"What an absolute lunatic..." Voltar muttered with a sinister chuckle as he continued to stare at the spot where Robin had vanished just monts earlier.
To think—to truly believe—that one could compose a book worthy of standing shoulder to shoulder with the sacred and ancient texts of the Secret Archive... That alone was pure madness.
But to assu he could even embed traps inside such a book—curses so subtle they’d target Soul Links and higher beings like Guardians and Monarchs? That wasn’t just delusion... that was calculated lunacy. An ambition bordering on heresy.
"Now then... what delightful nonsense have we here?" Voltar said aloud, his voice echoing faintly through the quiet, book-lined chamber as he gently opened the to Robin had left behind.
A strange, dusty aura erged from within the pages. It wasn’t hostile... but neither was it majestic. It was old, unmistakably so. Like a whisper from a forgotten era, yet lacking the power to evoke reverence.
"Hehehe... a charming little effort—from soone barely at stage thirty-one. Admirable, I suppose, in the way a child’s drawing is admirable to his mother."
Voltar snorted, then lowered his gaze to read the title etched in fine silver glyphs:
"...?"
His artificial brows twitched imdiately, narrowing with suspicion.
"Hmm? A Law Technique? He actually thinks a re law technique, even if refined, can qualify for inclusion in this Archive? Unless it breaks realms and bends dinsions, it’s—"
Suddenly, his voice stopped. Abruptly. His lips hung open mid-sentence.
He stared at the book again, puzzled.
"Wait... I opened it, but I haven’t actually examined its content. Let’s see now, what exactly did he write...?"
"Hmm? A Law Technique? Does he honestly expect sothing like this to be accep—"
Again, as if caught in a ti loop, Voltar’s expression shifted. His gaze darted about the room. Then slowly, he turned his head back to the book, confused.
"Strange... very strange. What’s going on here? Let take another look."
This phenonon repeated. Again.
And again.
And again.
Seventeen tis, to be exact.
Each ti, the mont Voltar began reading the title, sothing in his mind... reset.
He would lose his train of thought, forget what he was doing, and start from the beginning once more.
Until finally, on the eighteenth attempt, his face twisted into a bitter sneer.
"...A Law Technique? In the Archive? Tch. Delusional. Just a drear chasing clouds."
This ti, he snapped the book shut with finality.
He then walked to the closest wall—the one embedded with the most ancient tos—and, after a reluctant sigh, raised both hands forward.
"Protocol requires I test it regardless... tch~ I despise my own programming sotis."
HMMMMMMMMM
A low, thunderous hum resonated through the room.
The Archive itself reacted.
The soft, dim lighting intensified, bathing the chamber in pale gold. The books that ford the towering walls began to shudder and vibrate, as if responding to an ancient code...
Then it happened—
Sothing Voltar never believed he would live to witness.
WHOOSH!KRRK—KRRRACK!
"WHAT?!!"
Voltar’s voice cracked like glass as the book was torn from his grasp without warning, as if snatched by invisible hands of law and judgnt. He hadn’t even a second to resist.
Then, slowly... an entire column of books along one wall began to rise. Not fall—rise.
The stacked tos shifted upward, making room at the very bottom.
Into that newly revealed, glowing slot... slipped Robin’s book.
And the shelf re-stabilized.
Where there were once 36 books—there were now 37.
"....."
Voltar’s eyes were opened wide in disbelief, frozen in a stunned silence not even his programming could explain.
The book that had just been displaced—the one now pushed a level higher—was none other than a manuscript on Blood Curses.
It held no active curse, no spell. But within it lay the architecture of bloodcraft. A full, dissected understanding of how to manipulate lineage-based magic to target specific individuals... or even entire bloodlines. Entire races.
And it had lost its foundation spot?
What in the abyssal heavens... did Professor Robin write?!
Voltar, the ever-watchful guardian, the being programd to protect, judge, and expand the Archive...
...turned back slowly toward the space where Robin had vanished.
But this ti, his stare was different.
No longer mocking. No longer dismissive.
There was only one thing in his gaze now:
Cautious respect.
--------------------------------------
anwhile... sowhere outside—on the shadowed paths of the Academy’s lower grounds
"Stupid academy... stupid Headmistress... stupid ancestors..."
Robin grumbled under his breath, his boots clacking against the cold stone floor as he marched, every step echoing frustration. His face was flushed with anger, his lips curled in scorn.
"An institution that divides its students like noble and commoner trash... a headmistress who thinks I’m so pawn she can dress up as a professor for her agenda... and their damned founder—who left this nightmarish system behind, making everything needlessly harder for everyone who cos after him..."
His fingers twitched as he walked. His jaw clenched. A hot breath escaped between his teeth.
"No matter. No matter. I’ll tolerate it, just long enough... Just long enough to burn through the remaining two books. Then I’m out. I’ll disappear, and let this place rot in its self-righteous glory."
He glanced toward the sky, eyes burning.
"Enjoy this while it lasts, you arrogant council of fools. Let’s see how many of your elite prodigies will dare open the book... when it carries a Renewing Ti Curse, I only wonder how many decades will take them to realise they had been only reading the headline over and over again hehe."
BAM!
He kicked a small stone so hard it vanished into the horizon, skipping across the sky like a teor.
"If it weren’t for those last two damn books, I’d be long gone by now. But no... no... endure, Robin. This isn’t the first ti you had to deal with this kind of provocation."
At that very mont—just as Robin was trying to calm the boiling storm inside him, inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly, forcing the anger out with each breath—
his sharp eyes caught sothing strange.
"Hmm?"
The academic building assigned to him was open... wide open.
And more strangely, a steady stream of students was entering through its doors—one after another, casually, as if attending a public festival.
"Hmm?"
Robin’s face twitched.
He instantly stopped his breathing exercise. The attempt to soothe himself evaporated like mist under a fla.
With a sharp pivot and quickened steps, he moved toward the building, his eyebrows still locked downward like the wings of a hawk mid-dive.
His posture was calm—but his aura whispered of thunder barely contained.
"More of them? Ugh... fine, fine—sit down already, all of you!"
Robin froze just before stepping inside, his movent halted by a familiar voice.
Shaddad.
The tone was unmistakable. Exhausted. Frustrated. Stretched thin.
Robin moved quietly to the side, pressing his back against the outer wall, and tilted his head to listen.
The words drifting out of the half-open door carried a mix of panic and reluctant authority.
"Young n and won—please stop telling your friends about what’s happening here!"
Shaddad’s voice cracked a little.
"This isn’t just a problem for . My official students, the ones who paid their dues and enrolled properly—they’ll file complaints if they discover I’ve been giving lessons for free to you!"
He paused, voice dropping as if pleading to reason.
"And as for you all... if this keeps up, the Academy will fine AND you heavily. Heavily! You think they’ll let freeloaders walk away just because you smiled nicely?"
"Don’t worry, Professor Shaddad!"
One of the dozens of students seated inside the small lecture theater shot back eagerly, voice firm and loud.
"We won’t breathe a word of it!"
"That’s exactly what you said last month!"
Shaddad’s palm smacked against his forehead with an audible slap.
"And now look! You’ve doubled again!"
His voice rose in disbelief.
"There are so many of you, I don’t even know if this is a class or a protest! I’m starting to wonder if I should even continue at all..."
He let out a sigh, deeper this ti.
Then straightened his back and raised his voice once again—tone now laced with bitterness:
"I told you this on day one. I said it plainly. I only agreed to teach to fill the void left by Professor Robin Burton’s absence—just enough to help you perform well and stop dragging his na through the mud."
There was a long pause. Then his voice grew heavy:
"And yet... over thirty years have passed. Three full martial cycles. I’ve watched the sun rise and fall on you for decades... and still, barely any of you have improved."
A hush fell over the room.
Then, from the back, a soft voice broke the silence.
A girl in a blue hat, seated awkwardly between two larger students, hesitantly raised her hand.
She looked around once, then again, and then spoke—barely louder than a whisper.
"That’s because... we’re not body-path specialists, Professor. None of us have ever undergone a proper Weaponization Session."
"And what’s your point?!"
Shaddad barked imdiately, slamming his palm down on the lectern in front of him.
"Didn’t I teach you the Bear Combat Form? Didn’t I demonstrate the One-Palm Killing Technique? Or were you sleeping through those too?!"
He jabbed a finger toward the class. His eyes glowed with irritation.
"If you weren’t students of Big Brother Robin Burton himself, I swear—I would’ve submitted an expulsion request for every last one of you!"
Then he exhaled. Loudly. Forcefully.
And waved his hands back and forth like swatting flies.
"Whatever. Whatever! Enough whining."
He stepped to the front, lifted his chin, and raised his voice with a flash of authority:
"Today, we’re covering an offensive skill. Write this down: The Bear’s Embrace. Are you ready?"
"Yes, Professor!"
Dozens of voices replied together, too quickly, too cheerfully.
Their faces strained with forced smiles.
They knew the truth: they likely wouldn’t learn much today either.
But a free lesson... was still a lesson. Better than nothing.
And just as Shaddad opened his mouth to speak again—
A voice rang out from the entrance. Calm, but cutting through the air like a knife.
"Hold it."
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