The next morning, Soren walked through the high-vaulted halls of Astralis Academy with his usual silent resolve. His steps guided him through familiarity, yet his thoughts wandered to the weight in his chest—a quiet storm ever since that night.
As he approached the instructors' wing, a figure stood waiting. Tall, sharp-eyed, and always composed, Instructor Caelin Draven radiated authority. Known as the Headmaster's right hand, his presence usually signaled something critical.
"Soren," Caelin said curtly, handing him a thin folder. "This is your on-field mission."
Soren took the documents without a word and began flipping through the pages with practiced hands. He skimmed past mission protocols and field clearance notes—until he found the name:
Target: The Crimson Apostle. Former Instructor of Astralis Academy. High-priority fugitive. Spreader of heretical demonology doctrines.
A cold flicker passed through Soren's spine.
Caelin, still observing him keenly, spoke again.
"Vellian," he said, "has a nephew. The boy's been struggling to secure an instructor position at this Academy—tried to get in through connections, but there are no vacant seats. That's why… Vellian set his sights on you."
Soren stiffened slightly, caught off guard by the man's candor. Caelin was not known for casual conversation—much less gossip. Always the silent executor of the Headmaster's will.
"You're considered the weakest," Caelin continued, tone even. "In his eyes, you're the easiest one to replace."
Soren lowered the papers, lips pressed in a thin line.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. "I thought you didn't care about… anything. Except following orders."
"Don't take this the wrong way," Caelin said, folding his arms. "But I'm not entirely devoid of humanity. Maybe I pity you. Or maybe I just acknowledge merit when I see it. Despite your… condition, you've been a decent instructor. You've held your ground."
He glanced toward the hallway window, as if weighing invisible burdens.
"That said," he added grimly, "this mission... is like ascending the heavens for someone like you. Dangerous is an understatement. You'd be wise to step down—resign before this consumes you. Live a quieter life elsewhere."
Soren didn't reply at once. The silence lingered, heavy with truth. Caelin wasn't wrong. Compared to others, Soren was fragile. Deficient.
At least… until recently.
A low hum stirred behind his left eye—subtle, but ever-present. Like a serpent coiled behind his left eye. A forbidden power whispered promises in the dark.
"I'll take the mission," Soren said at last, his voice quiet but resolute.
He turned and walked away, footsteps echoing through the corridor.
Caelin watched his retreating back with something between respect and sorrow.
"Your bravery is commendable, Soren. But there's a thin line between courage and recklessness. And whether you return or not… will tell me exactly which one you are."
---
The carriage rocked steadily along the uneven road, drawn by two weary horses as it crossed the long plains between cities. Soren sat in silence in one of the passenger seats, his fingers tracing the raised ink on the parchment in his hands. Though blind, he could feel every curve of the lettering with perfect clarity.
Target Location: Kirra. A border city roughly 230 kilometers from Astralis Academy—far enough to be isolated, close enough for danger to bleed in unnoticed.
The bounty sheet crackled faintly in his hands as he reread it again and again, not with his eyes, but through touch and memory.
Target: The Crimson Apostle. Bounty: 7,000 gold marks.
High enough to make even professional bounty hunters salivate, Soren thought grimly. High enough to prove how dangerous this man truly is.
His thoughts drifted, unwillingly, to Lyra.
He had said goodbye that morning—told her he would return soon, with his usual reassuring calm. But now, holding this paper and feeling the weight of the unknown pressing closer with every passing mile, he wasn't so sure.
If I die out there…Will Lyra be compensated? Protected? Or just forgotten?
He shook his head sharply. No. Don't spiral. Not now.
But before the shadowed thoughts could settle again, a sound pierced the air—a sharp whistle—then another—followed by the thunk of something solid hitting the wooden frame of the carriage.
An arrow.
Then another. And another.
"Ambush!" shouted the driver from the front.
The horses neighed wildly, the carriage shuddered as panic erupted among the passengers. Soren tensed, his grip on the cane tightening.
Outside, flames crackled as a fallen tree—set alight—blocked the road ahead. The carriage was forced to stop. The attackers knew what they were doing.
Soren focused. Amid the confusion and chaos, he heard the unmistakable clash of steel outside—guards hired by the transport company clashing with assailants.
Bandits, most likely. But these weren't amateurs. Their timing and precision were calculated.
Soren stood slowly, calmly. Around him, the other passengers cried out, clutching their bags and pleading with one another. He ignored them.
Stepping down from the carriage, his boots met the dirt with a soft crunch. The moment he appeared, heads turned.
The guards—clearly expecting a miracle—saw the two shut eyes, the cane in his hand, and the lack of visible weapons. Their hopes visibly drained.
"Is he… blind?" one of them whispered.
The bandits, spotting him as well, eased up a little, confidence swelling at the sight.
"A cripple? Hah, we're lucky," one of them sneered. "One less to kill."
But Soren stood there, unmoving. The wind tousled his coat. All fell still—until chaos shattered the air.
The first bandit lunged, blade raised. Soren shifted, not gracefully, but with practiced instinct—his cane tapped the ground, sending out a pulse of mana. One step to the side. The blade missed.
He countered with a blast of kinetic magic. It struck the bandit in the chest, hurling him backward. But another came from behind. Fast. Too fast.
A sharp pain blossomed at Soren's side as a dagger grazed his ribs. He staggered, breath hitching. His footing slipped. Spells flickered at his fingertips—but too late. A third attacker slammed him down with a blunt club.
Soren hit the ground, gasping.
Pain rang through his skull.
Weak.Useless. Why are you even still trying?
Voices in his head? No. His own thoughts. His doubts, clawing at the edge of his reason.
He tried to stand, but his limbs felt heavy. Mana throbbed at his core, but refused to flow.
A bandit stepped over him.
"Blind bastard," the man spat, raising his axe.
And then—something inside cracked open.
Not a flame. Not fury.
But stillness.
His left eye opened.Just a sliver.Just a flicker.
And the world… slowed.
The axe came down in painful crawl.
The bandit's heartbeat pounded in Soren's ears—loud, slow, like a war drum in molasses.
The wind became syrup. The flames on the fallen tree twisted lazily, like underwater ribbons. Time itself felt like it had fallen into a dream.
Sloth.
Not just lethargy—but the weight of the world, pressing down on everything. His attackers' movements lost their urgency. Their eyes grew dull. Their actions predictable. One of them stumbled mid-swing, not by magic, but by fatigue that hadn't been there a second ago.
Soren rose. Slowly.
And yet he was faster than them.
He moved through the battlefield like a ghost—his cane slicing through the air, launching spells with quiet precision. One attacker fell, the bones in his leg shattered by compressed force. Another screamed, stuck in place as his body refused to answer his panicked commands.
The final bandit tried to run, but stumbled. As if the ground itself clung to him. As if gravity had doubled.
Soren's eye shut again.
The slow-motion effect faded.
Time snapped back to normal.
All three enemies were down—groaning, unconscious, or too drained to move. A soft silence returned, broken only by the crackling of fire on the roadblock ahead.
Soren stood alone among them, chest heaving.
He had no idea what just happened!
No spell he'd ever cast could slow time. Or drain energy. Or numb a man's will.
But one thing was clear:
Ruin had awakened once more outside his control.
And one of its sins—Sloth—had touched the world through him.
He staggered slightly, leaned on his cane.
Not again, he thought.This power… it doesn't answer to me.
From behind, one of the guards spoke—voice low, shaken.
"…Sir… are you… alright?"
Soren didn't answer. He simply turned and walked back to the carriage.