No one could remember the last time all seven members of the Seven Crow Council had gathered in one place. But tonight, beneath a pitch-black sky devoid of stars or sound, they were all present.
The room was vast and hauntingly majestic. Towering white pillars surrounded them, exuding an ancient and unfamiliar aura. Despite its grandeur, the air was unnaturally still, frozen in reverence. No one spoke. No one moved. All eyes were fixed on the figure seated at the far end of the chamber—the Director, whose face and intentions remained hidden behind a mask.
None dared to sit. None dared to speak without permission.
Only the Director had that right.
His presence was suffocating—like a dense fog that blanketed the room. He wore a long black coat over a pristine white shirt. A featureless mask concealed his face, while black gloves covered his hands, as if severing every tie to the world beyond.
At his left stood a man of striking presence—Joseph Lartius, the Crow of Pride. With sharp, regal features, long white hair streaked with black, and a gray-black suit beneath the formal white cloak of the Council, he exuded both elegance and command. His eyes glanced briefly at the Director, waiting for a signal.
With the faintest flick of the Director's finger, Joseph was granted leave to speak.
"Esteemed members and brothers of the Seven Crow Council," Joseph began, his voice calm and composed, "tonight marks a moment we thought would never come. After so long, we are gathered again—by the grace of the Great Director, who has allowed this reunion."
A cold, sharp voice sliced through the stillness.
"Spare us the ceremony, Sir Pride. I'm only showing restraint because His Eminence the Director is present," said Luther Morelle—the Crow of Gluttony. A vampire of unnerving beauty, with alabaster skin, crimson eyes, and silver-white hair, his presence was unsettling. His thirst for blood was insatiable. There wasn't a day he went without it.
"Sir Gluttony," came a smooth, chilling voice—Odresa Vareid, Crow of Greed. The elven woman stood tall, her violet eyes calm and calculating, her long white hair flowing like water. "I suggest you not interrupt while others are speaking."
Luther gave a low, amused chuckle. "Forgive me, Madam Greed. I have little patience for empty speeches. There are... other appetites to satisfy."
"Such as draining four barrels of blood a day?" came a lazy, mocking tone.
The Crow of Sloth, Lernord, a massive Bearkin Beastkin, leaned against a pillar. His scarred face and shaggy brown hair matched his disheveled appearance. A worn beard and twitching bear ears completed the image of someone who cared little for refinement.
"Silence, you lumbering mutt!" Luther snapped. "You know nothing of blood. To vampires, it is more than sustenance—it is luxury. Culture."
Lernord gave a booming laugh. "You call me lazy, yet you spend your days in silk robes, lounging with wine and blood dripping down your chin."
"What!? How dare—!"
The Director lifted a finger.
Silence fell like a guillotine—immediate, absolute, suffocating.
Luther and Lernord froze. One wrong move could mean death.
Joseph exhaled quietly and cleared his throat. "Thank you, Sir Gluttony. Sir Sloth. For your... composure. Let me remind you, this meeting was not summoned by me. It is a direct order from the Director himself. If any among you take issue, feel free to speak—directly to him."
No one moved.
No one dared.
Even Richard, the Crow of Wrath, remained quiet.
"Very well," Joseph said. "If there are no objections, let the Director speak for himself."
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
Even those not part of the Seven whispered in shock.
The Director never spoke directly.
He issued orders through Joseph.
This was unprecedented.
"Silence," Joseph commanded.
The Director slowly rose to his feet.
The atmosphere thickened. The night outside darkened, as if responding to him.
When he spoke, his voice was deep, hoarse—like it echoed from the abyss.
"For centuries… we have remained in the shadows. The world exalts the light, worships the day, as though salvation comes only in radiance. But hope… is a lie."
All heads bowed in reverence.
"They forget… that before light, there was darkness."
"There is no truth… but that of the Dark Lord Kholeus. He is the one who will show us the path—the true path—one of inevitable destruction. We are the truth the world denies. We are the face of reality."
He stepped forward.
And then, solemnly, he began to call each member names of Seven Crow Council—like a ritual:
"Crow of Pride, Joseph Lartius."
Joseph bowed respectfully.
"Crow of Greed, Odresa Vareid."
Odresa bowed gracefully.
"Crow of Wrath, Richard Theodore."
Richard remains standing still.
"Crow of Envy, Nomura Hiko."
Nomura bowed gracefully. She was elegance made flesh—an Eastern woman with piercing red eyes, blue hair tied neatly, and a white serpent coiled gently around her neck. Serene... but lethal.
"Crow of Sloth, Lernord."
Lernord did not bow, he smiled.
"Crow of Gluttony, Luther Morelle."
Luther bowed in fear.
"Crow of Lust, Shizumi."
Shizumi, a Foxkin, stood still yet radiated magnetic danger. With soft pink hair and seven elegant tails, her beauty was mesmerizing. Her fox ears twitched as the Director spoke her name.
"Seven Crow Council... you are chosen. You will lead the mortal world to the truth of the Dark Lord Kholeus. We—Nox Crow—shall gather the Eight Lesser Keys, from the Sword of Origin, Pendragon to the Book of Ataraxia."
"We will obtain them by any means necessary. Even if it requires sacrifice... even if it costs your lives."
"Let the world cry. Let them kneel before their silent gods. For tonight… history will be rewritten—in blood."
He raised his hand.
"All of you… sons and daughters of the dark..."
His voice rang through the void—booming, final.
"Prepare yourselves.
The world will remember our name...
Not as shadows...
But as the hand that brings the end of days."
***
In the vast open grasslands, a strong wind swept through, carrying a refreshing chill. The sky stretched wide in a flawless blue canvas, decorated with birds chirping and perching on tree branches, interacting in the peaceful rhythm of nature.
Suddenly—
BOOM!
A deafening explosion shook the earth and sky, sending the birds scattering in panic. The source of the blast was Alaric Nightwork, demonstrating Fire Magic to Adrian Nightwork. The aftermath left a scorched patch of ground, with singed grass marking the blast radius.
"That was a spell called Flame Burst from Fire Magic," Alaric said, gazing at the charred ground. "Flame Burst creates a small-scale explosion of fire that incinerates anything within its area."
"That… was incredible," Adrian muttered, eyes still locked on the scorched earth.
Alaric let out a light chuckle at his reaction. "That's still a basic spell. Flame Burst is nothing compared to Fire Typhoon or Hellfire Bomb."
Then his expression turned serious as he looked at Adrian. "Your first test will be to discover your own element. Every Mage must at least be able to wield one or two elements. Your element… reflects who you truly are."
Adrian, still new to the world of Aterra, recalled reading about the five Basic Elements: Fire, Earth, Water, Wind, and Thunder. Beyond those were the Extra Elements, including Ice, Plant, Light, and Dark.
"How do I find out what my element is?" Adrian asked, puzzled.
Alaric grinned at his confusion. "Normally, a Mage discovers it over time while learning magic. But there's a technique used by seers like myself. It's called Concentration."
"Consecration?" Adrian frowned slightly.
"Yes. Consecration is like meditation, but deeper. Through it, you project your spiritual self beyond your body—connecting directly to the Spirit World."
"Astral Projection?" Adrian asked instinctively.
Alaric stroked his long white beard, impressed. "Hmm… Not exactly, but you're not wrong either. Astral Projection is a form of Consecration. But more precisely, Consecration allows your spirit to enter the Spirit World. That's why sometimes, it feels like your soul actually leaves your body."
Adrian nodded quickly. "So… how do I do it?"
"Impatient, huh? Good. That's a quality most young mages lack," Alaric said with a smirk. "First, you don't have to sit cross-legged, but it does help with your focus."
Adrian sat cross-legged on the grass, still fresh and green despite the scorched patch nearby. The cool wind soothed his thoughts as he closed his eyes.
"Next step: set your intention. Focus your heart and will on connecting to the Spirit World. All magic—everything mystical—begins with intent and belief."
Adrian understood. He began repeating the phrase silently in his mind:
'Let me connect with the Spirit World.'
'Let me connect with the Spirit World.'
'Let me connect with the Spirit World.'
Suddenly, his body felt compressed from all directions. Darkness consumed his vision. He felt a mixture of sensations—like being pinched, shocked, and swept by a chilling wind—all at once, as if another world had just brushed against his existence.
"You... you can open your eyes now," Alaric's voice came hesitantly.
Adrian opened them.
Alaric's face showed a hint of shock. The area around them looked like it had been hit by a storm. The previously calm wind had stirred into chaos, though it was now beginning to settle.
"I think you already have an idea what your element is, Adrian," Alaric said.
Still, Adrian hesitated. The signs were obvious, but he didn't want to assume.
"You've been blessed with the element of Wind, Adrian," Alaric said, stroking his beard. "It's an ideal element for beginners—fast, flexible, and unpredictable."
Adrian nodded slowly. "So I only have one element?"
Alaric chuckled. "Now hold on—I'm not done."
He gave Adrian a look full of meaning.
"Your second element... is Thunder. And that one—" Alaric's voice grew low with awe—"is incredibly rare… and incredibly hard to master."
"Hard to master, you say? Do you mean the Thunder element is difficult for a beginner like me?" Adrian asked, his face falling with disappointment he couldn't quite hide.
Alaric gave a cryptic smile, as if savoring the moment. "Yes… you could say that. Thunder is wild, swift, and unforgiving. To control it, you need sharp reflexes, unwavering focus, and a will of iron. That's why not many beginners can handle it."
He looked up at the sky for a moment, then back at Adrian. "But don't get the wrong idea. Difficult doesn't mean impossible. In this world, everything begins with one thing—intent. Without it, you wouldn't have come this far. Have you ever heard a quote from Antiphus?"
Adrian, bearing the knowledge from the real Adrian Nightwork, he recognized the name instantly.
Antiphus—the Father of General Thaumaturgy. A legendary figure whose foundational theories shaped all magic in the current era, the Fifth Age. He had revolutionized arcane knowledge, turning what was once impossibly complex into something attainable.
"Of course I know who he is," Adrian replied, his eyes locking onto Alaric's. "But which quote are you referring to? He had more than a few famous lines."
Alaric gave a slow nod. "That's what made him great. But my favorite is this: 'All things begin with intent. If your intent is true, you will not give up easily. You will only stop… when you're truly convinced it's impossible.'"
The words flowed from Alaric's lips gently, but they carried a force that stirred the soul.
The wind passed by them softly, as if offering its approval.
Adrian gave a small smile, the meaning settling inside him. "Maybe… he had a point." Then his eyes narrowed, suspicious. "Wait… you lived during his time, didn't you? The Second Age?"
Alaric's smile turned nostalgic, as though leafing through pages of an old, dusty book. "Indeed. I met him once. We were both students of First Mage Igathi."
"Students of Igathi?" Adrian's eyes widened. "Then why didn't you interact with Antiphus more?"
"Because I arrived late," Alaric said with a shrug. "He was already old when I began my training. Not long after, he passed away… just before the Primordial War began. During the Golden Era."
Adrian fell silent, trying to wrap his mind around the expanse of time between them. But it made sense—the Second Age spanned nearly two millennia.
Alaric chuckled. "Besides, I wasn't Igathi's student for long. Barely twenty years."
"Twenty years is 'not long' to you?" Adrian raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
Alaric laughed. "Compared to my long life, yes. But not because I was skilled. I simply… changed mentors."
"Mentor?" Adrian's curiosity flared. 'Who could possibly replace Igathi—and be the one to guide Alaric to become an Archmage?'
"Who was your new teacher?" he asked eagerly.
"Ah… he preferred to remain anonymous," Alaric answered, waving a hand through the air as though brushing away a secret. "He liked to work in the shadows. Obsessed with magic—like me. He might be dead by now… I don't really know."
His voice was light, but the reverence behind his words was unmistakable.
Alaric exhaled deeply, his eyes drifting across the rolling fields before them. "Hard to believe I've lived this long. I once fought in the Primordial War. And now… here I am, sitting with my grandson."
Adrian gave a soft laugh. "Honestly, I'm still having a hard time believing you're my grandfather."
"So… you still don't see me that way?" Alaric asked in a mock-hurt tone, complete with a dramatic pout.
Adrian shrugged. "How could I? I only met you yesterday."
And yet, strangely, he didn't feel awkward at all.
Maybe it was Rafael's influence from his past life—he had interacted with many people on Earth. That openness had followed him into this world as Adrian Nightwork.
"Yeah… you're right. It is sudden," Alaric murmured, letting out another long breath.
They sat in silence, letting the midday breeze kiss their faces. The sky stretched endlessly above them, birds chirped lazily in the distance, and the tall grass swayed gently under the golden sunlight.
Suddenly, Adrian stood up, energized.
"All right!" he exclaimed. "What other tests do I have to pass to enter Glesonia Academy? I'm sure there's more, right?"
His eyes blazed—full of fire, purpose, and unrelenting curiosity. Alaric looked up at him, and for a fleeting moment, he saw someone else—
A gentle smile… eyes that never gave up… green irises glowing like torches in the dark.
"You… look just like your father," he whispered.