulet Aren found among the mage's private effects during the fighting. When fed mana, it granted a Wind spell called Carefree Haste, moderately increasing the wearer's speed for as long as their reserves lasted. Moderately, according to the serial. Moderately had still carried Aren clear of two collapsing passages and one knife meant for his kidneys in a future fight scene against a Steel-ranked martial warrior.

Aren had left most of the coin where it lay. Petra was dead, the Academy was coming, and he had carried away only the amulet which had saved his life during the battle with the horde. John decided that if he was going to involve himself in this matter, he had no intention of observing the same restraint. As he continued his swings, he mused and chewed on the idea further. After all, it fitted the problem remarkably well. Reach the workshop first. Empty it. Destroy the incubating creatures.

Petra lived, Aren didn't needlessly risk his life, and John acquired money for greater goals and an artefact useful for every future disaster that required running faster. He drew the sword back and held it beside his cheek. Only one problem, though: the Wood—no, Flesh mage. Lucan Ilyra. Third Circle, brilliant, nearing Fourth. Far beyond anyone John could safely face with his cheap Bronze-rank Aura. At Fourth Circle, a mage no longer depended on carrying the physical source of an affinity.

If the man advanced early—or if John's memory had misplaced the date—very little existed in the academy today that would offer any tangible protection. Cal struck the post again. His grip shifted at impact, softened by fatigue. He tightened it. To make matters worse, Lucan's family presented a secondary problem. House Ilyra was a Ducal house with influence above even House Vey's reach, and enough standing to make an accusation inconvenient even if Lucan's crimes of fleshcrafting were proved.

Heresy might condemn the son. It would still leave his relatives alive, wealthy and interested in the mercenary who had revealed him and shamed their house. John lowered the practice sword. His breath sounded rough in the empty yard. Sweat cooled at his temples, then turned clammy. He had spent too much Aura while thinking and gained nothing from the exercise beyond a damaged post. The Undercroft remained profitable. It also remained full of unknown doors, the consequence of opening John could only guess.

He crossed to the weapon rack and slid the practice sword into place. The wooden guard knocked once against the next hilt. For now, he needed more intel. Only when he was certain taking action wouldn't incur consequences greater than he could afford would he feel comfortable enough to act.