Three hours have passed, and he still lies there, barely conscious.
When he finally stirs and sits up, he checks his shoulder. Most of the damage has closed. A few scrapes remain, but nothing worth crying over.
"At last."
The healing is just good enough to move. He rises slowly, tests his balance, then takes the crowbar with him as he limps back toward the main road.
Blood still trails behind him, dripping from the bar and his tattered sleeve. Some of the White Fangs follow from a distance, but none dare come close.
Once he nears the western border of Frasklock, two guards spot the boy and don't take it well.
"Hold up... is that a zombie?"
"Looks like one."
"And a bunch of white fangs? What are they doing down there?"
Soon, rifles are raised. Then, one warning shot cracks into the air and the White Fangs jerk and flee in panic.
The gate crew squints through the fog, trying to make out what's walking toward them.
"Wait. Hold your fire. I think that's a kid from Ezlenmir Academy."
"You sure?"
"He wears Ezlenmir uniform. Just… dirtier."
The gray-haired boy keeps coming. The crowbar still hangs at his side like it belongs there. His face is calm, but there's something in his eyes that wasn't there before.
"Kid! You okay?"
"Is that blood yours?"
He doesn't answer. He just walks, step by step, like a man returning from war.
A guard reaches out and grabs his shoulder to stop him.
"Hey, whose blood is this?"
The boy turns his head, slowly. His eyes shift to the guard's hand, then meet his gaze with a hollow stare.
"It's the beast's blood."
"…What?"
"It tried to eat this shoulder. So I killed it."
His voice is flat, calm, but filled with intimidation.
The guard takes a step back, no further questions.
The boy simply drops the crowbar and walks through the gate without another word.
***
An hour later…
The streets blur. His mind drifts. The boy stops at nearly every corner, trying to remember the way home like he's been gone for years.
"Ezlenmir Academy? Wasn't that up by... Blemlisk Hill?"
Luckily, one bus is still running.
He boards and slumps into a seat. Immediately, the other passengers, a group of eight girls in uniform, start whispering.
"I think I know this smell…"
"Isn't he that Seed E student?"
"The one who got peed on by Mathias Burke?"
"Ew..."
Their voices lower, but he hears them anyway, every whisper. The boy turns and looks, and that's all it takes. Their mouths close almost immediately. Silence spreads across the bus like a spell.
No one dares say another word, because this isn't just Irvine Donovan anymore. This is Livne Atniel, the Skywrath Comforter.
For a moment, everyone stays quiet, until the two girls sitting at the very back start whispering.
"He seems… odd. You sure he is just a Seed-E student?"
"Just look at how skinny he is. No matter how you slice it, he's still as useful as a used toilet paper."
Atniel tries to tune out the whispers circling behind him, but it's like they follow the tilt of his head. He looks back, they go quiet. The moment he shifts his gaze forward, the mockery swells again.
As a former holy knight, a wise philosopher who once upheld divine law, this grates on Irvine more than he'd like to admit. He knows this boy whose body he borrows has already endured so much. And these girls, they treat the boy's suffering as entertainment, like some grotesque little comedy.
"He's still got piss in his hair," one girl giggles behind a raised palm.
"I swear I can smell it," another rubs her nose with a cringed face.
"Mathias should've peed in his mouth," a girl tries to stifle a laugh.
"He probably liked it. Bet he's into that."
"That's the 'honor' of Seed E. Trash-born, piss-blessed."
Ultimately, their restrained snickering pushes Atniel over the edge.
"Be quiet!" he snaps, voice booming down the length of the bus.
The air seems to recoil. The windowpanes rattle from the force of it. Even the suspension creaks as the driver slams the brakes in surprise, lurching everyone forward with a groan of rubber and metal.
"Do you have any idea what this kid has gone through?!!"
Every head turns.
Only the driver, grizzled and unimpressed, glances up in the rearview mirror like he's too old to care what's going on behind him.
"Hey, kid! You gone nuts or something?"
Atniel blinks, only now remembering where he is, or more importantly, who he's pretending to be. This is a bus full of academy students. And he is currently inhabiting the body of the most ridiculed one among them.
Whispers bubble back to life as recognition sets in among the passengers.
"Elea, did you see that?" someone hisses.
"He's just a Seed E recruit, isn't he?"
The realization stings more than it should. Irvine is not the kind of boy anyone expects to lash out, let alone hurl a voice full of molten fury through a steel bus.
"Um, sorry…" Atniel raises his hands with a crooked, half-hearted smile. "Let's all just... forget I said anything. Maybe we enjoy the ride quietly, no more whispering, 'kay?"
But peace was never meant for this bus. A girl stands slowly from her seat with the deliberate grace of someone who expects to be obeyed.
"Elea…?"
"Oh, no! He's dead!"
Elea Adlen from mountain elf tribe, tall, lean, and glowing with athletic confidence, she draws the eyes of the entire cabin. Crimson hair tied back in a no-nonsense braid, golden eyes sharp as arrowheads. Her sleeveless battle vest reveals defined shoulders and a flat, muscular midriff.
Her thighs are bare beneath her extra-short military shorts, lined with the kind of lean muscle that speaks of rigorous combat training. She stares at him with the kind of disdain one might reserve for rotten food.
"You got something to say about how I talk to my friends, punk?"
Atniel gives her a slow, indifferent once-over. There's something unmistakably familiar in her bearing, the sharp posture, the proud tilt of her chin, and those pointed ears. Her calves are wrapped in thick white fur, almost like winter socks spun by some highland goat tailor.
He recognizes those traits, too well in fact. He remembers exactly when, where, and how they first appeared.
"That look… and that much arrogance," he mutters, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. "You must be a descendant of Princess Louisia."
Elea freezes for a moment, catching the subtle note of disdain in his voice. It's unmistakable, someone just spoke ill of her ancestor, the sainted matriarch of the mountain elves.
"What… what did you say?!"
One of the girls reaches to grab her arm. "Elea, don't! You'll cause a scene!"
Elea shrugs off the hand. "Shut up! This guy has just mocked my ancestor. He needs a lesson in manners!"
Atniel chuckles, shaking his head slowly. "Funny. A girl barely dressed for decency, yet she claims the right to lecture on virtue. Remarkable."
That does it. Elea hisses under her breath, her hand already going for her collar. From beneath the flap of her battle vest, she produces a compact military blade.
Atniel's brows twitch. "Oh, you wanna kill me now?"
But she simply slices her own thumb cleanly. The blood, still fresh, she smears across the small socket embedded at the tip of her collar, at a gem with nine triangular facets along its surface.
The moment her blood makes contact, she begins to chant, words ancient and foreign, twisted into the arcane rhythm of the demonic verses.
"Nueyr, Ceva Jegambuqam... Zafikag recijis jejuasamlal..."
Atniel's eyes narrow. He recognizes the tongue, recognizes the language.
"…Ci asar alaqag xamf recamf lelzaqa!"
The gem glows. One facet flares red, bright, momentary.
The passengers begin to panic as the air around Elea warps with heat. From her palm, a small flame ignites and spirals into form, compressing into a tight fiery sphere.
"Elea, stop!" a voice cuts through.
A girl, white-haired and cold-eyed, rises from her seat with barely veiled disgust. "You seriously used a soul charge of your gem... for him?"
Elea's lips curl into a grin. "It's just a cheap gem," she replies.
The white-haired girl's hands clench at her sides, but it's already too late.
"Emberflare Aetherstorm!" Elea roars, hurling the flame projectile.
Screams erupt. The bus fills with cries and scrambling limbs as the students duck and cower, most covering their heads, some close their eyes entirely.
Except for Atniel. He stands calmly, drawing spirit energy from the depth of his divine soul. A faint shimmer runs through his fingers, soft and stable.
But no one sees what happens next.
As the fireball rushes toward him, Atniel waits. Then, with a light, precise jab, with his knuckles barely grazing the air, he releases the built-up spirit heat.
Zff!
The fireball scatters, light erupting like broken glass in midair. His strike connects invisibly with its core.
And just like that, the fireball vanishes. There's no impact, only a burst of light and a few floating embers.
The students, still shielding their faces, assume it fizzled out. One even giggles nervously, thinking Elea must've messed up the chant.
"Eh…? Did she fail to conjure the fireball?"
But Elea knows better. Her smirk falters as she stares at the dying embers.
"What just… happened?"