NOVGO.NET Chapter 55: Uncanny
Chapter 55: Uncanny
Mr. Crosswell set his wooden cup down onto a nearby crate with a heavy, deliberate thud, the hollow sound echoing across the vast, stone-lined chamber.
The flickering blue light from the surrounding wall runes cast long, jagged shadows across his features, deepening the sudden, grave line of his brow.
"A Puppeteer," Mr. Crosswell began, his voice dropping into a low, resonant baritone that filled the silent arena, "is an individual who wields the forbidden art of Soul-Thread Manipulation. It is a class — and a branch of magic — that has been officially outlawed across every recognized continent for over three centuries."
Atlas leaned against his practice blade, his knuckles white as he listened intently. "Outlawed? You mean it’s an illegal class?"
"It is worse than illegal, Atlas. It is an absolute taboo," Crosswell said, stepping toward the center of the training floor.
"A Puppeteer does not simply influence or trick the mind like a illusionist. They construct microscopic, invisible threads woven directly from their own spiritual energy. From hundreds of yards away — sometimes even miles — they anchor these threads directly into the soul core and nerve pathways of an unsuspecting victim."
Crosswell raised his right hand, spreading his fingers. A tiny, thread-like wisp of pale white mana flickered over his fingertips before vanishing into thin air.
"Once those threads bite into your core, you cease to be a person," Crosswell continued, his eyes locking onto Atlas.
"You become a flesh vessel. You retain your physical form, your voice, and your muscle memory, but your willpower is utterly severed. Your body executes every command, every strike, and every cruel act as if it were the Puppeteer’s own hand. The victim remains fully trapped inside their own mind, forced to watch their body commit horrors without the ability to even blink of their own free will."
Atlas felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach as he recalled Gregory’s wild, bloodshot eyes during their duel — the frantic, unnatural twitching of his limbs right before he drew that poisoned blade.
"That’s why Gregory’s core was corrupted... He was being piloted."
"Precisely," Crosswell nodded grimly. "And that absolute lack of consent is only the beginning of why the world branded the class as a menace to society. Think of the legal and moral chaos it creates, Atlas. If a Puppeteer forces an innocent knight to murder a king, who is the killer? The knight whose hands held the blade, or the ghost who spun the threads from two streets away?"
Crosswell turned toward the weapon racks, his eyes reflecting the dim torchlight.
"Centuries ago, entire kingdoms collapsed from within because of them. Sovereign rulers signed disastrous treaties, beloved commanders slaughtered their own garrisons, and noble families turned on each other in bloody civil wars — all orchestrated by unseen manipulators sitting comfortably in high towers. Crimes were committed daily with zero accountability, because the true perpetrators left no physical footprints, no blood, and no soul signatures."
"So the global councils banded together to eradicate it," Atlas deduced, his voice tight.
"They hunted the class into extinction," Crosswell stated flatly. "Or so the historical views claimed. Every manual was burned, every active core was purged, and the very mention of Soul-Thread Manipulation was erased from official academy curricula. To possess the class was an automatic death sentence."
Crosswell turned back to face Atlas, his expression hardening like cold iron.
"Which brings us to our current dilemma. If Gregory was being piloted by a living Puppeteer inside this academy... it means those who inherited or secretly cultivated this taboo art are no longer content with hiding in the shadows. They are stepping back into the light, using our own students as disposable pawns."
Atlas swallowed hard, the sheer scale of the threat settling over him like a suffocating blanket. "And they’re targeting me."
"Or targeting the academy through you," Crosswell corrected sharply. "Which is why you cannot afford to be weak, Atlas. If a Puppeteer catches you off guard, your shadow energy won’t save you if your own nervous system is hijacked. Now... raise your blade."
The transition back to combat was instant and brutal.
Mr. Crosswell surged forward without another word, his wooden sword cutting through the air with a sharp, whistling gust. Atlas barely reacted in time, throwing his blade up into a diagonal parry.
The force of the strike rattled through the bones of Atlas’s arms, forcing him back two steps. But Crosswell gave him zero breathing room.
He pivoted on his heel, driving a rapid sequence of thrusts and high-angled slashes directly toward Atlas’s open guard.
Atlas pushed his exhausted body to its absolute limits, his boots sliding across the smooth stone floor as he parried, ducked, and twisted away from the instructor’s relentless assault.
He focused entirely on the subtle movements of Crosswell’s shoulders and wrists, trying to predict the trajectory before the strikes even launched.
"Faster!" Crosswell barked, sweeping his leg low to force Atlas into a high leap before bringing his wooden blade down in a heavy vertical arc.
"A Puppeteer will read your rhythm before you even make a choice! Break your predictability!"
Atlas channeled a desperate burst of shadow energy into his legs, twisting mid-air to drop behind Crosswell’s shoulder. He swung his practice sword in a sharp horizontal arc targeting Crosswell’s flank.
Crosswell didn’t even turn around; he simply shifted his weight an inch to the left, letting Atlas’s blade graze his tunic while snapping the butt of his own weapon back into Atlas’s chest.
Atlas hit the stone floor with a dull thud, sliding several feet before coming to a halt. He lay there for a moment, his chest heaving, his lungs burning for air as sweat soaked through his uniform.
"That’s enough for tonight," Crosswell said, lowering his sword and breathing completely unhurriedly.
"Your reflexes are adapting, but your mind is cluttered with panic. Go back to your dorm. Process what you’ve learned."
"Thank you... sir," Atlas wheezed, dragging himself to his feet and bowing respectfully before heading toward the exit.
The trek back to the residential quadrant was long and quiet. Night had fully settled over the campus, the cold wind rustling through the high stone arcades.
Atlas kept his hood pulled low, his dark eyes scanning every shadow, every passing junior assistant, and every flickering mana-lamp with heightened paranoia.
’Anyone could be holding threads,’ he thought, his skin prickling. ’The warden at the gate, the servant carrying laundry, or a student walking by...’
When he pushed open the door to Room 150, he found Eric and Derrick sitting at the central table under the dim yellow light of a desk lamp.
Maps, student rosters, and administrative shift logs were scattered across the wood, along with several half-eaten pieces of dry bread.
Claus, as usual, was fast asleep on his bed, snoring quietly under a heavy blanket.
Derrick looked up, rubbing his exhausted, bloodshot eyes. "Hey. You’re back."
"Did you guys find anything?" Atlas asked immediately, stepping over to the table and leaning over the papers. "Any leads on who authorized the masked guest token that accessed Lady Aurelia’s wing?"
Eric let out a long, heavy sigh, taking off his wire-rimmed glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Nothing. We hit a complete brick wall."
Atlas frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The entry logs for the Senior Disciplinary Board were purged," Eric explained, his voice flat with frustration.
"Not just altered or scratched out — the entire page for Friday night was physically cut out of the record books. And when Derrick tried to ask the gate wardens who was on duty near the linen vault, none of them could remember anything out of the ordinary."
"It’s like their memories of that two-hour window were completely wiped clean," Derrick grumbled, slamming his fist lightly onto the table.
"They just blinked, looked confused, and said it was a quiet night. We spent four hours digging through cross-references, and we came up with zero names, zero faces, and zero physical clues."
Atlas stared at the blank parchments, the chilling truth dawning on him. ’Memory wipes... selective amnesia... more soul-thread tampering.’
The Puppeteer wasn’t just targeting him in the arena; they were actively scrubbing their tracks across the entire campus administration.
"Don’t beat yourselves up," Atlas said softly, clapping a hand on Eric’s shoulder. "You guys did everything you could. The person behind this is operating at a level we can’t easily catch through normal record-checking."
"It’s just frustrating," Eric muttered, stacking the useless ledgers into a neat pile. "We’re going in circles while someone is freely pulling strings in the background."
"We’ll catch a slip-up eventually," Atlas assured them, though his own heart felt heavy with the looming unknown. "Get some sleep, guys. It’s late."
Derrick yawned massively, stretching his arms over his head before flopping onto his mattress. "Yeah... my brain is officially fried. Goodnight, boys."
Atlas walked over to his own bed, unbuttoning his damp tunic and setting his practice sword beside the nightstand.
The frustration of the dead-end investigation weighed heavily on his mind, mixed with the chilling warning Mr. Crosswell had given him about the taboo class.
He lay down on his fresh, clean mattress, staring up at the dark wooden ceiling beams as the quiet breathing of his roommates filled the room.
’Real-world answers are blocked for now,’ Atlas thought, closing his eyes and drawing his awareness inward, toward the quiet, humming core in his chest.
’If I can’t catch the Puppeteer out here yet, I need to get stronger inside. Stronger speed, better synchro-rate, and enough power to snap any thread that tries to touch me.’
Focusing his mind, he let his consciousness plunge deep into the dark, familiar void of his inner realm.
’I just hope things end up better over there...’