Aethyr spent five agonizing days recovering from the brutal injuries he'd sustained. His cracked bones and dislocated joints, although treatable by magic and potions, required careful handling. Healing magic, though swift, was not without consequence. The body, even if mended, remembered the stress it endured, and relying too heavily on magical healing risked the danger of mutation in organs or even the wounds themselves. Only in battle could such risks be justified. For now, natural healing remained the safest route, as the body inherently knew what it needed to restore.

He awoke on the fifth day, the morning sun pouring through the windows of his chamber. His appetite had returned in full force, a good sign. He devoured the hearty breakfast laid before him, savoring the freshly cut fruit, each bite grounding him in the present and keeping at bay the lingering horrors of the dungeon.

Meanwhile, within the halls of the college, the three greatest mages convened with other masters for a rare council meeting. Aethyr’s discovery had stirred an air of unease and excitement. His meticulous notes, maps, and charts—extracted from the bag left in his quarters—had already revealed ancient secrets, long buried in the crypts of forgotten history. The notebook, once a simple traveler’s log, had transformed into something akin to a sacred tome. It opened a gateway to knowledge scholars believed lost forever.

Around the council’s grand table, tension brewed. The murmurs of mages and scholars alike filled the room, their curiosity tinged with disbelief.

One elder mage finally spoke aloud the question that hung in the air: "Why did you send that boy into such a hell? Even the bravest adventurers of this era dare not go so deep."

All eyes turned to the Grandmaster, Grandir, a man whose very presence commanded respect. His towering figure remained composed, but his voice carried the weight of authority as he addressed the concern. "We did not send him there to perish. The trial was meant to test him, to make him understand the raw, untamed danger of the world beyond these walls. He faced Velekh, a demon long sealed and forbidden from everyone’s reach. Aethyr fought him and still stands. None among you dared to confront such a beast. And now, with Velekh escaped, we understand the demon is severely weakened. He won’t pose a threat for some time."

"Yet... you call that wisdom?" a younger mage interjected. "What of the boy’s growth? His years of study under our tutelage? Have any of you truly witnessed his progression?"

Master Asphyr spoke next, his voice tinged with humility. "During his first year, Aethyr studied in my school of magic. I confess, the boy outsmarted me during our training. It wasn’t that he overpowered my defense spells—it was that he saw through them, using tactics and strategy I couldn’t anticipate."

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

A respectful nod came from Master Listan, who sought to ease Asphyr’s discomfort. "Do not be ashamed, Asphyr. It’s a testament to your teaching that he mastered defensive magic so well. In fact, most of the spells he used during his time in the dungeon were rooted in your lessons. As for me, his skill in Restoration is... well, let’s just say it’s unmatched. He walks through it as if it were second nature. He has not only mastered its high-level spells but also understands the body and nature so intimately that he casts with an efficiency that none of us can rival. Little mana input, large effect output."

Listan paused, reflecting on his next words. "He combines Restoration with alchemy, and together, he’s become nearly unstoppable."

Master Tolfdir, a mentor in destruction magic, finally spoke, his tone heavier. "He is fluent in destruction and elemental magic, despite the fact that Master Sarphin never permitted him into our school."

The room fell silent. Sarphin, a master feared for his strict adherence to law, clenched his fists. His sharp gaze fell on Aethyr’s battle-scarred armor and gloves, which lay in the center of the hall—a testament to his recent ordeal.

"It is true," Sarphin said, his voice low but intense. "He never entered my school. I watched him practice destruction magic on his own, with no proper guidance. Yet, he still needs a catalyst—those stones." He pointed toward the tattered remnants of Aethyr's equipment. "Fire stones, wind stones, earth stones, and water stones. But these two..." He lifted the glowing golden stones from the gloves. "Francium and cesium, elements he synthesized in his own lab. Do you realize what this means? These are explosion catalysts. He created them with the potential to kill us all in a single blast."

The room grew colder as Sarphin’s words settled over the council like a shadow.

"And yet," he continued, "he cannot be allowed to fully learn destruction magic. Not under me. If he does, he could become the next Merodach!" Sarphin’s voice grew darker, invoking the memory of the warlock who had torn kingdoms apart in his lust for power. "That madman loved killing and slaughtering. One Merodach is enough! I will not see his successor born in this boy!"

An uneasy silence followed, the weight of Sarphin’s warning settling on everyone present. The mages looked to one another, uncertain whether to fear or marvel at the power Aethyr held within him.

----------------------------------------

Back in his chambers, Aethyr sat by the window, the soft breeze brushing his face as he savored another slice of fruit. His body was healing, but his mind wandered back to the nightmare of that dungeon. The shrieks, the pounding of the giant’s feet as it charged, the blood-stained stones—it all lingered at the edges of his thoughts, refusing to fade. He had emerged victorious, but the scars, both physical and mental, remained.

Little did he know that beyond his window, the fate of his future was being fiercely debated.