NOVGO.NET Chapter 54: A puppeteer
Chapter 54: A puppeteer
The cool Sunday morning air did little to ease the quiet tension gripping the central library’s archives.
Golden sunbeams cut through high arched windows, illuminating millions of dancing dust motes above long mahogany tables.
Atlas, Derrick, and Eric sat huddled near the back of the administrative records section, surrounded by heavy leather-bound ledgers and glowing mana-parchments.
Spread out between them was a mapped-out timeline of the events leading up to the night Lady Aurelia’s violet-steel bangle was stolen from her private quarters.
"Okay, let’s run through it one more time," Derrick whispered, leaning forward and tapping a quill against the parchment.
"Aurelia pulled the central council entry logs from two nights ago. Only three people accessed the upper residence corridor between eight and ten PM: Aurelia herself, Head Maid Vane, and a third individual using a masked guest token."
"And masked guest tokens are only issued through two administrative offices," Eric added smoothly, his finger tracing a line of dense text in a heavy record book.
"The Student Affairs Directorate... and the Senior Disciplinary Board, which is tied directly to the high-ranking noble faction."
Atlas leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he processed the information.
"So whoever framed us with the stolen report and planted the bangle in Room 150 had high-level backing. They didn’t just want us expelled; they wanted Aurelia discredited before the tournament board."
"Precisely," Eric said, adjusting his glasses. "Whoever slipped into her room walked right past the wardens without leaving a single trace. No mana signature, no physical footprint — nothing. It’s as if they were moving like a ghost."
"Which means whoever is pulling the strings is operating far above our pay grade," Atlas said, standing up from the table and dusting off his coat.
"Keep digging into the token’s origin, Eric. Derrick, see if you can track who had access to that corridor before the theft."
"Where are you off to?" Derrick asked.
"My evening session with Mr. Crosswell," Atlas replied, pulling his hood up. "It’s almost time, and if I’m late, he’ll make me run laps until my lungs burst."
Leaving his roommates to continue tracing the paper trail, Atlas navigated the silent, winding stone corridors leading to the sub-levels beneath the main lecture halls.
The air grew progressively cooler and denser with ambient magic as he descended deep into the academy’s foundation.
When he reached the end of the torchlit hallway, the heavy black iron doors etched with blue runes slid open automatically with a low, reverberating thud.
Mr. Crosswell was waiting in the center of the massive, rune-shielded training hall. He was casually tossing a glowing crystal sphere up and down in one hand while holding his wooden practice sword in the other.
"You’re precisely on time tonight, Atlas," Mr. Crosswell noted, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "I see you survived your weekend continuous training."
"Barely, sir," Atlas said, stepping onto the smooth arena floor. "The Soul Forge doesn’t give discounts on fatigue."
"Good. Comfort breeds weakness," Mr. Crosswell said, his smile fading into his usual sharp intensity. "Draw your blade. We’re working on quick-response parries tonight."
Atlas didn’t hesitate. He summoned his dark practice blade into his grip, sinking into a balanced combat stance.
For the next hour, the cavernous chamber echoed with the sharp, relentless clang of wooden weapons colliding.
Unlike their previous sessions, Crosswell didn’t just attack with raw physical speed; he began weaving complex, unpredictable force pulses into his strikes, testing Atlas’s ability to read subtle shifts in weight and intent.
Sweat stung Atlas’s eyes as he parried, ducked, and counter-struck, his mind constantly anticipating the next angle of attack.
After a particularly intense exchange that ended with Atlas barely deflecting a sweeping kick to his ribs, Mr. Crosswell called a brief recess.
"Better," Crosswell remarked, walking over to the weapons rack and retrieving two wooden cups of cold water. He tossed one to Atlas. "Your reaction time is sharpening. You’re no longer wasting movement."
Atlas caught the cup, gulping down the water eagerly before wiping his chin. "Mr. Crosswell... while we’re taking a break, have there been any updates from the medical ward regarding Gregory?"
Crosswell set his cup down on a nearby wooden crate, his expression shifting from relaxed instruction to a grave, heavy seriousness.
"As a matter of fact, yes," Crosswell said quietly, stepping toward the center of the arena. "The medical team finally managed to stabilize him this morning after his core fever broke."
Atlas frowned, remembering the sheer, unnatural madness in Gregory’s eyes when he had drawn that poisoned knife during their duel. "Is he awake?"
"He woke up brief hours ago," Crosswell nodded, his voice dropping into a low, measured tone. "And he remembers almost nothing about the fight."
"He doesn’t remember?" Atlas asked, taken aback. "Sir, he came at me with bloodlust. He practically lost his mind out there."
"Because he did lose his mind, Atlas," Crosswell revealed, looking directly into his student’s eyes.
"When the healers performed a deep soul-scan to check his vitals, they discovered something horrifying. Gregory’s soul core was severely corrupted. Invisible spiritual residue had been forced into his pathways, hijacking his motor functions and twisting his emotional state into unbridled mania."
Atlas felt a cold chill run down his spine as the realization washed over him. "He was being controlled... from the start?"
"Yes," Crosswell confirmed. "Gregory didn’t pull that poisoned blade out of his own conscious strategy. His body was being forced to act as a flesh vessel by someone else’s residual aura. Someone attached invisible soul strings to his core from afar, turning him into a frantic puppet to eliminate you."
The quiet chamber felt suffocatingly heavy. The poisoned duel, the tampered administrative reports, and Lady Aurelia’s stolen bangle — it wasn’t just a series of petty rivalries among students.
There was a phantom lingering in the shadows of the academy, manipulating students like pieces on a board while remaining completely hidden.
Atlas took a step forward, his knuckles turning white around the hilt of his practice sword as he locked eyes with his instructor.
"Mr. Crosswell..." Atlas asked, his voice steady despite the cold tension in his chest. "What or who is a puppeteer?"...