Once again, Aodhán was seated on one of the hideous blue couches. Daruk sat beside him, while Unrid and Synové nervously stood behind him. The Mythic sat on the opposite couch with his familiar slowly revolving above his head like a lost puppy. It stopped to stare at them at irregular intervals, and every time it did, Aodhán shivered. Something about its faceless gaze creeped him out.
A plate of warm cookies lay untouched on the table between them, Synové's attempt at hospitality, but now that he thought about it, Aodhán realized he had never seen a Mythic eat before. Granted, he only knew a few Mythics, however, he'd spent every Sunday for the past four weeks with principal Zatya, and not once had he ever seen her eat anything, except for the wine she'd been sipping this morning when he entered her office.
He shook his head slightly and returned his mind to the present, only to see the ghostly apparition morph into a spherical shape before violently transforming back into a cube.
“Pay no attention to him.” The Mythic smiled at them while still managing to give the familiar a stink eye. “He's a bumbling fool at times.”
“Oh.” Aodhan swallowed nervously. For some reason, this man unnerved him. Far more than principal Zatya or any other Mythic ever did, however, he pushed past his fear and pointed at the ghostly apparition. “What is he?”
Unlike when he'd first arrived on the planet, Aodhán could now differentiate between improper and appropriate questions. This one rode the line of incivility, but Aodhán was too curious, and the Mythic didn't seem like one who cared much about such things.
Fortunately, he'd assumed correctly, and the man waved a hand dismissively. “He’s a morphalith; his name is Jarvis.”
Jarvis paused at the sound of his name, but it was only for a moment before he continued spinning again. The man smiled and turned to face Aodhán squarely. “My name is Ludacris Black, an emissary or agent, if you will, of the 1st Academy.”
Ah. Aodhán had guessed as much, but he hadn’t been so sure, considering the man's class. The fact that a Mythic-class individual was a simple emissary was astounding.
Even the fifth academy only had a few Mythics within their ranks, all of them important members of the academy, not some random emissary.
It made sense now why principal Zatya had gone to such lengths to keep him attached to the 5th academy.The fact that the first academy had a Mythic as an emissary didn't necessarily mean they were a much better academy; it simply meant they held more prestige and power.
If this man had approached him before the principal knew of his identity as a transmigrant, Aodhán would have accepted his offer without looking back or thinking twice. Now, though, not even a hundred gold coins could sway him away. He couldn't break his deal with Zatya without suffering serious consequences for it.
To put things plainly, he was her bitch, and until he no longer had to hide his identity, he would remain that way, so rather than the excitement Ludacris might have expected, it was with a very dark expression that Aodhán said to him. “I'm sorry to say this, sir Ludacris, but your journey here has been in vain. I cannot leave the 5th academy.”
Ludacris's friendly smile tightened a little, and Jarvis paused to stare at him with a motion that vaguely conveyed confusion.
“I see that Zatya has sunk her little claws into you.” Ludacris chuckled. “But not to worry, the 1st Academy is prepared to recompense her for all that she has spent or done to hold you down.” His gaze swept across the house, and Aodhán caught a slight downturn of his lips. Although it was gone so fast, he almost felt like he'd imagined it.
Aodhán shook his head, prepared to give a few reasons as to why he preferred to stay in the 5th academy. Most of them were actually true, but Ludacris cut him off before he could begin. “I'm aware that Zatya's responsible for relocating your parents here, but we are willing to relocate them to the 1st sector and, like I said earlier, reimburse Zatya for all her troubles.”
“We're not sheep to be herded around from sector to sector." Synové muttered under her breath, forgetting that at their advancement level, they could all hear her perfectly. She gasped in realization when all of them, except Unrid, turned to stare at her. Aodhán and Daruk with alarmed expressions, while Ludacris glared at her with an expression of annoyance and irritation.
Never one to back down, even when faced with impossible odds, Synové stiffened and repeated herself, this time loud enough for all to hear. “We are people.” She continued, now burning with outrage. “We have families and friends. We've had to leave them all behind once already, yet barely a month later, you're proposing we move again?”
Daruk immediately grabbed the untouched plate of cookies and rushed to his feet. “Mum, let's go warm this for our guest.”
He grabbed her and gently pulled her away. She didn't even try to resist.
Aodhán turned back to Ludacris, whose gaze was still on Synové's retreating form, and apologized immediately. Of course, Synové was right, but she hadn't quite realized that she wasn't in the Warren anymore, where the highest-tiered individual was tier 9.
In the Warren, the difference between awakeneds and sleepers wasn't too obvious; besides, Synové had been the wife of one of the more powerful members in the village. This had granted her both power and status, enough to speak her mind to whomever she wished, but here, in the quiet city of Norbuik, they were nobodies, and despite the laws protecting sleepers, speaking to a Mythic in such a manner was ill-advised at best.
“It's alright.” Ludacris cracked a small smile, the tension draining away from his features. “Your mother is very spirited.”
“Yes.” Unrid cleared his throat nervously. “But she speaks our mind. We're not much inclined to move again; we love it here, and we've even begun to build a life for ourselves.”
“I see.” Ludacris nodded and turned his pupilless gaze back to Aodhán. He snapped his fingers just as Daruk and Synové returned to the living room, and a small rune-scripted chest appeared on the table. Ludacris gestured for him to open it, and Aodhán sighed as he unclasped it, expecting to find a pile of shimmering gold coins, but his eyes widened in shock when instead of gold, he found a pile of credits instead, their dark surfaces shimmering with glowing green runes.
Daruk froze, and Synové let out a very unladylike sound similar to a squack. Unrid.. Unrid had fainted.
Lutian credits were the highest currency used in Lutia, and they were crafted from solidified metallic essence embellished with elder runes.
A single Lutian credit was worth a thousand gold coins, and the small chest contained nothing less than a dozen of them.
“There's enough money in that chest to set you up for life.” Ludacris smiled at him. “Your parents would never have to work again, and in the first sector, so close to the capital, they'll be protected and safe.” When Aodhán didn't immediately reject the offer, Ludacris's smile widened into a grin, already sure of his victory, and if it wasn't for his identity that was still at stake, Aodhán would have broken his deal with Zatya Malakov without a second thought.
Even still, his entire body twitched, itching to grab the coins, and he had to draw on a large amount of willpower just to shut the chest before he did something he would regret.
Aodhán glanced at Daruk, who was just as wide-eyed as he was, and he knew it was costing him a ton of willpower to stay quiet and let him make his decision by himself.
Ludacris took in their expressions with smug satisfaction, caressing Jarvis's ghostly body with his fingers. He was already convinced of his victory in luring Aodhán away from the 5th academy, so he was understandably shocked when Aodhán hesitantly pushed the chest towards him.
“I'm very sorry, sir Ludacris, but I can't accept this. I already have a deal with the principal, and I can't afford to break it.”
Ludacris stared at him incredulously, his eyes darting from him to Daruk, Synové, and Unrid as if asking them if Aodhán was alright.
Unrid looked as if he had something, perhaps multiple somethings, but Synové's grip on his shoulders kept him mute. Daruk, on the other hand, was almost shivering with barely restrained opinions, and just when Aodhán thought he was about to burst, Ludacris asked. “Do you realize just how much money is in that chest? You could buy yourself a barony and noble title, elevate your family to the top, and solve just about any monetary problems you might have. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
Daruk whimpered, but as good as the offer was, Aodhán couldn't accept it, and he shook his head sadly. “You have no idea just how much I want to accept your offer, but I truly can't.”
Stolen novel; please report.
Unrid sighed heavily behind him, his gaze purple from disappointment, but made no move to contest Aodhán's decision.
Ludacris observed him with narrowed eyes, his gaze hard as if to pressure him into accepting, but when Aodhán remained adamant, he said, “If you're expecting a better offer from Ramiel, I assure you that you'll be sorely disappointed.”
Aodhán had no idea who Ramiel was, but he assumed it was the emissary of the 2nd Academy, and he shook his head. “I’m not doing this to get a better offer from you or any other emissary; your offer is already more than generous, and if I hadn't already made a deal with principal Zatya, I would have accepted your offer without a second thought, but I've given my word, and I can't break it.”
Ludacris's expression softened, and he said. “It is rare to find a man of such integrity within this generation, but I'm honored to have met you, Aodhán Brystion.” He stood up, and the chest disappeared from view. Aodhán tried not to grimace, but he must have failed because Ludacris grinned and said, “Letting this opportunity pass you by must be hard. I hope you do not come to regret your decision.”
Aodhán already regretted it, but he stood up and bowed stiffly. “I hope so too.”
Ludacris smiled, perhaps seeing through his false facade and a small capsulated pill. Crackling with electricity appeared in his open palms. “A gift to reward your integrity." Immediately Aodhán's gaze landed on the pull, an overwhelming hunger erupted within him. His cells raged, screeching with a violent urgency that clouded his senses. He snatched the pill before he even realized what he was doing, but Ludacris quickly grabbed his hands before he could swallow it.
“This is an elemental lightning pill.” Ludacris spoke, his stern voice piercing through the fog that clouded Aodhán's mind. “Absorbing it is sure to grant you a seal, but you cannot use it without supervision.”
The feeling of overwhelming hunger subsided a little, and with shaky breaths, Aodhán threw the pill into his spatial storage. “Thank you so much, Sir Ludacris; I will not forget this.”
“No need to thank me.” Ludacris replied with a smile. “I'm simply sowing a karmic seed. This is as much a gift for myself as it is for you.”
Aodhán nodded, still grateful. The elemental lightning pill was obviously a high-grade pill, maybe even peak, and he couldn't wait to use it.
Ludacris left the house a few minutes later, and Aodhán shut the door behind him before turning to lean against it and howling in helpless rage.
“I don't know whether to be proud of your integrity or to slap some sense into you.” Unrid glared at him from across the room. “I’m leaning towards the latter, but I can't even hurt you, talkless of slapping sense into you, but by Raol, I'm willing to try!”
“You will do no such thing.” Synové glared at him. “We should be proud that he has such a strong sense of integrity. It is an attribute we should applaud, not ridicule.”
Unrid raised his hands in frustration. “Do you realize just how much we just lost—thousands of gold, Synové? Thousands!”
“Have some dignity, Unrid; it is more honorable to be a man of integrity than a man of wealth!”
While Aodhán mourned the loss of such a massive fortune, Synové and Unrid argued, while Daruk sat in one corner of the living room, sad and depressed yet unable to muster any anger.
He understood why Aodhán had refused the deal, but they'd just lost so much more money than he'd ever seen in his entire life. Money that could have made his dreams of nobility a reality and bought them enough land to live the rest of their lives in luxury.
Aodhán, on the other hand, didn't shed any tears, but he was deeply hurt. Unrid eventually tried to console him after several minutes of argument, but Aodhán refused to be consoled, and he soon gave up.
Synové, on the other hand, stayed with him while he mourned, and it wasn't until another knock sounded on the door that they both hastily scrambled to their feet and retreated several steps.
“Is it just me, or has a knock on that door become absolutely traumatizing?” Daruk muttered as he rushed to stand with them.
“Maybe we should just ignore it.” Synové replied, and Aodhán swallowed nervously. What they needed was a freaking peep hole; that way, they could see who was knocking without opening the door.
The knock sounded again, and Aodhán muttered. “Someone really needs to get that.”
“Well, thank Raol; I've got two powerful sons.” Unrid responded, and Daruk stepped back immediately.
“Not me.”
“Fine!” Synové snapped. “I offer myself as tribute."
“May Raol's mercies be with you.” Unrid grinned as Synové moved hesitantly towards the door, and Aodhán held his breath, waiting as she cracked it open, expecting to see another gaggle of reporters or Ramiel, the assumed emissary of the 2nd academy, but he sighed in relief when she chuckled and pulled the door open to reveal a feminine-looking man with bright blue eyes and hair as smooth as silk. He was dressed in a vibrant, multicolored attire that shimmered and changed hues with every step he took, and as he walked into the house, Synové giggled. “No need to panic, guys; it's just Kieran, the neighbor I told you all about.” When Kieran saw them, he gasped in dramatic excitement. “By Raol, are these your children?” His voice was a melodic blend of warmth and animation as he floated forward, quite literally, until he was only a few steps away from them.
“Two of them.” Synové replied, her face aglow as she beamed with pride. “They are my pride and joy. Aodhán, Daruk, meet Kieran, our friendliest neighbor and tailor extraordomaire.”
Kieran blushed and flicked a non-existent braid back. “Oh, isn't your mother just the sweetest?”
“She is.” Daruk grinned and extended a hand in greeting, but Kieran pulled him into a hug instead. When he pulled back, he grabbed Aodhán and crushed him against his chest, his lean arms bearing more strength than Aodhán realized.
When Kieran pulled back once more, Aodhán focused on the man's core and was surprised to find it almost completely dim, indicating that he was almost at his limit.
In the river of evolved and blazing cores, every dim core stood out to his senses, but what surprised him most was the fact that Kieran was at the 32nd tier, although he remained in the mundane class. Kieran glanced at Synové, and, with a wave of his hand, half a dozen extravagant velvet dresses materialized on one of the blue couches.
Synové squealed in excitement and began discussing with Keiran as she tried the dresses on. While Synové and Kieran discussed, Unrid pulled them aside and whispered.
“That man is a hurricane, and he'll have you boys dressed in velvet gowns if you allow him.”
“That won't happen.” Aodhán reassured him, taking the matter seriously. “I just want a tux, something clean and simple.”
The moment he spoke, though, Kieran turned towards them and produced a measuring tape. “Your mother informs me that you both need outfits for a noble event.”
“Three events.” Daruk corrected as they turned to face him.
“Technically, it's four.” Aodhán replied sheepishly. “I forgot to tell you that I accepted Imani Blackwell's invitation this morning.”
“What!” Daruk and Kieran exclaimed at the same time.
“I thought we agreed on three.” Daruk complained while Kieran rushed forward in excitement. “You're attending the Blackwell event? I can't believe it. I can't believe I get to design an outfit for such a high-class event!”
“We did, Daruk.” Aodhán replied as he tried to pull away from Kieran's grip. “I wanted to tell you, but with all the excitement this morning, it skipped my mind.”
“Fine! Four then.” Daruk sighed, trying to hide his excitement.
“How fantastic.” Kieran squealed. “We need to do something grand, something big; something with a lot of flair, so that your debut into high society is branded into their minds forever—
“No, no, no.” Aodhán shook his head. “Slow down; I just want something simple and black or gray. No flair, no frills, no drama, no nothing.”
“You can't be serious!” Kieran exclaimed. “This is a high-class event, but more than that, it's your debut into noble society; you cannot afford to be anything other than spectacular.”
*I wouldn't mind a few frills.” Daruk muttered. “But I do agree with my brother; something simple and classy will do.”
Kieran stared at them incredulously and looked at Synové. “Can you hear your children? Simple is not a word in the thesaurus of nobles.”
Unrid glared at Kieran. “If they want something simple, then that's what they'll get.”
“Okay, okay.” Synové walked into their midst to prevent any further argument. “I think Kieran is a little right; you need to wear something more than a simple tux to an event of this caliber, but" —she glanced at Kieran— "simple can still be amazing.”
Kieran groaned. “Fine. Something simple yet elegant, beautiful, dramatic, regal, outrageous—”
“Too much.” Aodhán quickly cut him off. “Let's stop at elegant.”
“Honestly, I'm fine with whatever, as long as it's silver or ice blue.” Daruk shrugged, and just like that, Kieran ushered them into a small room Synové had decorated for this exact purpose.
Sunlight streamed in through the windows, bathing the entire room in golden light, and Kieran placed a dozen magazines on an ornate table, displaying a myriad number of magical and mundane male outfits.
Aodhán picked one of the magazines and began searching for an outfit that called to him. His eyebrows climbed higher and higher as he flipped through the pages, displaying several magical outfits, each one more outrageous than the last.
The outfits were interesting, though, and Aodhán wondered how each one was imbued with several elements and concepts.
“Let's start with you, Aodhán.” Kieran moved towards him. “I’ll be showing you a few styles that I think resonate well with you. If you find anyone you like, you just have to indicate, and we'll set it aside before doing a final selection.”
Aodhán nodded in agreement, and Kieran began flipping through the magazine. First, he showed him a flamboyant black robe covered in white and gold threads that crackled with electricity.”
Aodhán shook his head. “Nope. Too flashy.”
The next was a cloak of storm clouds that shifted and roiled as if alive, but Aodhán shook his head once again. “Too dramatic.”
The next outfit was a suit made of spider silk, embedded with purple sapphires the size of chicken eggs. It was exactly the opposite of what he wanted—too extravagant—and he shook his head again. “Nope, definitely not. Everything is wrong with this one.”
One by one, Kieran presented designs after designs, each more elaborate and extravagant than the last. A tunic that changed color with the weather, a suit that rumbled with the sound of thunder every time he moved, and an armor covered in frills that somehow resembled storm clouds.
Each one, Aodhán rejected.
“Surely, you do not intend to attend this event looking no different from the servants?” Kieran exclaimed in frustration half an hour later, when Aodhán pointed to a plain black tux with simple silver designs around the wrists.
“What's wrong with a plain tux?” Aodhán protested.
“Everything is wrong with a plain tux.“ This time, it was Daruk who responded. “Pick one freaking outfit and let's move on.”
“Fine! Not the plain tux then, but I'm not wearing the floating cape either.”
Kieran sighed and stared at him for a moment before he took out another pile of magazines. This pile was old and outdated, even worn around the edges and torn in some parts, but on the front cover of the first one stood a man whose hair crackled with white gold electricity and whose expression was just as indifferent as it had been in Aodhán's visions.
Az'marthon.
The slaughterer was dressed in a stormy gray attire that resembled a GI, the martial uniform used in Jiu-jitsu. Lightning arced across its surface, and its edges were rimmed with runic designs. The design of the outfit was subtle, but something about it called to Aodhán, and he cleaned off the small gathering of dust that covered it.
“I like this one.”
Kieran smiled and wiped a non-existent bead of sweat from his eyebrows. “Great. One down, three more to go.”