NOVGO.NET Chapter 393: Fixing What She Ruined
Chapter 393: Fixing What She Ruined
The clamor of battle raged across the outer academy, and yet, within the depths of ElderGlow, the only sound was the steady hum of arcane seals attempting to stabilize themselves.
Woooshhh…
Dean Godsthorn appeared once more before the central core vault.
Not through a flash of teleportation or a ripple in space—but as if he’d simply walked from one moment to another.
His long white beard swayed with each step, and in his hands, he carried two items unlike anything seen above ground in centuries.
One looked like a needle, but it was over a meter long and pulsed with runic symbols that floated slightly off its obsidian body.
The other, a hammer, wide-faced and copper-toned, shimmered with compressed energy—its weight evident in the way space bent slightly around its head.
He moved with measured grace toward the enormous vault door, kneeling at the crack on the ground—the same fracture he’d spotted earlier.
The space around it still pulsed faintly with Dean Veyra’s tampering. Foreign magic still lingered, wrapped around the core’s internal matrix like a noose waiting to tighten.
Godsthorn closed his eyes. The magic essence within him flowed downward, toward the floor, dancing into the crack like silver veins flooding a fracture.
Then he got to work.
First, he slid the large needle-like object into the crack. It hummed in response, syncing itself with the magic frequency of the core’s internal channels.
Next came the hammer.
THUMP!
He drove it gently but firmly against the butt of the needle, the impact sending a resonant wave across the chamber. The wave was not destructive—it was corrective. Each pulse began to reweave the disconnected strands Veyra had distorted.
THUMP!
A second pulse. The runes on the vault shimmered.
Godsthorn fed more of his essence into the tools.
His eyes narrowed with focus as sweat lined his brow.
On one of the ridges where chaos unfold continuously, the night was now alive with roars, screeches, and the splintering of wood and stone.
What had once been gold-ranked infiltrators had twisted into monstrous beings—lithe, fast, and furious. They moved like predators freed from cages, leaping across rooftops and scaling walls as though the laws of nature didn’t apply.
Sub Dean Koven, the sharp-featured man with slicked-back dark silver hair, now stood at the forefront, hands outstretched as arcane sigils formed between his fingers like clockwork gears.
“Damn parasites,” he muttered, watching another wave approach.
Elias, hidden safely behind the defensive perimeter established by the Sub Dean, could do little but watch.
His fists were clenched at his sides. He wanted to help. He wanted to fight.
But Koven had ordered him to stay back—and Elias knew better than to argue when the battlefield was no longer one he could control. Even Razel who was stronger had been told to stand down. He could t disobey.
Still, he watched.
Koven stepped forward just as the mutated ones came charging again. These weren’t simply corrupted men—they were experiments. Constructs, possibly. Enhanced bodies twisted with demonic essence.
They struck with incredible force.
Koven moved like the wind.
One gesture. A wall of crystal spikes erupted from the ground, impaling three.
Another flick of his hand, and a spear of flame spiraled through the air, piercing through the skull of one mid-leap.
He moved through them like a tempest—elegant, unyielding.
And still, more came.
Dean Oryll on the other hand stood amidst a battlefield of silence.
Not the poetic kind. Literal silence.
The bodies of nearly twenty transformed beings lay collapsed across the thirty-meter range of his Dead Calm spell.
Their expressions were frozen mid-scream, their bodies twisted in unnatural positions from the internal vibrations that had shattered them.
A slow, steady breeze returned.
Oryll exhaled as the spell dissipated.
His face was solemn, his energy drained—but not yet exhausted. This wasn’t over. Not even close.
He turned to the nearest communication glyph embedded in the stone path and pressed a finger into its center.
“My place is stabilized,” he reported. “Awaiting update from central.”
There was no response.
He looked up toward the looming Dean’s building in the distance.
Godsthorn better be fixing whatever she messed up. And since it was Godsthorn, he had high hopes.
Back in the vault chamber, Godsthorn worked with the patience of a thousand years.
He had driven the corrective needle halfway into the foundation.
Every hammer stroke released waves of restoration magic, cleansing Veyra’s glyphs like ink washed from stone.
THUMP!
The vault responded. A central emblem—once dim—flared with life.
He paused, placing his palm against the central rune.
“Almost there…” he muttered.
He could feel the core responding now. It recognized him again—not just as Dean, but as one of its creators. The blueprints of the academy were ancient, but he had been there when this core was first forged, centuries ago. Or at least he held memories of if. Ones passed on to him.
He reached into his coat and withdrew a thin, woven cord of crystalline thread. He wrapped it around the base of the hammer and whispered an incantation—his voice like wind through a canyon.
The hammer pulsed once. Then twice.
Then the core’s seal glowed in full.
Godsthorn sighed deeply.
It wasn’t perfect—there were still pieces of Veyra’s influence lingering in the runes.
But it would hold.
For a long while. He’d completely fix it later.
He turned away from the vault and disappeared from sight in a swirl of distorted space.
At Lord Terrace’s Watch, within the swirling energy of the barrier, the Lord sat unmoving.
Eyes closed, legs crossed, back straight.
Though his breathing was steady, magic poured out of him in slow, deliberate waves—touching each orb stored within his Void Key, anchoring their volatile spatial energy in a temporary stasis.
He’d felt the demons mutate. He’d sensed Veyra’s strange departure.
Still, he waited.
He wasn’t one to act unless it was necessary. But if the time came—
His eyes snapped open.
“I’ll turn this whole land into a graveyard if I must,” he murmured.
Back to the Ridge, Koven stepped over the smoking corpse of what used to be a man.
He turned toward the rest of the field—cleared. The tide had slowed.
“Status?” he called.
“Clear!” shouted one of the assistant instructors still outside.
Koven didn’t let his guard drop.
He lifted a hand and cast a sweeping sensory scan. His eyes flickered pale-blue as he surveyed every corner of his surroundings.
“…Still more coming,” he muttered. “This was just the tip.”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“Elias!”
The young man looked up.
“When this is over… you’re training under me.”
Elias blinked. “…What?”
“You heard me.”
Then Koven turned back toward the enemies, face hard as steel.