NOVGO.NET Chapter 392: Time To Move II
Chapter 392: Time To Move II
««Just after Dean Veyra vanished»»
Dean Veyra vanished in a quiet flicker of spatial energy, a trail of silver threads marking the place where her teleportation had ruptured the magical bindings around the central core.
Dean Godsthorn stood unmoving, gaze narrowed as the afterimage of Dean Veyra lingered in the air.
Snap.
He’d noticed it.
The subtle gesture she’d made just before leaving. Most would’ve dismissed it as dramatic flair, but Godsthorn had studied enough rituals, incantations, and curses to know better. That wasn’t flair—it was a trigger.
But he didn’t follow. Not yet.
The heavy, resonant hum of the central core behind him demanded more immediate attention. Dozens of runes etched into the vault’s circular gate shimmered in a chaotic haze—some fading, others fracturing. The seals were failing.
And if the seals failed, the central core’s power would ripple uncontrolled through the academy grounds, leaving it vulnerable to dimensional fractures—or worse.
He walked forward, each step echoing through the ancient subterranean chamber. The two charred bodies of the guards still lay beside the vault, lifeless and honored by silence.
Godsthorn raised both hands, silver-gold streams of energy pouring from his palms and spreading like threads into the vault.
The core resisted for a heartbeat—before recognizing him. It recognized his unique magic essence. The shattered runes began to realign themselves.
But the damage was extensive.
It would take time. Focus. Effort. And above all, mana essence. Something which he had in abundance.
He sighed.
“I trust the others to handle whatever you’ve summoned, Veyra.”
Elsewhere in the Academy Grounds…
It began subtly.
A twitch of the hand. A flicker across the irises. A faint, grotesque churning sound from deep within.
Then it escalated.
Limbs elongated. Flesh darkened and hardened into carapace. Wings sprouted on some, talons on others. Their uniforms tore off their skin like paper—revealing the monstrous things they were becoming.
Dean Oryll stood before the western dormitory, surrounded by students barely dressed, eyes wide with horror. The ground trembled underfoot as the transformations completed.
Click. Snap. Stretch.
“Everyone back inside. NOW!” Oryll bellowed, his voice laced with magic.
Dozens of students flinched before scrambling back into the dorms. Faculty members began locking the entrances from within.
Oryll let his arms fall to his sides, and his magic essence surged outward like an expanding storm.
“You monsters picked the wrong Academy and even worse, the worst timing.”
The mutated intruders lunged at him in a chaotic wave, half-snarling, half-gurgling. No pattern. No tactics.
Just primal hatred.
“Then die,” Oryll whispered.
He began to chant.
The air grew still.
So still it hurt.
A complete and oppressive silence fell. Not a breath, not a heartbeat could be heard. It wasn’t just quiet—it was wrong.
The spell took form.
Dead Calm.
Within a thirty-meter radius, the spell activated.
The first wave of demons froze mid-charge. Then, one by one—thud, thud, thud—their bodies imploded silently.
No sound. Just sickening visuals. Bloodless. Muted. Bones crumpled inward. Flesh caved in.
The next wave stepped into range—same fate.
It was a massacre. A quiet, bloody purge. Oryll didn’t even move. He just stood, robes fluttering from magical recoil as his spell consumed the battlefield.
On Razel and Elias’s part, the change was slower.
“They’re changing,” Elias said, eyes narrowing as the last of the mercenary-like intruders hunched forward, vomiting black bile as horns sprouted from their foreheads.
Razel exhaled, “Knew that snap was no goodbye. Just the damn opening act.”
The enemy shrieked. Razor-like talons formed from what used to be fingers. Veins turned black. One leapt—straight at Elias.
“Step back!” Razel barked, slashing through the air.
A crimson barrier formed, catching the leaping demon mid-air and turning it into smoke with a violent hiss. But more were coming. They spilled from the woods, dozens of them.
And Razel was smiling.
“Now it feels like a proper battlefield.”
Elias didn’t share the sentiment. “We need backup.”
As if answering the call, a surge of wind spiraled downward and Sub Dean Koven landed in front of them.
His hands glowed with shifting spells.
“Get the students out,” Koven ordered, barely glancing at Elias.
“But—”
“Go.”
Razel nodded, grabbed Elias by the arm and shoved him back. “He’s right. You’ve done enough, kid.”
“But I—!”
“No buts. Go protect the others.”
Elias clenched his jaw but retreated.
Sub Dean Koven turned to face the wave of transformed enemies now closing in. He raised a single hand, and an invisible pressure dropped like a hammer across the battlefield.
“You came here thinking ElderGlow was weak,” Koven muttered. “Time to prove you wrong.”
At the Central Core Vault, Dean Godsthorn continued to fix the vault.
Runes continued to mend.
But Godsthorn’s instincts screamed at him. Something had changed. The flow of the academy’s leylines—the raw magical channels beneath the campus—was off by half a fraction.
His spellwork slowed. His breathing deepened. He could fix it after finding out what exactly was wrong but first, he needed to identify the issue first.
Right now, the vault had stabilized enough to hold. Not perfectly—but enough to leave.
He closed his palms, cutting off the magic flow, and stepped back from the core gate.
The deaths of the guards haunted him. Not because they were weak—but because they’d been targeted. Chosen.
This isn’t random. She wanted to strike here first.
Then… he paused.
What if Veyra had a second aim?
He tapped the golden badge at his waist, sending out a telepathic link to Oryll and Koven.
“Status?”
Oryll replied instantly.
“Mutations. Not ordinary magic. At least twenty corpses. Students safe.”
Koven followed moments later.
“Enemy split and spreading. Razel and Elias forced to retreat by my command. I’m holding the western ridge.”
Godsthorn grimaced.
Too many battles at once. And still no clear goal.
What was Veyra after?
He turned, eyes scanning the vault chamber again.
Then he saw it.
A hairline crack—on the floor, not the door.
Etched into the stone. Invisible to the eye unless you knew how to see it.
It pulsed with energy not his own.
He knelt beside it and placed a hand on it. A jolt went through him—foreign magic. Coded, laced in ancient runes he hadn’t seen since—
That ritual again.
The same spell that Veyra had used when she left.
She hadn’t just planned to damage the core.
She had tried to tap into it.
Godsthorn’s expression turned grim.
He had underestimated her.
And they were all about to pay for it if he wasn’t careful enough.
He sighed. “Time to move.” Then he vanished into the night.