NOVGO.NET Chapter 48: Lady Aurelia (2)
Chapter 48: Lady Aurelia (2)
Aurelia held the violet-steel bangle tightly against her chest, her pale knuckles showing through her skin. The initial spark of panic in her eyes slowly gave way to a cold, calculating focus.
"If someone stole this from my private quarters just to dump it in your room," Aurelia said softly, her voice carrying a sharp edge,
"they aren’t just trying to get you expelled, Atlas. They’re trying to destroy my reputation with the Head Maid as well. Double administrative sabotage."
"Which means we’re in the exact same boat," Atlas replied, keeping his voice calm and steady.
"We need to figure out who pulled the stolen report trick, but right now, my roommates and I just need a clean room to sleep in tonight."
Aurelia pulled a silver key from her belt and stepped over to a heavy iron box on her desk.
She unlocked it, pulled out a thick leather book, and quickly inked official approval seals onto four fresh requisition vouchers.
"Consider your new mattresses and bedding approved," she said, stamping the parchment with authority.
"Take the supply cart from the side bay. I’ll make sure the Head Maid receives a corrected report personally. I’m going to pull the central council building entry logs from two nights ago to see who accessed my quarters. We’ll speak again tomorrow."
"Appreciated," Atlas said, taking the stamped vouchers.
Derrick, Eric, and Claus immediately took charge of loading four fresh, clean mattresses onto the heavy wooden supply cart.
Even Claus seemed to find a sudden burst of energy at the prospect of not having to sleep on a rug again.
Within an hour, Room 150 was completely restored. The foul-smelling mattresses were hauled away to the laundry vaults, the stone floor was scrubbed clean, and the crisp smell of fresh cotton filled the space.
As night fell over the academy grounds, the dense cloud cover swallowed the moonlight, plunging the stone walkways into deep shadow.
The usual chatter of students faded, replaced by the quiet rustle of night breezes pushing through the iron gates.
Atlas slipped out of the residential block quietly, ensuring his roommates were already asleep.
Keeping his hood low, he navigated the winding paths toward the main academic complex.
Following the vague directions Mr. Crosswell had given him earlier, he descended deep into the sub-levels beneath the main lecture halls — a damp, quiet network of stone corridors rarely visited by regular students.
At the end of a long, torchlit hallway stood a heavy double door made of reinforced black iron, etched with glowing blue runes that hummed softly in the quiet night air.
Before Atlas could even knock, the runes flashed once, and the heavy iron doors slid inward with a deep, echoing sound.
"You’re late by two minutes, Atlas," Mr. Crosswell’s voice boomed from inside.
Atlas stepped across the threshold, and the iron doors slammed shut behind him with a loud thud, sealing the chamber completely.
The private training hall was massive. High vaulted ceilings stretched upward into darkness, and the walls were lined with heavy rune-plates designed to absorb high-impact magic and kinetic force.
The air felt thick, charged with dense mana that made the fine hairs on Atlas’s arms stand up.
Standing in the center of the wide arena was Mr. Crosswell.
He had shed his formal teacher robes, wearing a simple black combat tunic with high leather boots.
In his right hand, he held a wooden practice sword, balancing it casually on his shoulder.
"Welcome to the lower training grounds," Mr. Crosswell said, stepping forward.
His usual relaxed smile was gone, replaced by a sharp, intense glare. "No textbooks tonight. No lectures. Just pure survival."
Atlas paused, adjusting his stance. "Sir? What kind of training is this?"
"The intra-departmental tournament isn’t a casual sparring match, Atlas," Mr. Crosswell explained, his tone dropping into a serious register.
"It’s a brutal display of power where high-ranking noble students use every custom artifact, elite technique, and dirty trick in the book to crush commoners. The person who framed you in the dorms is just a small taste of the pressure you’ll face inside the arena."
Mr. Crosswell flicked his wrist, pointing the tip of the wooden blade directly at Atlas’s chest.
"Draw your weapon and channel your energy, we’re not using beasts today" Mr. Crosswell commanded. "If you can’t touch me once before midnight, you’re running laps around the perimeter till dawn."
Atlas didn’t hesitate. He reached into his shadow space, drawing his dark practice blade into his right hand.
He sank into a low combat stance, pushing his essence through his limbs until his muscles tightened with light, surging power.
"Begin!" Mr. Crosswell barked.
Atlas exploded forward, his boots kicking off the hard stone floor with sharp speed. He closed the distance in a fraction of a second, thrusting his blade straight toward Mr. Crosswell’s midsection.
The wooden weapons collided with a sharp crack that echoed off the high walls. Mr. Crosswell hadn’t even shifted his feet; he had effortlessly deflected Atlas’s full-force strike with a simple turn of his wrist.
Before Atlas could recover his balance, Mr. Crosswell’s foot swept low, forcing Atlas to leap backward into a quick roll to avoid being tripped.
"Speed is decent, but your posture is open!" Mr. Crosswell called out, stepping forward instantly to press the attack.
A barrage of strikes rained down on Atlas.
Every time Atlas swung, Mr. Crosswell was already half a step ahead, parrying every blade strike with minimal effort while constantly driving Atlas backward across the smooth stone floor.
Sweat began to sting Atlas’s eyes as the physical strain of maintaining high-speed defense began to wear on his lungs.
"You’re reacting, not predicting!" Mr. Crosswell shouted, parrying another vertical slash and striking Atlas hard across his shoulder guard, sending him staggering back three paces. "Your opponents won’t wait for you to catch your breath!"
Atlas gritted his teeth, feeling the hot sting in his shoulder. He narrowed his eyes, focusing deep within his chest where his internal energy reservoir rested.
Instead of just pushing raw soul essence into his legs for speed, he began circulating it in tight, rhythmic pulses through his heart and down to his feet.
He lunged forward again, but this time, right as Mr. Crosswell raised his wooden blade to block, Atlas abruptly shifted his weight sideways, leaving behind a faint shadow trail as he swept around to Mr. Crosswell’s blind spot.
Atlas brought his practice sword down with everything he had, targeting the open space at Mr. Crosswell’s flank.
For a split second, it looked like the hit would land.
Then, a sudden, heavy pressure flared around Mr. Crosswell.
A ripple of dense, invisible force erupted from the instructor’s body, stopping Atlas’s blade mid-air just inches from his tunic.
The overwhelming pressure pushed Atlas back, forcing him to plant his feet hard against the stone to keep from being thrown off his feet entirely.
Mr. Crosswell lowered his wooden blade, a faint, approving smirk finally returning to his face.
"Not bad," Mr. Crosswell said, breathing easily as if he hadn’t just moved at high speeds for twenty minutes straight. "That footwork shift was clean. You’re learning to hide your intent."
Atlas leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees as he panted heavily, wiping sweat off his chin. "You blocked it without even moving your sword..."
"That was high-tier soul essence stabilization," Mr. Crosswell replied, walking over to a wooden bench to grab a water pitcher. He tossed a fresh cloth toward Atlas.
"And you’re going to need to learn how to break through defenses just like that if you want to survive the first round of the tournament."
Atlas caught the cloth, dabbing his damp forehead while catching his breath. "How much time do we have before the official matches begin?"
"Three weeks," Mr. Crosswell answered, his gaze turning serious once more. "Which means starting tomorrow, you come down here every single night after curfew. We are going to rework your combat foundation from scratch."