Low-Fantasy Occultist

Chapter 391

One moment, Nick was standing in the paved square of Long Reach, feeling oddly nostalgic for a place he’d only spent a few days in. Next, the world merged into a haze of vertical lines and unfathomable colors, and he had to forcibly stop himself from reaching out with his senses.

He was sure that the new sturdiness of his soul would help him resist subspace’s shearing qualities. Still, after recalling Tholm’s dire warnings last time, he resolved to proceed with greater caution.

And if I’m being honest, I have enough stuff on my plate. I made some big jumps during this adventure, but I need to internalize them properly before finding new areas of interest. I can’t stretch myself too thin, not with that deadline looming in the near future.

Fortunately, the strange journey ended before it could erode his resolve. In an instant, they found themselves reassembling in a circular, white marble chamber.

Nick stumbled slightly, his inner equilibrium protesting the instant displacement, but his higher physical stats meant he steadied himself faster than the last time.

He looked around. It was immediately clear that this wasn’t the arrival hall on the ground floor, nor Tholm’s personal floor.

Rather, this seemed to be a secure transfer room of some kind, likely deep within the Tower’s restricted foundations, given the potent energies in the air.

He turned to ask Master Battera why they’d materialized back here, but stopped as he noticed solemn determination spread across the old man’s features.

"Move," the druid ordered. “Let us not linger.”

Without waiting for them to recover or speak, Battera strode quickly toward a heavy iron door that slid open at his approach, clearly unsettled by something. He motioned for the exhausted, bloodied apprentices to follow.

"Where are we going?" Raphael asked, also picking up on the strangeness.

It was already weird enough that they hadn’t reappeared on Tholm’s floor, though that could have been explained away with Battera not having the necessary permission, but the path they were taking was strange enough that the question had to be asked.

"Up," Battera said curtly. "Directly to the seventy-seventh floor.”

Nick exchanged a glance with Raphael. Again, nothing was overtly wrong, but the whole sequence felt off.

Yet Master Battera was trusted. If he’d wished them harm, it would have been far easier to act in Long Reach than here within the Tower.

"Why the rush?" Nick asked, falling into step beside the Druid as they hurried down a sterile corridor toward a private lift.

"Because the main lobby is currently swarming with vultures," Battera grunted once they’d all piled in, tapping his staff against the lift’s control panel. The gates rattled shut, and the platform rose upward with a stomach-dropping lurch. “Nosy mages. Nobles. Priests. Everyone heard of the dungeon, of course, and they want the freshest information available, which you just so happen to have. Archmage Tholm wants you secure before the sharks smell blood.”

The lift climbed rapidly, bypassing the lower dormitories, the lecture halls, and the laboratories. Nick watched the floor numbers tick by, feeling the immense ambient mana of the Tower flow over him.

Before, the Tower’s ambient mana had been blinding in its intensity. Only sheer exposure had blunted it, forcing him to blur his senses. Now, with his soul crystallized and the Tree of Life fully integrated, he found it manageable, though still mighty.

He could see the currents of the Tower’s wards flowing through the shaft, forming a complex circulatory system of protections that he could now intuitively map.

Huh, so the lifts are more like arteries. That explains why the Tower itself governs them. The artifacts themselves were built to take advantage of the already present spaces.

A soft ding and a familiar female voice signaled their arrival on floor seventy-seven.

Inside, the living area appeared unchanged since their departure, yet Nick felt surprise. So much had changed within them, but this place remained untouched.

Hell, he even saw some books still on the tables, exactly where they’d left them before being teleported out into the Sunlands.

By the window, Archmage Tholm stood overlooking the city of Alluria, awaiting their return.

He turned as they entered, and Nick immediately noticed that he looked tired. There were new lines etched around his eyes, and his usually immaculate robes looked somewhat rumpled, as if he hadn’t slept in days.

Normally, the man seemed unruffled by anything. That made it clear—even without Nick’s attention—that things here had not been easy.

But when his gaze swept over the group—over Raphael, Willow, Mikel, Lina, Osmod, Epistula, and finally Nick—his expression broke into a genuine, relieved smile.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"You made it," Tholm said softly, seemingly relieved. His rings still muffled his actual emotions, but for once, the Archmage didn’t seem intent on concealing his state of mind. Another sign that something is going on. Even in the privacy of his floor, he was usually more guarded.

He walked over, ignoring the grime and monster blood, and placed a hand on Raphael’s shoulder, then Willow’s. "I received the reports, but seeing you standing here… it is a relief I cannot quantify.”

"We lost people," Raphael said, his voice thick. He’d done his best to keep it together, as their leader and the one who had dealt the blow to the traitor, but now that his mentor was looking at him with such naked relief, he was clearly struggling to keep it together.

"I know," Tholm said, his face hardening. "And we will ensure justice is done. But for now, you are safe.”

He gestured to the side door that led to their dormitories. “Your quarters have been prepared. Food, baths, and fresh clothes are waiting for you. Go and rest. You have done more than any student should ever be asked to do. We will discuss everything once you are back to full strength.”

As the others shuffled off, clearly desperate to finally rest, Tholm caught Nick’s eye. "Young Crowley," he said. "A moment, if you have the strength.”

"I'm fine, Archmage," Nick said, and it wasn't a lie. His mind was tired, but his mana was full, and even given the chance, he didn’t think he could sleep for a while. He was still too wound up, and the strangeness of their method of arrival still prodded at him.

Tholm led Nick into his private study. It was as chaotic as ever, filled with glowing spheres of light, half-finished diagrams, and artifacts from a dozen dead civilizations. Tholm eased behind his desk and sank heavily into his chair.

"Sit, Nicholas.”

Nick took the chair opposite him, waiting for the old man to speak.

He said he’s received reports. I guess the Shadows might have passed something along? They certainly have the means, and they did say they’d convey the kingdom’s gratitude.

“As you might imagine, I know some of what transpired,” Tholm said, steepling his fingers. “But I’m aware enough of your particular abilities to know it is an incomplete understanding.”

He had expected this. As he began his account, Nick stuck close to the truth, carefully trimming the most personal parts before he spoke aloud.

He spoke of the Hones’ trap, of Vane’s attempt to distill the Well, and of the Greater Ritual. He described the resonance between the four Guardians and all that transpired during the hunt. Even the presence of the Feral God, which he’d glossed over before, was touched upon.

“So the Inner Guardian was an ancient mage, then?”

Nick nodded. “It was. Or at least, whatever remained of him. There were times when he seemed aware of his past, while at other times, the divine fervor seemed to be all he could feel.”

“I see,” Tholm murmured. He clearly knew there was more to the tale, but didn’t press further. Instead, he stood up, walked over to a cabinet, poured two glasses of golden fluid, and handed one to Nick.

"You’ve exceeded my expectations, Nicholas. Stopping a Prestige-tier threat was already at the upper end of my prediction, but successfully dismantling a Noble House’s black operation was beyond what I’d foreseen. And in doing so..." Tholm paused, meeting his eyes. "You’ve crossed a threshold, haven’t you?”

Nick stiffened. “Sir?"

"Don't play coy," Tholm chuckled. "I can feel the density of your spirit from here. It’s solid, far more than any other student should be capable of. Truly, you are quite something.”

Nick didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure how to reply without explaining about the Tree of Life, and that was too personal for him to get into.

Tholm took a sip of his drink. "You achieved a Feat, didn't you? Maybe even two?”

"I..." Nick hesitated. "Yes. The System recognized my actions. The others also benefited.”

"Good," Tholm said, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "That is the secret they don't teach in the undergraduate classes, Nick. Prestige isn't solely about getting to level one hundred. Anyone with the proper resources and willpower can grind experience until they hit the cap, but to break the ceiling, more is needed. I’m glad I was right about your potential.”

Tholm tapped his own chest. "You need Feats to go beyond the mortal realm. You need the System to acknowledge that you have significantly impacted the World. Most mages spend decades hunting for a single Feat to qualify for their advancement. You... you likely have the keys in your hand already.”

"I didn't expect it," Nick murmured. He’d suspected, of course, but given the level of the threat he’d faced, he hadn’t really thought about it much.

“Yes, I imagine you were more taken by everything else,” Tholm said. Then his face fell, and the pride was replaced by a shadow of worry.

"That also makes you a target. House Hone is wounded and weaker now that their plot failed, but that only makes them more vicious. And there are others within the Tower who will not take well to the disruption to the balance.”

"I can handle myself," Nick said. He’d already been the target of Archmage Hone’s wrath before, and as long as the man himself didn’t act, he was confident he could make it through anything.

"I know you can," Tholm agreed. “But the current situatio—”

BOOM.

The entire floor shook.

Nick was on his feet instantly, the Shard slapping into his palm as he instinctively sought the threat.

“What was that?!” He demanded.

Tholm’s expression changed from paternal warmth to a terrifying, cold fury, and the air in the study dropped ten degrees.

"That," Tholm hissed, "was my warding boundary being attacked.”

He strode out of the study, his robes billowing with mana. Nick followed close behind, his heart pounding loudly. Was someone attacking the Archmage’s floor? Here? In the heart of the Tower?

Why are the Tower’s wards not engaging? They are there, I can feel them!

They burst into the antechamber just as the heavy bronze doors of the main elevator groaned. The metal warped, glowing cherry-red, before being torn open from the outside by an unseen power.

Tholm raised his hand as several rings began radiating with power, choking the air out with their sheer output. "Who dares!" He roared.

Smoke billowed from the ruined elevator shaft. Through the haze, a woman’s figure walked out.

She was unremarkable in every way—average height, drab gray robes, brown hair drawn back in a stern bun. And most importantly, she held no weapon, no focus ready to cast. But her eyes…

Nick looked into them and felt a cold crawl down his spine. They were dead eyes. Flat, gray, and completely devoid of humanity. They looked like the eyes of a wyvern, or a golem that had been given the semblance of life.

She strode onto the plush carpet, ignoring the Archmage’s threatening aura.

"Archmage Tholm," the woman said. Her voice was dry, inflectionless. “Control yourself.”

"You blow down my door and order me to stand down?" Tholm’s mana flared, the pressure cracking the windows. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't vaporize you where you stand, Prosecutor.”

Nick stiffened. Prosecutor?

The woman reached into her robe and produced a scroll sealed with crimson wax.

"I am Nalia Ibirosh," she stated, her dead eyes sliding past Tholm to lock onto Nick. "I am the appointed Prosecutor for the High Tribunal. By order of the Tribunal, and pursuant to the complaint filed by House Illismonde, you have been served with a summons.”

Tholm’s fire dimmed, replaced by a look of genuine shock. “Illismonde?”

"Joran Illismonde," Nalia continued, her voice empty of emotion. "Scion of a Noble House, and student of this Tower, was killed by your own apprentices.”

There was a long moment of silence, and Nick was only vaguely aware that the others were coming out of their rooms.

“The High Tribunal has agreed to take on the case. The charges are Betrayal of the Tower, First-Degree Murder of a Peer, and the practice of Forbidden Magics.” She said, not even batting an eye as she read.

She then rolled the scroll up and gave them all a scrutinizing gaze. “I suggest you prepare your defense. The Tribunal will convene in three days for the first hearing.”