Chapter 4
A week had passed since I joined Thalorion Arcanum.
Classes had settled into a steady rhythm—Mana Manipulation in the morning, Combat Theory in the afternoon, and Arcane Fundamentals in the evening. For most students, it was a dream. For me, it was a blur.
Nothing unusual had happened. No more arena duels. No more curious glances. Just endless lectures, sparring drills, and mana control exercises.
But today was different.
Today, I needed to visit the old place Sebastian had told me about—the one near the academy city where my parents once spent their days.
"If you ever want to learn who your parents really were," he'd told me, "go there. They loved that place. If anyone knows what happened to them… it'll be the owner. He's been alive longer than most trees."
I stared out the window of the classroom, letting my senses stretch outward. Surface thoughts drifted from the students around me—nervous mutterings about exams, boredom, crushes, half-formed spells.
But minds like Elara's always stood out.
I glanced down a few rows. She sat silently, arms crossed, her face a cold mask. Her silver-white hair shimmered in the morning light.
Focus.
I probed gently.
"He's clueless again. I swear, if Kaelthorn asks, he's screwed."
Her thoughts were sharp, precise—and she had been paying attention.
"Zevir, where are you looking?" came a rough, hoarse voice.
I flinched. "Shit," I muttered under my breath, straightening in my seat.
Professor Kaelthorn—an Archmage ranked seventh in the Hierarchy—stood at the front of the room, arms folded. His beard crackled faintly with static mana, and his violet eyes glowed with irritation.
"What did you say, Mr. Zevir?"
I stood awkwardly. "Ah—nothing, sir."
He tilted his head. "Then perhaps you wouldn't mind explaining what I just covered a few minutes ago?"
I glanced at the board. Erased.
I reached out toward Kaelthorn's mind… but it was like trying to peer through an obsidian wall. Nothing. A dense mana field wrapped his thoughts tight, impenetrable.
I scanned the room again—back to Elara.
"Magician draws energy inward. Warrior directs it outward. Core versus conduit. Basic."
I caught the thought and repeated it.
"You were explaining the differences between magicians and warriors," I said calmly. "Specifically how a magician draws energy from within, through their core, while a warrior channels their energy into their body and weapon."
Kaelthorn raised an eyebrow. "Not bad. At least you were half listening."
The class snickered.
I sat down quietly, ignoring the curious glances. Elara didn't look back at me—but her thoughts whispered: "He's good. Smarter than he lets on."
Maybe.
⸻
Later that day, as students filed out of the lecture hall and golden afternoon light spilled through the windows, I packed my things slowly.
"Hey."
I turned. Zephyr Mooncaller approached, hands in his coat pockets, a faint grin on his lips. His usual smug confidence danced around him like static.
"We're going for a car race today," he said. "Off-campus, just past the Arcanum gates. You want to come?"
His thoughts floated up:
"Bet he'll say no. Too serious. Too focused."
I smiled faintly. "I'll join."
He blinked. Just briefly. Surprise flickered across his mind.
"Huh. Didn't expect that. Maybe he's not as dull as he acts."
"Didn't think you'd say yes. Good. Be ready by 9 PM. Some of my friends from Class A will be there too."
"Gotit," I replied.
He waved and disappeared into the crowd.
I turned toward the elevator.
Still time before the race.
And a mystery to chase.
That old place Sebastian mentioned… if I hurried, maybe I could get there before sundown.
Maybe today, I'd learn something real about my past.
⸻
The bell above the door chimed softly as a breeze stirred the scent of parchment and roasted beans.
Tucked into a quiet lane of Arcanum City, Whisperleaf Archives stood like a memory frozen in wood and magic—half bookstore, half café. Shelves towered up the walls, sagging under the weight of forgotten knowledge. Worn rugs softened the creaky floor, and green lanterns floated lazily overhead, glowing like bottled forest light.
At the back, a man dusted an ancient tome. His movements were practiced, reverent. Though most called him Old Man Erand, he looked no older than fifty—sharp eyes, streaks of gray in black hair, and the stillness of someone who had watched centuries drift past.
Erand had kept this place alive for over 70 years. First a bookstore, now also a café, adjusted for modern appetites. Students from Thalorion drifted in to sip mana-laced drinks and pretend to read books they barely understood.
"Old man Erand! One fappuccino and some choco cookies!" called a cheerful voice from the back.
Erand gave a smirk. "Right on it."
He brewed the order quickly, swirling foam with mana, arranging cookies with exact care.
He approached the table and paused.
The student had silver hair. Sat by the window. A book in hand, but not reading.
Something tugged at Erand's memory like a splinter under the skin.
"Enjoy yourself," he said, placing the tray gently down.
The boy—me—lowered the book.
Our eyes met.
And I heard it.
"Kaelen…?"
My breath caught.
"Excuse me?" I asked aloud.
Erand blinked. "No. Sorry. Just… for a second, I thought you looked like someone I knew."
I reached out.
His surface thoughts scrambled, defensive.
"Too soon. He shouldn't be here yet. Not him. Not now."
"You've seen me before?"
"No," he said—too quickly. Lie. "Not you. Someone… very much like you."
He turned to leave, but I pressed forward.
"My parents used to come here."
That stopped him cold.
"No… no, don't ask. Don't remember. Don't make me remember."
"I don't remember their faces," I said quietly. "But I've heard this place meant something to them."
He turned around slowly.
"Your parents," he said, careful now. "Wouldn't happen to be… Kaelen and Lyra, would they?"
I nodded. "You knew them?"
He sat down across from me. His hands trembled, not from fear, but memory.
"They came here every weekend. Such a lovely couple. Your father had a way of laughing like the world wasn't ending, and your mother… gods, she could make this whole place feel like spring."
I kept my face still. "I've heard that before."
"But I want to know something else. Did they ever return here… recently? Within the last eight years?"
He hesitated.
Then: "No. They haven't visited in years. But…" His eyes drifted upward. "When they got expelled from the academy, they gave me a book. Said it was important. But it was stolen years ago."
Lie.
I leaned into his thoughts.
"I can't give that book to him."
"Expelled?" I asked sharply. "I was told they left willingly."
Erand laughed bitterly. "Of course that's what you heard. The official story. But they didn't leave—they were expelled."
"Why?"
"They offended someone they shouldn't have. Professor Megrol. Used to head the Magic Department. Brilliant, dangerous. He was doing… unapproved experiments. Your parents saw something. Or spoke up. After that—they vanished."
"Experiments on what?" I asked.
"I don't know. No one really does. But they crossed him. And then they were gone."
I whispered, "They didn't die. They went missing. No letters. No goodbyes."
"If they're alive," he said aloud, "they'll come back. Trust that, kid."
I stood slowly, adjusting my coat.
"Thank you for the information, Mr. Erand. I'll be back."
He raised an eyebrow. "You knew my name."
I smiled slightly. "My parents used to talk about you."
I stepped outside into the fading light. The wind brushed against my face, cold and steady.
He's lying. He still has the book. And next time—I'll take it from him if I have to.