Heavy, steady footsteps echoed through the long stone corridor.

  From around the corner emerged an elderly man—tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy, almost mischievous smile on his face. His thick silver hair was combed back, and his great white beard, long enough to reach his stomach, swayed gently with each step.

  This was Magister Duran himself.

  He walked along, whistling something under his breath, occasionally picking up the tune in a half-voice:

  “Mmm… mm-mmm… mmmmm…” he hummed as he turned into another corridor.

  The passage ended at a pair of massive doors—the Magisters’ Hall, where he usually worked. Duran raised his hand to grasp the iron handle, but suddenly stopped. Something on the floor caught his attention—a faint glint right at the threshold.

  “Hm? What’s this?” he muttered with interest and, with a soft grunt, lowered himself onto one knee.

  On the stone floor lay a vial filled with thick blue liquid, within which floated tiny fragments of mana ore. A sealed envelope was pinned beneath it.

  The playful smile vanished from Duran’s face. The wrinkles on his forehead deepened, and his crimson eyes narrowed.

  “What kind of joke is this…” he grumbled, reaching out and carefully lifting the vial.

  Then he picked up the envelope, brushing the dust off with care, and slowly straightened, his spine cracking audibly. For several moments he simply stood there, studying his find as if weighing which to inspect first—the vial or the letter.

  Curiosity won.

  “Let’s see what you are,” he murmured as he carefully removed the stopper.

  Inside shimmered the thick blue liquid—almost alive, viscous and dense, with glowing crystalline particles drifting slowly inside. A faint hum emanated from the vial, and the air around it seemed to thicken.

  Before taking a whiff, Duran frowned and thought:

  “Doubt it’s poison… but better to be careful.”

  He instantly stirred his mana—streams of energy coursed through his body, reinforcing muscle, lungs, and heart as they formed a thin protective barrier. A light sheen ran across his skin before fading.

  Taking a short breath, the old man slowly brought the vial to his nose and inhaled.

  His eyes widened at once, and his mouth parted slightly.

  “What a potent aroma!” he breathed, feeling the scent wrap around his mind—dense, rich, as if mana itself had taken on flavor.

  He focused at once, enveloping the vial with his mana as though “scanning” its contents. The magic drifted across the glass and brushed the liquid.

  And then his expression changed—surprise sharpened into shock.

  “What… an unbelievable concentration of mana…” he whispered, stunned. “How was this potion made?!”

  For a moment Duran stood motionless, staring into the vial as though trying to grasp the magnitude of what he was seeing. Then, with a sharp movement, he stoppered it and, without wasting a second, slid it into his spatial ring.

  His gaze shifted to the letter.

  “Even the Alchemists’ Guild doesn’t produce anything like this…” he muttered, already sensing that this was something far more serious than a prank. “Who could’ve left it here?”

  Duran turned abruptly and scanned the corridor. It was empty. No rustle, no motion—only the steady flicker of the enchanted lanterns along the walls.

  “No one nearby…” he murmured, narrowing his eyes.

  For several seconds the old man stood perfectly still, listening to the air—decades of experience honing instincts that rarely failed him. Only after confirming that there was neither a sound nor the faintest trace of foreign mana did he nod to himself and step briskly into the Magisters’ Hall.

  The doors closed behind him with a low rumble, cutting him off from the rest of the Academy wing.

  “All right… let’s see what kind of mystery you are,” he muttered as he made his way to his massive desk, cluttered with scrolls, crystals, and various tools.

  From a drawer he took a sharp knife with a silver blade and carefully pried up the wax seal. Click—the envelope yielded. The old man unfolded it, revealing two slips of paper.

  One was ordinary—thick, slightly yellowed with age.

  The other was strange: smooth to the touch, almost slick, glinting under the lamplight as if coated in a thin layer of oil or alchemical essence.

  Duran frowned as he lifted both sheets, immediately spotting writing on the ordinary one.

  “Don’t tell me this is the recipe for that potion…” he muttered, cautious excitement quickening his heartbeat.

  He angled the paper toward the light, squinting. The lines were written neatly, in a steady, educated hand—someone careful, but not hurried.

  Duran began to read aloud, his voice low and thoughtful:

  “You have friends who cannot reveal themselves yet, Duran. Friends who support your ideas—and do not support the Three Families…” He stopped, blinking. “If you wish to become a Jade Mage, press the second sheet to your forehead and channel mana into it. Before sunset, leave the used parchment by the ‘White Horse’ tavern. On its western wall there will be a marked brick hiding a cache. My unique mana potion is a gift—and a signal of my serious intentions.”

  He finished reading and remained frozen for several seconds, staring at the letter, feeling a mixture of disbelief and wariness.

  “A secret benefactor…?” he muttered at last with a grimace. “Sounds more like someone trying to bait me.”

  He reread the first line, frowning even deeper, then brought the page closer to his eyes.

  “I know many handwriting styles, but this one… I’ve never seen,” he grumbled.

  Turning his attention to the second, oil-slick sheet, Duran picked it up delicately between two fingers and held it up to the light. The paper shimmered faintly, and when he tilted it at an angle, faint lines appeared on the surface—thin, intertwined patterns.

  “A magic circle,” he said quietly, examining the parchment. “But the ink is strange—almost transparent… and it reacts to mana, I’d wager.”

  He ran a finger over one of the lines and added thoughtfully:

  “Strange… very strange…”

  Duran laid both sheets back on the table, though his gaze remained sharp and focused, as if the puzzle refused to let go of his mind. He stood like that for a few seconds, exhaled slowly, and once again reached toward his spatial ring.

  “I need to confirm this…” he murmured.

  He drew out the same vial, unstopped it, pressed a finger over the mouth, and gently shook it, watching the viscous substance swirl inside as though responding to his touch.

  “A single drop won’t poison me…” he said, eyeing the shimmering currents of light within.

  Lifting his finger, he glanced at the small bead of liquid clinging to its tip. He raised a brow, tugged lightly at his lower lip, and carefully touched the drop to the inside of his mouth.

  “Let’s see what you are…”

  A second passed. Then another. He waited—expecting the familiar tingling, maybe a bit of numbness, or the sharp burn typical of strong toxins. But instead…

  Suddenly a surge of mana flooded his mouth. Not a light spark, but a heavy wave—physical in its intensity. It felt as though pure energy slid across his tongue and rushed straight toward his heart.

  “What the…” Duran exhaled sharply, eyes widening. He staggered back, not in fear—but in astonishment.

  The pulse of mana intensified. Even such a tiny amount produced such an astonishing effect.

  “What kind of devilry is this?!” he snarled, staring at the vial as though it were some kind of miracle.

  And at that exact moment—knock, knock—came a firm rapping at the door.

  Duran jerked as if struck by lightning. Before he could react, the massive doors of the Hall began to open.

  “Damn!” he hissed, shoving the vial into his spatial ring at once. His movements were fast but tense.

  “Who dares—” he growled, ready to snap at whoever dared enter without permission.

  But in the next moment Kael appeared on the threshold. He looked calm, though one eyebrow lifted the instant he saw Duran, and a crooked smile spread across his face.

  “Did I come at a bad time?” he asked, a hint of awkwardness in his voice.

  The Magister let out a breath—then suddenly laughed, low and strained, bracing his palm against the table.

  “Ha! I was wondering who’d be bold enough to barge in uninvited,” he chuckled, masking the tightness in his voice.

  Kael’s grin widened.

  “You did give me permission, Magister,” he countered, with a faint, satisfied note.

  Duran waved a hand, his smile warming.

  “Sorry for barking at you, boy. You just startled me,” he said, rubbing his chest as if steadying his heartbeat. “Not many walk in here without a sound.”

  Stepping inside and pulling the doors shut, Kael replied with a laugh:

  “Really? I come by all the time.”

  Duran only shook his head—arguing with Kael was pointless.

  “Yes, yes,” he sighed, “you might be the only one who treats the Magisters’ Hall like a public corridor.”

  Kael smirked and said nothing, heading straight for the desk. His steps were steady, his gaze carrying a spark of mischief.

  “Magister Duran,” he began calmly, “who was that strange guest you had earlier?”

  Duran froze. The words struck him like a blade to the mind. His fingers, resting on the table’s edge, trembled slightly.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked almost mechanically, forcing his voice to stay steady.

  Kael didn’t seem to notice the shift. Or he pretended not to. He came closer, leaning on the back of the chair opposite as he continued with a sly half-smile:

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “I needed your guidance, so I decided to come early.” He paused, watching the old man’s face. “But on my way here, I saw a strange figure in a black cloak near the entrance.”

  A chill ran down Duran’s spine.

  Kael narrowed his eyes, his smile growing a touch wider:

  “I figured you were busy… with some secret business,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Was that one of our hidden allies?”

  Silence fell.

  Then, without warning, Duran lunged from his spot with such speed that the chair skidded across the floor.

  “What—” Kael barely managed to say before the old man stood right in front of him, gripping his shoulders with iron force.

  His grip was unyielding, his gaze sharp—almost frantic.

  “What did he look like?!” Duran demanded, his voice ringing with urgency. “Was it a man or a woman? Tall?!”

  Kael tensed instinctively, trying to pull back, but the old man held him fast.

  “U-uh… hell if I know,” he managed, blinking rapidly. “A cloaked figure, about your height…”

  Kael fell silent for a moment. Then, pressing his lips together slightly, he muttered:

  “Magister Duran… you’re scaring me.”

  The words cracked through the old man’s trance. His expression shifted—a flicker of realization crossing his eyes.

  “Damn…” he muttered, releasing Kael and stepping back. “Sorry, boy. It’s just…” He dragged a hand down his face, trying to steady his breath. “I found this under the door.”

  He turned sharply toward the table, snatched up the folded sheet, and extended it to Kael.

  “I can’t even guess who might have done this,” he said, his voice steadier now. “But the letter came with an unbelievably powerful elixir.”

  Kael raised a brow.

  “An elixir?”

  “Yes,” Duran nodded, glancing again at the letter. “And not a simple one. I don’t know a single person in Lasthold capable of creating something like it.”

  His voice dropped, becoming thoughtful:

  “Seems you saw whoever slipped it under the door… Sorry again for snapping at you.”

  “It’s nothing, don’t worry,” Kael answered calmly, taking the sheet.

  He lowered his gaze to the letter, pretending to see its contents for the first time. The handwriting remained the same—neat, confident, written by someone accustomed to deciding the fates of others.

  The more he read, the tenser his expression grew. Surprise—then a touch of shock—crossed his face.

  But behind the mask, a smirk began to form.

  “Duran, ever punctual… It wasn’t hard to time his arrival,” he noted inwardly, not letting a trace of thought show.

  Finishing the letter, he looked up.

  “Press the sheet to my forehead?” Kael repeated, sounding puzzled. “Magister Duran… I think I might’ve…”

  “You’ve heard of something like this?” Duran interrupted, alert, raising a brow.

  Kael shook his head, lips pressing together slightly, as if in thought.

  “No. Haven’t heard,” he corrected after a pause. “But I’ve seen something similar in passing while looking for material to translate.”

  Duran lifted his chin, intrigued.

  “In which texts, exactly?”

  “The text was incomplete,” Kael continued evenly, narrowing his eyes a little, as though recalling. “It described a ritual… determining the destinies of the younger generations of the Abyssal Shadow Empire. They pressed certain sheets to their foreheads as well, but no detailed explanation was provided.”

  He paused briefly, casting another glance at the strange, oil-slick parchment in Duran’s hands.

  “I don’t know who slipped this to you, but whoever it was clearly knows a lot…”

  “Determining the destiny of the younger generations…” Duran murmured, studying the sheet.

  He lifted his gaze to Kael, something between doubt and fascination flickering in the red eyes.

  “You’ve got good instincts, Kael,” he said with a small nod. “You always manage to find promising texts to translate.”

  He turned the slick parchment between his fingers, watching the lamplight skim the invisible lines.

  “What do you think? Should I try it?”

  Kael gave him a crooked smile, shaking his head.

  “Magister, don’t put the responsibility on me…” he said with a soft, teasing tone—though his voice held genuine interest.

  Then he lowered his voice slightly:

  “But I’d be lying if I said I’m not intrigued. I’d try it, myself…”

  Duran frowned, his gaze sharpening. He stood for a few seconds in silence, studying the sheet as though trying to sense something hidden.

  “Control seals and contracts,” he began at last, “always require a blood bond. Destructive seals, on the other hand, contain a dense mana reservoir inside…”

  He lifted the parchment closer to his eyes.

  “And this one barely has any mana at all—no pressure, no trace of concealed energy.”

  Sensing the perfect moment, Kael asked quietly:

  “So… most likely no danger?”

  “Hm…” The old man nodded, still studying the paper. “Most likely.”

  Kael stayed silent for a few seconds, watching how the excitement in Duran’s red eyes grew with every breath. Then, narrowing his gaze just slightly, he said:

  “Do you want me to try it myself?”

  “Are you out of your mind?!” Duran barked so sharply the air itself trembled. “I’m a Gold Mage—at least I’ll be able to react if something goes wrong!”

  He waved a hand furiously, looking at Kael with irritation and concern at once.

  “What would I even tell your parents if you died here in my office?”

  Kael immediately backed away, raising his hands a little.

  “Right… fair point…” he muttered, sounding sheepish. “Didn’t think that through…”

  Outwardly he looked embarrassed, even flustered—but his eyes gleamed for a brief, predatory instant.

  “Duran’s mind is too lively… too curious…” A cold thought flickered within him. “I’ve studied him well. He won’t resist the temptation.”

  And as if responding directly to that thought, Duran exhaled heavily, shook his head, and squared his shoulders in one decisive motion.

  “Fine…” he said, sounding like a man giving in to his own temptation. “If anything happens to me—run for help immediately!”

  Kael snapped to attention, straightening a bit theatrically.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Good.” Duran gave a curt nod, lifting the parchment.

  He drew a deep breath, gathered mana into his fingers, and slowly pressed the sheet to his forehead.

  For a moment, everything froze. The air grew thicker; the lamps trembled faintly.

  Then—a flash!

  The magical circle on the parchment burst into silver-white light, the lines coming alive, flowing like molten metal.

  Kael and Duran both held their breath, bracing for the worst.

  But instead of an explosion or surge, the lines began to move.

  They streamed toward the center of the parchment as if they were alive—thin strands of light weaving together into intricate patterns, then collapsing inward, compressing in a single point.

  “Are you all right? Does it hurt?” Kael shouted, stepping forward, ready to spring toward the Magister.

  Duran tilted his head slightly, without lifting his finger from the sheet.

  “N-no…” he exhaled hoarsely, his voice tinged with surprise. “But… this is strange…”

  A second passed. Another. The light slowly faded. Where the glowing runes had been, new lines emerged—thin, interwoven, like an image rising out of nothing.

  Kael froze, eyes locked on the parchment. He watched as the picture formed, anticipation stirring inside him.

  Finally, the glow vanished entirely, as if nothing had happened.

  Duran blinked, as though snapping out of a trance, and carefully pulled the sheet from his forehead.

  “What the…” he began, examining it.

  Kael didn’t wait—he stepped forward quickly, leaning in to look over the old man’s arm.

  “What is it?” he asked, frowning.

  Duran only shook his head, his brows knitting tighter.

  “I’d very much like to know myself…” he muttered, unable to tear his gaze from the strange image now etched into the parchment.

  In the old man’s hands lay a sheet marked with a peculiar drawing—its edges blurred, as if veiled in mist.

  The drawing itself was a heart, but its surface wasn’t smooth. It was folded, lined with deep grooves reminiscent of brain convolutions.

  From the heart’s center glowed a crimson spark—tiny yet vivid, shining from within. Thin, almost transparent wisps of mist rose from it, twisting like living threads before dissolving into the air.

  Duran stared at the symbol with a mixture of confusion and fascination.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this…” he whispered.

  Kael stood beside him, head slightly tilted, wearing an expression of polite, scholarly interest. His gaze was calm, contemplative.

  But inside, triumph roared.

  “Yes! It worked!” he shouted inwardly, his lips nearly twitching with satisfaction.

  “The Mist-Heart of Mind…” he continued more calmly, with a note of inner approval. “A soul befitting Duran… or Duran befitting his soul. A fitting match.”

  While the old man carefully studied the parchment, Kael lowered his eyes as if merely thinking—and silently plunged into a cold, precise stream of calculations:

  “Now I just need to choose a suitable Canon for him. Of everything I know, three would fit Duran…”

  He inhaled lightly, restoring outward focus, and finished the thought:

  “All that’s left is to wait for him to leave and slip him the information. Tonight. Before he has time to place guards at the entrance to the Magisters’ Hall.”

  Kael lifted his gaze—his amber eyes flashing with a soft gleam before settling back into the calm attentiveness of a curious student.

  After another pause, he gently broke the silence:

  “Will you be taking it… to the designated place?” he asked with subtle uncertainty, as if the question had slipped out by accident.

  Duran tore himself away from the parchment, thinking for a moment. His fingers, still gripping the sheet, slowly relaxed.

  “Yes… I do want to know what all this means,” he replied quietly, still staring at the strange image. “And it’s also a good opportunity to observe whoever comes to retrieve it from the drop point…”

  Kael smiled and, to lighten the mood, joked:

  “And you’ll tell me what you find out afterwards?”

  Duran snorted and nudged him lightly in the ribs.

  “We’ll see,” he said with a squint. “You’ve already stuck your nose far enough into this, you little troublemaker.”

  Kael laughed, playing along with the ease of the moment.

  “Well, since you’re so stingy,” he countered, “I won’t dare meddle in your affairs anymore.”

  But the next instant his expression shifted—just a touch. He took a controlled breath before speaking in a calmer, more businesslike tone:

  “Magister, I understand you have more pressing matters at the moment…” he began, stepping toward the table. “But I actually came to consult you about a translation. I’d like to take this scroll to work on.”

  With a smooth gesture, a scroll glimmering faintly with silver light emerged from his spatial ring.

  “What do you think? If it’s suitable, I’d prefer to begin immediately,” Kael continued, meeting the old man’s gaze. “And you’ll be free to think everything over. Honestly, I don’t want to get in your way.”

  He offered the scroll, the movement neither rushed nor nervous—simply respectful and confident.

  Duran accepted it almost automatically, not fully aware of the motion. His mind was still trapped in the puzzle of the drawing and the letter, not in routine assignments. Yet habit took over—his fingers unrolled the parchment, and his eyes scanned the lines and symbols.

  “Hm…” he murmured absently, glancing over the text. Clearly, his attention was anywhere but here—his thoughts churned around the phenomenon of the drawing and the elixir, trying to slot it into analysis, theory, hypotheses.

  Several seconds passed before he seemed to remember Kael’s presence and said:

  “Good choice. You may begin deciphering.”

  Kael bowed slightly, offering a soft smile.

  “Thank you. Then I won’t distract you further.”

  “Mm,” Duran nodded, already turning back to the table. Then, as if remembering something, he added with a faint smile, “If I learn something interesting… fine, I’ll tell you later.”

  Kael seized the cue instantly, his face brightening with a touch of theatrical enthusiasm as he lifted his hands.

  “Thank you, Magister Duran! I knew you wouldn’t let my young mind starve from ignorance!”

  Duran burst into genuine laughter, warm and tired—the kind he reserved only for those he truly valued.

  “Go on, get out of here,” he said with a wave, still laughing.

  Kael bowed, turned, and headed toward the door. Behind him, Duran’s quiet, pondering mumbling resumed—the old man had already sunk back into the mystery of the crimson-hearted parchment.

  “My apologies for deceiving you. But it’s for your own good… and perhaps a little for mine,” Kael noted inwardly, without looking back.

  ? ? ?

  Leaving the Magisters’ Hall, Kael quietly pulled the massive doors closed behind him.

  He paused for a moment, gazing at the heavy slabs, and the corners of his lips lifted into a sly smirk.

  Then he straightened, letting a carefree, almost absentminded expression settle over his face, and set off down the long corridor with an easy gait. Under the vaulted ceiling, the echo of his steps spread—calm and measured, like a student who had just been given an assignment and was now mulling over the work ahead.

  But his eyes… in his amber eyes shone a different light—sharp, cold, alive.

  “Today, only Magister Duran is here…” ran through his mind, precise and calculated. “I need to prepare the Canon of Magic for him and slip it to him as soon as he goes to deliver the Soul Definition Talisman to the designated spot. Then he’ll have a chance to break through to the Jade Mage stage quickly…”

  He smirked faintly as he passed a stained-glass window where the reflections of morning light danced.

  “…and I’ll gain a truly powerful patron.”

  Kael turned the corner. His footsteps faded, swallowed by the silence of the corridors. Only a faint echo lingered for a few moments, accompanying his departure.

  ? ? ?

  Behind the thick doors of the hall, unaware of his student’s schemes, Magister Duran still stood at the table, absorbed in studying the crimson heart.

  “What could this mean? A hint? Or a sign from some secret group of benefactors?” he murmured thoughtfully.

  Stowing the sheet into his spatial ring, he added inwardly:

  “If this ‘benefactor’ named the cache’s location, then he understands I can track whoever retrieves it. Maybe that’s exactly what he wants?”

  With these thoughts, the old man sat down at his desk, sinking into deep contemplation.