Silver Star City awakened to a rhythm utterly distinct from Cinder Town. There was no crude roaring from a Steam Core, nor the husky bellow of a furnace; instead, a low, regular hum, like the steady, powerful heartbeat of the colossal city itself, resonated from deep underground. The milky-white Aetheric Shield filtered the harsher sunlight, allowing a soft, cold light to spill into the room, glistening faintly on the polished obsidian floor and metal-inlaid furniture.
Elara Thorne stood by the curved crystal window, looking down at the Academy city, which functioned with the precision of a complex instrument. Cog-Powered Public Transit glided silently along elevated tracks. Students in various faction uniforms moved like pre-programmed components, flowing along fixed pathways toward different towers and halls. Everything was impeccably orderly, frighteningly clean. She unconsciously traced a faint, barely perceptible, Aetheric Ripple on the ornate carving of the window frame—one of the many surveillance arrays Kaelan had set up. This opulent tower room was less a residence and more an exquisite cage, woven from concern and control.
She put on her uniform. The fabric was soft and comfortable, yet it felt like a second skin, clinging to her, a constant reminder of her adopted identity. Today was her first official day at Silver Star Academy. Her timetable, delivered by a stonily impassive Academy servant the night before, listed the first lecture as Kingdom History and the Genesis of the Abyss, to be held in the main tower's Amphitheater Lecture Hall.
Crossing the sky bridge that connected the Weaver's Gallery to the main tower, Elara felt countless eyes sweep over her. There was curiosity, assessment, the faint condescension directed at her simple uniform, and also… the more complicated emotions stemming from her widely known connection to Kaelan Blackwood, mixed with envy, scrutiny, and disdain. She kept her head down, quickening her pace, hiding herself in the hurried crowd, her spirit taut as a bowstring. Here, every step risked exposure.
The Amphitheater Lecture Hall was vast and awe-inspiring. The high dome ceiling was painted with murals of star charts and legendary heroes, but the colors were somber, many faces blurred by the erosion of time. The tiers of seating, crafted from dark wood and metal, were filled with freshmen. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, dried ink, and a faint, ozone-like residue of accumulated Aether. Elara found a spot near the back, close to the shadows, and minimized her presence.
The students conversed in low whispers that formed a vague echo beneath the cavernous dome. She saw several young men and women, visibly adorned and arrogant, surrounded by cliques—clearly from prominent families. She also saw commoner students, like herself, dressed plainly, their eyes alight with nervousness and aspiration. The lines of class distinction had been silently drawn the moment they entered the hall.
A bell tolled, low and solemn. All conversation immediately ceased.
An elderly man slowly walked onto the central circular dais. He was tall, but his back was severely hunched, as if bearing an invisible, immense weight. He wore a deep gray Professor's robe, old but meticulously clean, the cuffs frayed at the edges. His face was etched with deep, trench-like wrinkles. One eye was a normal gray-blue, but the other had been replaced by a complex, bronze Clockwork Eye that constantly adjusted its focus with a faint whirring of tiny gears. Most striking was his exposed right hand—not flesh and blood, but an intricate Bronze Prosthetic Hand, its joints faintly glowing with Aetheric energy, its metallic fingers occasionally tapping the surface of the dais with a sharp, clear clack.
"I am Professor Croft," his voice was raspy, yet carried an undeniable authority, as if forged in countless battles and years, "and I am responsible for ensuring you fledglings understand why the soil beneath your feet is soaked with blood, and why the barrier above your heads even exists."
He did not open a heavy tome or use any projection crystals. His Clockwork Eye swept over the audience, and every student it rested upon involuntarily straightened their back.
"Forget the fairy tales you've heard," Croft's voice was cold as ice. "The history of The Iron Anvil Kingdom is not an epic of heroes; it is a… survival record. A messy, stained medical chart documenting how we crawled back from the brink of oblivion, time and time again."
He began his narrative, using no flowery language, only cold, brutal facts.
He described the legendary Forging Era before The Great Collapse—a time when the skies were blue, the rivers clean, and a powerful Aetheric civilization nearly reached the stars. Yet, this wasn't destroyed by war or cataclysm; it was due to a "Cognitive Carcinoma."
"The Shadow Abyss… that is what we call it, but it is not a place," Professor Croft's mechanical eye flashed with cold light. "It is more like an alien rule eroding reality. An alternative logic seeking to weave our world into another, cold, stagnant order. Its source, the entity known as The Eternal Weaver, Erebos-Apophis, desires not destruction, but… conversion. To reshape life, memory, hope—everything that constitutes us—into components that comply with its logic of absolute obedience."
He traced an arc in the air with his Bronze Prosthetic Hand, and the faint Aetheric glow outlined a shifting, distorted pattern, simulating how the fabric of reality was permeated and rewritten by this heterogeneous rule.
"The Blight is not a poison, but the manifestation of this alien rule in our reality. It directly assaults the essence of all things, especially the source of our power—the Stellar Core—causing its corruption. More frighteningly, the Abyss knows that a unified civilization cannot be destroyed by pure violence. Its ultimate strategy is to hollow us out from within. It exploits our ambition, fear, despair, and greed for power, tempting us to willingly embrace its rules, turning resisters into its… Harbingers."
The Professor's voice grew heavier, laced with a deep weariness. "However, this erosion is not constant. It is like a tide, with peaks and troughs. The Great Collapse was the last, and most ferocious, high tide. Afterwards, for reasons unknown, its power seemed to wane, granting us the respite needed to erect The Star-Dome Shield. But recent signs indicate that the Abyss's 'wave' is rising once more. And we… are far from ready."
He paused, his Clockwork Eye scanning the young, anxious faces.
"One theory suggests that the power of The Star-Dome Shield might rebound against the Weaver's higher-dimensional body, forcing its assaults to be intermittent. Other, older records, deemed heretical, hint that The Eternal Weaver itself may have suffered severe damage in a higher-plane war we cannot comprehend, causing the fluctuation in its control… But these are mere conjectures, vague outlines in the dark. The truth is far deeper, and far… darker, than what we know."
"The reason we can still sit here," Croft's voice sank lower, "is not due to valor, but… sacrifice. Enormous, unceasing sacrifice."
He spoke of The Star-Dome Shield—no natural sanctuary, but a precarious dome erected by the founding Dean of Silver Star Academy and the Chief of The Association, who activated ancient Obelisks at the cost of their own lives and souls.
"And to maintain it…" Croft's Bronze Prosthetic Hand clenched suddenly, emitting a grating metallic screech. "Requires energy. Vast amounts of it. The Fuelium mines are the blood, but they are not enough… far from it. Thus, every year, a number of 'volunteers'… or convicts, are connected to the base of the Obelisks until their Stellar Cores are utterly consumed, transforming into the 'fuel' that keeps the barrier burning. This is The Annual Conscription, the Kingdom's highest secret, and the price for our collective… existence."
The Amphitheater Lecture Hall was plunged into a deadly silence. Even breathing became audible. Some students were pale, their eyes filled with incredulous horror. The children of great families, though attempting composure, betrayed their internal turmoil with tightly clenched fists.
Elara felt a chilling coldness creep up her spine. She finally understood that the suffering of Cinder Town was merely the most insignificant microcosm of this vast tragedy. The cruelty of this world far surpassed her imagination. The supposed glory of the Aether-Adepts concealed such a bloody law of survival. Kaelan wanted to protect her, to shelter her under his wing, but against this dark tide sweeping the world, personal patronage was small and laughable.
"You are fortunate," Professor Croft broke the silence, his Clockwork Eye sweeping over every young, fearful face. "You were born beneath the shield, spared from confronting the deepest darkness. But do not forget, the shield is weakening, and rifts continue to appear. Your mission is not to become heroes, but… to survive, and, to allow more people to survive. Use your strength to reinforce this fragile bulwark, even if only to extend its existence by a day, an hour."
"That is all for today's lecture. Remember," he turned and walked toward the exit, his figure desolate, "history is not for pride; it is for caution. We are not destined for victory; we are merely… not yet annihilated."
After the Professor left, the hall remained in a deathly silence, only gradually broken by the scraping of chairs and hushed whispers. Students dispersed, most wearing expressions of heavy confusion and dread.
Elara was the last to leave. She walked the empty corridor, Croft's words pressing down on her heart like cold lead. The truth of the world was so despairing that personal loves and feuds seemed infinitely small before it. Yet, she felt no breakdown; instead, a strange calm began to grow within her.
She touched the hard cover of the disguised Rotting Earth Codex hidden in her tunic. The official history was only the tip of the iceberg. The knowledge monopolized by The Magic Association might also be a barrier of sorts, used to calm hearts and maintain order. Did the true secrets, the knowledge labeled forbidden, such as the power of the Witch's Path, harbor possibilities unknown even to the Association and Professor Croft?
Kaelan wanted her to live safely within the shield, like a carefully nurtured bird in a cage. But at this moment, Elara realized more clearly than ever that true safety was never granted by others. To break her chains and claim her destiny, she must possess the power to shake this desperate reality.
She looked up at the milky-white shield that perpetually enveloped the city outside the corridor window. It was both protection and segregation. And beyond that barrier, beneath the endless shadow of history and the threat of the future, a path far more dangerous, yet perhaps leading to true freedom, was slowly emerging in her mind.
She had to become stronger. Not along the path planned by the Academy and Kaelan, but along the forbidden road, hidden in the rot and shadow, that belonged to the Witch. This was no longer just the instinct for survival; it was born from a deeper desire to glimpse the truth, and perhaps even… challenge fate itself.
The weight of history was known, and the shadow of the future awaited her strength to dispel it.