CHAPTER 129: TALENTED STUDENTS

Calien and Erik led the way, their steps sure and measured as they moved through the debris-strewn streets of the town.

The moonlight cast long, eerie shadows across the cracked stones, and the distant sounds of the night—the low groans of the humanoid octopus creatures, the whisper of the wind through broken windows—felt far away, as if muffled by the tension hanging in the air.

The two boys moved with a purpose, their attendants close behind them, eyes wide, hands clutching their small weapons with white-knuckled grips. Chief Varros followed, his breathing slow and controlled, his mind racing with a thousand questions he didn’t voice.

They reached the town’s largest tower—a looming structure of dark stone, its roof a jagged crown against the star-swept sky. Calien paused, glancing at Erik.

"This is the one, right?" Calien whispered, barely loud enough for Varros to hear.

Erik nodded, grinning faintly. "Yeah. The big one. The one we told the others to stay away from. No one will come looking here. It’s perfect."

The boys raised their fists and bumped them together silently, a gesture of camaraderie that spoke volumes.

Varros furrowed his brow as he watched them, a flicker of disbelief in his eyes. They’re treating this like one of their teacher’s games.

And as if to confirm his thought, Calien smirked and muttered, "Just like Teacher Nolan’s exercise back in the classroom, huh? Distract the infected, sneak in, secure the spot."

Erik chuckled, his voice light despite the danger around them. "Yep. Feels just the same. Except these infected are way uglier than what we imagined back then."

Varros clenched his jaw. Teacher Nolan. That name again. He was beginning to wonder if this instructor Nolan was some kind of genius or lunatic—or maybe both.

He didn’t expect that the kid from the Flamire Family could teach students to become like this, or is this their natural talent?

Varros wonders.

Soon, they slipped into the tower’s ground floor through a broken archway. The air inside was cool and damp, thick with the smell of stone and rot. The faint glow of the moon filtered through shattered windows, casting pale light across the rubble-strewn floor.

And there, waiting in the gloom, stood a single humanoid octopus creature.

Its head tilted as it spotted them, the two tentacle-like appendages twitching with anticipation. With a wet, gurgling hiss, it lunged.

But Calien was faster.

His hand shot out, the glint of steel flashing in the dim light. The rope-bound knife flew true, embedding deep into the creature’s head.

With a shudder, the beast collapsed, its body dissolving into a puddle of foul-smelling sludge that seeped into the floor, leaving behind only a deep ocean-blue mana crystal.

"Ha!" Calien grinned, stepping forward to retrieve the knife. "Too easy."

Erik snorted, stepping up beside him. "That one was slow. I bet the next one won’t even make it two steps."

"Bet?" Calien raised an eyebrow.

"Bet." Erik grinned wider.

They fist-bumped again, laughing quietly as if they weren’t standing in a monster-haunted ruin.

Varros, standing a few paces behind, felt sweat bead on his brow. His fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword—useless now, drained of all power. His mana was gone. Spent on explosions, spent by the cursed trap that had leeched him dry.

And these boys—these students—were no better off. He knew it. Their mana was gone too. They were normal now. Human. Vulnerable.

And yet...

Knives, Varros thought, his disbelief mounting. They’re fighting these things with knives.

He watched, heart thudding, as the boys moved.

Every step they took was measured. Every throw, every shift of their stance, was clean, precise. There was no waste, no hesitation. The ropes of the knives coiled and uncoiled smoothly, as if the weapons were extensions of their arms.

Varros found himself unable to look away.

"This is madness," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely a rasp.

But even as he said it, he couldn’t deny the skill he saw.

Calien and Erik moved like seasoned duelists, their blades striking true, their feet light on the broken stones. And when they weren’t throwing, they were recovering—pulling their weapons back with fluid efficiency, resetting their stances, scanning the shadows for the next threat.

"By the stars," Varros breathed, sweat trickling down his temple. "Where did they learn this?"

He realized he was talking to himself, but he didn’t care. The sight of these boys, fighting so cleanly, so confidently—it was humbling.

Another creature appeared, slithering out of a doorway, its tentacles raised.

Before Varros could even shout a warning, Erik’s knife flashed.

The creature fell, gurgling, its form melting into the same vile sludge, another mana crystal clinking to the ground.

"Too slow," Erik said, smirking at Calien.

"You got lucky," Calien shot back, but there was laughter in his voice.

Varros wiped his brow, his heart racing not from fear, but from the sheer amazement of what he was witnessing.

"They’re clean," he muttered, watching the boys recover their knives again. "Every movement is clean. No wasted breath. No wasted energy. Just like a master would move. Just like... just like..."

His voice trailed off as he thought again of that name.

Nolan.

Varros’s mind reeled. How could one man, one teacher, have instilled such discipline, such technique, in these students? How had he done what Varros himself had failed to do with so many of his knights?

Another creature came. Another fell. Then another. And another.

Varros kept talking, to himself, to the silent walls around them.

"Look at their balance. The way they shift their weight, always ready. The way they work together—one attacks, one covers. The way they move their feet, no noise, no stumble, no trip."

He shook his head in disbelief.

"They’re not just students. They’re warriors. And I... I thought I was here to protect them."

More creatures came, drawn by the sound of their own falling kin. More knives flew, more sludge spilled onto the stone. And with each kill, Varros’s awe deepened.

He wanted to say something to them. To tell them how impressed he was. But he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to break their focus. Didn’t want to disturb the rhythm they had built.

So he watched.

And learned.

And realized that in this dark, crumbling tower, it was not he who was the shield.

It was they.

...

From his vantage point, high above the chaos, Nolan crossed his arms and squinted down at the town, the moonlight glinting off his eyes.

His expression was unreadable, but his heart was thudding with a mixture of tension, pride, and growing frustration.

Beside him, Lirazel had appeared silently, her form shimmering faintly as she focused her gaze on the same scene below—the crumbling streets, the ruined towers, the scattered battles where his students fought like seasoned warriors against the swarming humanoid twin-tentacle octopus creatures.

The view shifted now and then, as if an unseen force was showing Nolan different scenes—sometimes his students’ clean, lethal strikes, sometimes the grim struggle of the scattered knights still fleeing for their lives. But more often than not, it shifted to Yxthul.

The fish-like demon was loud. Loud and ceaseless.

"I will devour you, you weak humans! Hah! I will turn your bones to coral, your blood to brine!"

Yxthul roared, his voice echoing through the dark as he swam—if that was even the word for it—across the forest floor like it was his ocean.

His scaled body glistened in the dim light, his fins slicing through the grass and soil as if through water.

Nolan would only put his pinky finger to his ear and say, "Yeah, yeah, whatever. You’ll do that; please hurry! I cannot wait for you to tear me apart!"

Yxthul’s face would turn red. He was getting weaker and weaker for some unknown reason, trying to communicate with Geodan, but Geodan was not answering.

"My army! Tear them apart! Let their screams feed the tide of our strength!"

The twisted octopus spawns surged at his command, hunting the last of the knights, dragging down the slowest, tearing through their armor, their flesh, their hope.

Yxthul’s laughter was hideous, a sound that grated on the ears like a blade across stone.

"Foolish mortals! You thought you could stand against me? I am the deep! I am the abyss! I am—"

But Nolan was barely listening anymore.

With Lirazel quietly standing at his side, he kept his eyes on the town, on his students, on the subtle glow of the mana crystals left behind by each fallen creature. Yxthul’s rumblings, threats, and declarations of inevitable victory had become background noise, like the buzz of a bothersome insect.

In truth, Yxthul’s mana was slipping.

Where once the creature’s aura had blazed with power—Ninth stage, peak of its rank—it had begun to ebb. Eighth stage now. And falling.

Because while Yxthul howled and boasted, Nolan’s students moved like specters through the buildings, slipping between shadows, slinging their knives with precision, cutting down the octopus beasts one by one.

And with every death, Yxthul weakened.

Lirazel’s voice was soft, admiring.

"Master... they are incredible, aren’t they? Your students. Such grace. Such control. Each throw, so deliberate, so measured. They move like rivers through stone. Like wind through leaves. It’s as if they’ve done this all their lives."

Nolan gritted his teeth.

"Look how they time their strikes—perfect harmony. Look how they cover each other, how they fall back and press forward without a wasted breath. Truly, Master, you have trained them well."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, trying not to snap at her.

In his mind, the flaws leapt out at him, glaring and obvious.

That throw was too wide, Calien—you’ll waste precious time recovering your rope.

Erik, your stance was off-balance just now. One hard shove and you’d fall flat on your back.

Selin, too slow to draw again. In a real fight with a faster enemy, you’d already be dead.

He sneered silently, his eyes narrowing.

Grace? Control? Hah. I see nothing but mistakes.

Lirazel went on, her tone full of wonder.

"They’re like water, slipping through the enemy’s grasp. Even their breathing is in sync, as if they share one heartbeat. I’ve never seen such young ones fight with such clarity, Master."

Nolan’s fingers twitched at his side.

Clarity? They’re improvising too much. I taught them patterns—drills. They’re letting instinct take over, and instinct gets you killed.

Still, he couldn’t deny that they were surviving. Surviving where trained knights had fallen.

"They are flawless," Lirazel whispered, her voice full of awe.

That was too much for Nolan. He let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

"Flawless? Lirazel, if you call that flawless, you need to get your eyes checked."

But she didn’t hear him—or if she did, she ignored his tone.

And so Nolan watched, sneering at every small imperfection, yet unable to tear his gaze away. He watched as Calien and Erik worked together, as their attendants kept close, as Chief Varros, once so sure of himself, followed in near silence, humbled by what he saw.

And somewhere in the distance, Yxthul’s voice rose again.

"My power will return! My spawn will feast on your bones! Georan! Find them! Find these worms that sap my strength!"

But Georan, wherever he was, gave no answer.

Yxthul’s mana pulsed again—weakening, flickering, like a storm losing its fury.

Nolan and Lirazel stood silent, side by side, as the night dragged on, broken only by the occasional dying shriek of another of Yxthul’s spawn.

And then—

A sound.

A deep, guttural growl.

So loud it seemed to shake the very stones of the town.

Nolan froze, every muscle tensed. His students froze too, as did Chief Varros and the attendants.

From within the tower that Calien and Erik had claimed came the monstrous roar, so fierce it seemed as if the building itself would collapse beneath the weight of it.

Lirazel’s breath hitched, her hand flying to her mouth.

Nolan’s heart hammered.

What now?