CHAPTER 34: THE AFTERMATH[2]

"Calm yourself down first, Loki."

I muttered to myself, with my chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. This world really didn’t know how to give me a single moment of rest.

The Holy Grail War... just hearing those words felt like ice crawling under my skin.

In the novel [Ascension of the Arcane King], it was the final, climactic battle that everything had built toward.

But in truth, it wasn’t just a single event near the end.

It was a war that raged in the shadows all throughout the story. Every major twist, betrayal, and revelation tied back to it in some way.

It was the true heart of the plot.

The war itself was built around thirty-two major pieces. Sixteen on each side. On the surface, it sounded like a simple clash: White Pieces against Black Pieces. But it was so much more than that.

The White Pieces were the ancient spirit cards. Each of those cards held the essence of a spirit beast from an age so old that even legends had forgotten their names.

These beasts weren’t just animals—they were living symbols of hope, balance, and power. Some were creatures of flame and thunder, others guardians of rivers, forests, and the sky itself.

When the war began, each card would choose a herald. It could be a human swordsman, an elven mage, a dwarven runesmith—anyone worthy of carrying its will.

That herald would wield the beast’s power, but also bear its burden. The bond wasn’t just magic. It was a test of spirit, loyalty, and strength.

On the other hand, the Black Pieces were the dark twins of the White.

They were the sixteen nether fiends, a completely different race born from shadows, curses, and the broken dreams of the world itself. Their power was equal to the spirit beasts, but twisted, rooted in decay, madness, and hunger.

They chose the Kalis as their heralds.

The Kalis were a demonic race feared across the continents. Known for their cruel magic, blood rituals, and a culture built on domination. They believed power was meant to be seized, never given.

When the nether fiends offered them strength, they accepted without hesitation.

At the heart of it all lay the Holy Grail. The most ancient artifact, rumored to grant any wish.

Some thought it could rewrite fate, restore the dead, or even destroy the world itself. But no one really knew where it came from—only that it had always existed, waiting for the desperate and the brave to reach for it.

The war didn’t unfold like a single battle. It was fought in the hidden corners of the world: ruined temples, misty forests, and lost cities no map dared mark.

Sometimes, armies clashed openly. Other times, it was just two heralds meeting in the dead of night, fighting their hearts out.

These ancient spirit beasts and nether fiends could never fight each other directly. They had to rely on their chosen heralds.

In a way, it wasn’t just a contest of strength, but of will, strategy, and sacrifice.

The war could only end when one side’s king fell.

The King of White, who united the spirit beasts.

Or the King of Black, who commanded the nether fiends and their demonic allies.

Whoever claimed the Grail decided the world’s fate.

In the novel, empires were toppled, bloodlines erased, and kingdoms burned, all for the faint hope of touching that power.

And now, somehow, this war had started far earlier than it ever should have.

Which meant everything I thought I knew about the novel, every event, every character, every twist, might already be changing.

And I was caught right in the middle of it.

"Hah... I should have seen it coming."

I sighed, muttering under my breath.

Of course, the damn author wouldn’t let me breathe. He wanted me to reach the end of this story in seven years, when in the novel it had dragged on for ten.

By that logic, he’d have to twist a few things here and there. In the book, this same revelation didn’t happen until after the midterms of the first year.

Things were already moving too fast.

"For now, I need rest. Just one day—one normal day, please!" I shouted in annoyance, grabbing my pillow and hurling it at Nyx.

Poof!

The pillow smacked him squarely before flopping to the floor.

Nyx’s fur puffed up as he glared at me. "What was that for?" he hissed, tail lashing like an angry little whip.

I just shot him a smug grin. Whatever chaos was about to come, I’d deal with it when it arrived.

But for now, all I wanted was one day without blood, near-death experience, or divine prophecies hanging over my head.

Just one.

***

In the meeting room of the Imperial Academy, ten department heads sat around a polished table with their voices clashing like swords.

"Absolutely not! I won’t allow it!" Zebroc, the head of the combat department, slammed a thick hand against the table. His weathered face was flushed red with anger. "He isn’t fit for it in any way!"

Across from him, a woman in flowing silks rested her chin on her beautiful hand, perfume clinging to every motion. Her eyes were cold and sharp as cut glass. "For once, Zebroc is right," she drawled. "A commoner in that place? It’s unthinkable."

"We’re not running a charity," snapped another, the head of the arcane research division, drumming his fingers restlessly. "Think of the reputation of the Academy itself."

The air crackled with disagreement, voices rising and falling like waves. Some tried to speak sense; others only fed the fire.

At the head of the table, Asha Vermillion, the vice-headmaster, let out a slow breath. Her crimson robes rustled as she finally spoke, voice calm but edged with steel.

"Enough," she said. The single word cut through the room like a blade.

All eyes turned toward her.

"Whether we like it or not, none of us truly have a say in this decision," she continued, her gaze sweeping across each face. "He was the one who ordered it."

For a heartbeat, silence smothered the room. The arguments died on open lips, anger draining from faces like color from fresh blood.

No one dared speak against him.

The very mention of the Headmaster was enough to kill any thought of rebellion. His will wasn’t something to debate—it was a fact to obey.

And so, with reluctant silence settling in like dust, they turned their attention to the papers before them, each one bearing the signature of the man that none of them dared challenge.