"Well, aren't you going to say anything, young lord?" the headmistress taunted, her voice laced with amusement. "The sacred art I just employed—or rather, was about to employ—was 'Sense.' I'm sure you learned about it in Instructor Malia's class, didn't you?"
Daemian, visibly apprehensive, answered, "...Sense, a sacred art that utilizes life essence to examine a target's body."
"Correct~~♡," she responded, a hint of satisfaction in her tone. "Now, young lord, I'll ask you once more. How were you, a stained one, able to discern that I was using Sense?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Daemian replied.
The headmistress chuckled softly. "Of course, I didn't expect it to be that simple. Why don't we discuss the playground?"
Daemian's curiosity was piqued as he perked up his head.
"I didn't truly believe you did it yourself. I presumed you had one of your retainers meddle with the other children. But you did it yourself, didn't you, young lord?"
After a momentary silence, Daemian straightened his posture and walked toward the headmistress. "You forget yourself, headmistress. Stained or not, I am still a son of Lunaeris."
"Is that a threat?" the headmistress inquired, her tone growing serious.
"A warning," Daemian calmly responded.
A simple smile formed across her face as she inclined her head. "Forgive me, young lord Daemian. I shall proceed with caution henceforth."
As she began to walk away, she turned around, a playful smile adorning her lips. "Oh, young lord, I still expect you to uphold your word, alright~~"
Daemian remained silent, his expression unchanged. She smiled and continued on her way.
Once she disappeared from sight, Daemian slammed his fist into the wall with a resounding thud, his frustration escaping in a vehement cry of "Dammit!"
He harbored no illusions about emerging victorious from that confrontation. The headmistress possessed far greater strength than his present self could muster. If she had desired it, she could have easily subdued him. Moreover, he had failed to account for the magnitude of the obstacle posed by his stained condition.
"What the fuck have I been doing..." he muttered, his voice tinged with self-reproach.
Days had passed since his reincarnation, yet he had achieved nothing. His understanding of this world remained nonexistent. His current power held little more than the ability to keep unruly children in check. His visit to the Lunaeris grimoire had proven fruitless, as his inability to maintain composure hindered any progress.
Uncertainty plagued his thoughts as he questioned the authenticity of the 'Daines' he would soon encounter. How could he be sure they were true descendants of the Daine he believed them to be? Not to mention his foolhardy attempt to approach the patriarch. All for the sake of a playground—how foolish.
He berated himself, realizing the futility of expecting any favor from the father who had abandoned him. Especially in the presence of esteemed dignitaries significant enough to warrant personal attention. "No, I have been approaching this entirely wrong," he muttered.
His previous downfall had been a result of his impetuous nature. He could not afford to repeat those mistakes. Every step he took must be meticulously planned, all for the sake of his revenge.
His first order of business was to distance himself from the academy. Besides the headmistress, the staff hardly acknowledged his presence, making it unlikely that his absence would be noticed. With two weeks remaining until the arrival of the Daines, he had a narrow window to lay the groundwork for his plans.
Returning to the classroom, Daemian's gaze fell upon Fien, who appeared to have succumbed to a slumbering stupor. "That was impressively fast," he thought wryly.
He reached out and shook Fien, jolting him awake. Fien's eyes shot open, disoriented. Sensing the urgency, Daemian swiftly dispelled his friend's confusion.
"Listen, I'll be taking a leave from the academy for a while. If the headmistress asks, simply inform her that I'm ill and unable to attend."
Although this excuse held little significance, Daemian felt compelled to give the headmistress a morsel to ponder.
***
As he ventured once more into the grand halls of the grimoire, the piercing glances and hushed murmurs seemed to amplify, growing in intensity since his last visit. Paying no heed to the prying eyes, he steered himself towards the distant end of the grimoire, where the precious volumes on Enerith were safeguarded. His discerning gaze meticulously swept over the shelves, searching for the one that held the answers he sought. Finally, his decision settled upon a tome adorned with the title "Enerith: A Concise Introduction."
Just as he reached out to grasp the book, a familiar voice sliced through the air like a sharpened blade. "Daemian."
Curious, Daemian turned to face his older half-brother, Daeyon. He was significantly older than Daemian, being 10 years old. The Lunaeris lineage was unmistakable in his features, marked by ethereal light blue locks and fiery crimson eyes. From what little Daemian could discern from young Daemian's memories, they did not have a close bond as brothers. On the contrary, Daeyon in particular seemed to have hated Daemian.
"What do you think you're doing?" Daeyon's voice dripped with a potent combination of authority and contempt.
Meeting his brother's gaze unwaveringly, Daemian responded, "Is there a reason why I need to answer to you?"
Daeyon's lips curled into a derisive smirk. "Oh? Talking back to me now, are you?"
Daemian inclined his head, feigning innocent confusion. "No? I was just asking if I had any obligation to answer to you. You may be older than me, but I'm just as much a son of Lunaeris as you are."
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"Hah!" Daeyon scoffed. "You? A son of Lunaeris? What a joke. You're nothing more than a stained bastard who can't even use sacred arts or blade arts. No true Lunaeris blood runs in your veins."
With a composed gesture, Daemian slicked back his hair and sighed, "Stained this, stained that. I'm getting tired of you brainless morons rambling on and on."
"What... Did you just say?" Daeyon's tone brimmed with anger.
"I don't have time for this. Go bother someone else if you want to slack off."
"You little shit!" Daeyon yelled as he gripped tightly onto Daemian's collar. "You've got a big mouth all of a sudden, don't you?"
"How unseemly, dear elder brother," Daemian taunted.
"What're you-" Before Daeyon could finish his retort, he became aware of the growing audience around them, eyes fixated and murmurs abuzz with gossip.
Undeterred, Daemian continued, "He couldn't measure up to his peers, so he resorted to tormenting the stained youngest. That's what people will say about you. Ah, how truly unbecoming for a true Lunaeris to stoop so low~~"
Daemian could see the frustration smoldering in Daeyon's eyes, his fist trembling with restrained fury. Finally, he released his grip on Daemian's collar and simply turned away.
Huh, he's got more self-control than I thought, Daemian thought.
He dusted himself off and fixed his collar before reaching for the book once more. After reading through it, he came away with a few key points:
The first was that Enerith operates almost identically to how it did in Enigmara. There are eight primal essences representing fundamental aspects of existence: Fire, Water, Air, Earth, Light, Shadow, Life, and Death. Each essence has its own properties and governs specific abilities. Each practitioner possesses a personal reservoir of Enerith called an Essence Pool, which they can draw upon for their rituals and abilities.
Secondly, sacred artists in this world broke down the skill of sacred artists into 5 tiers:
Tier 1: Sacred artists only have the ability to feel and circulate their Enerith.
Tier 2: Sacred artists who have gone through their path selection and specialize in a particular primal essence or group of essences.
Tier 3: Sacred artists who have access to refined essences. Refined essences possess heightened properties and enable practitioners to delve deeper into specialized aspects of the Sacred Arts.
Tier 4: As practitioners advance in their chosen path, they may undergo the transformative process of "Ascendancy." This involves intense training, meditation, and often a trial or quest. Ascendancy deepens their connection to the chosen essence, unlocking greater potential, heightened abilities, and profound understanding.
Tier 5: Refers to sacred artists who have achieved "conceptualization," a process whereby the laws of nature become subject to the sacred artist's will.
But by far the most important thing he learned was that sacred artists in this world were significantly weaker than he'd thought. In Enigmara, every single sacred artist was considered their nation’s trump card, with one being equal in combat power to 100,000 men. Enerith also went by a different name, "God's Grace." In order to use powerful sacred arts, practitioners would need to invoke the name of the god they serve and offer a prayer.
The new world had none of that. If he were to describe it in a phrase it would be quantity over quality. The over number of sacred artists may have increased but they’ve lost a majority of their power. If the book was to be believed, tier 4 sacred artists were few and far between, with tier 5s almost exclusively being family heads and elders. whereas in enigmara, tier 4 was the baseline. He found it hard to believe enigmarans were not able to completely conquer the natives of the new world. He couldn’t help but feel like he was missing something.
Regardless, there was one thing he had to do before anything else. As the sun began to set, he set the book aside and made his way back to his room.
As he walked in, he noticed the dimly lit bedroom was suffused with an eerie silence, broken only by shallow breaths. As the moonlight filtered through the half-closed blinds, casting ethereal patterns on the walls, a sense of unease filled the air. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was nervous. He locked the door behind him and walked to the blinds, closing them completely.
Once he was sure she’d locked all possible modes of entry, he whispered “Silence.” Though it was a low-level sacred art, its versatility made it a must-learn among most practitioners. With that, practitioners of average skills shouldn’t be able to discern whatever takes place in the room.
He held his hand out-his index finger in particular and whispered “Slash” A tiny gust of wind formed and sliced the middle of his index finger causing a bead of blood to emerge, welling up from the shallow cut.
Daemian leaned forward and began to trace intricate lines on the floor with his finger, his blood leaving a dark, meandering trail. He meticulously drew sigils, lacing each and every inch with his Enerith. Each stroke carried a macabre significance, a fusion of his agony and desperation.
As he progressed, his focus intensified, his movements growing more frenzied and feverish. The walls of his room became his canvas, an ever-expanding tapestry of sigils etched in his own vitality. His hands, now smeared with his own blood, moved with a frenetic grace, revealing a mind seemingly on the precipice of madness. The blinds, the bed, the carpet, the tapestries and hangings, not even the mirrors and their gilded surfaces were spared, every corner of the room his tiny hands could reach were
“Not enough,” he said, his breathing rough and frantic.
The room itself seemed to pulse with otherworldly energy as if the very air had grown dense. The sigils, pulsating with a green glow, seemed to take on a life of their own. A stream of Enerith filled the chamber, a palpable presence that made the hairs on the back of Daemian’s neck stand on end.
His breath quickened, beads of sweat forming on his brow as his desperate act neared completion.
“Fly” he muttered, a gust of wind propelled him into the air, situating him just below the ceiling, and once more, he began to draw.
As the moon reached its apex, the last sigil, the grand culmination of his ritual, sprawled across the ceiling above him. It shimmered with an eerie light, casting a faint glow upon the room.
As he gazed upon his handiwork, a mix of emotions coursed through Daemian’s veins. Apprehension mingled with a strange sense of anticipation, while a gnawing doubt tugged at the edges of his sanity.
He breathed a deep breath and knelt on both knees. He bowed his head and began to speak
“In hallowed depths, where shadows intertwine,
A mortal's soul enshrined, seeking the divine,
His chamber bathed in whispers of ancient lore,
He beckons Eni, his goddess to adore.
With brush of crimson hue, his essence bared,
His life's blood flows, devotion fiercely shared,
Sigils etched in reverence, markings stark and bold,
Inscribing fervent pleas, a story to be told.
Through veils of time, a conduit he weaves,
A conduit of faith, where mystic spirit cleaves,
The scent of incense dances in the air,
As Eni's presence manifests, potent and rare.
A saint, his heart aflame, bound by love and awe,
With words unsaid, the sacred pact he'll draw,
In silence, mind and soul entwined, he kneels,
His spirit sings, a symphony that heals.
Eni, hear his whispered hymns of praise,
Grant him the sight to transcend mortal haze,
In his dreams, let visions of truth unfurl,
Through his devotion, unite our earthly world.
A luminescent glow, a celestial embrace,
Her grace descends, a benediction takes place,
The mortal and divine converge in bliss,
As Eni and her saint become one, a sacred kiss.
In sacred union, realms intertwine,
Through fervent summoning, the divine shall shine,
Eni, the goddess, in mortal hearts shall dwell,
In this cosmic dance, her glory they shall tell.”
Suddenly, the room trembled, and a maelstrom of Enerith erupted from the sigils. The air crackled with electricity, and the walls seemed to warp and twist, distorting reality itself. Daemian remained resolute, maintaining his unwavering stance while purposefully keeping his eyes tightly shut, for to do otherwise would render his actions meaningless. Every ounce of his being felt like it was being subjected to a relentless assault, as if his very essence was being violently ripped apart, contorting in unimaginable and grotesque ways. Yet, amidst this excruciating ordeal, he retained his steadfast composure, refusing to succumb to the torment that threatened to overwhelm him.
In the midst of this overwhelming struggle, a moment of respite emerged as a soft, feminine voice broke through the chaotic maelstrom surrounding him. "Killian, my saint," the voice whispered, laced with a subtle mix of familiarity and intrigue, "you've changed."