Astraedus Academy – Courtyard

  His gaze landed on Aeon.

  “I see you’re still playing the hero,” Vael said with a smirk, his voice dripping with disdain. “But don’t be mistaken, Aeon. You’re not the one pulling the strings. That’s something you’ll have to learn... the hard way.”

  The words echoed like a curse across the torn courtyard, the last of the magical storm still dissipating into the cracked skies above. The ground beneath Aeon’s feet pulsed faintly with remnants of Vael’s summoning circle—the Door to Hell stood wide open behind him, its obsidian frame glowing with otherworldly energy. From its threshold, infernal winds howled as shadowy figures lingered within, clawing at the veil between worlds.

  Aeon took a step forward, planting his foot with the resolute thud of a warrior who had no intention of backing down. Behind him, Ryssha and Darion rushed to his side, expressions grave yet unwavering.

  “Vael,” Aeon said, “you crossed a line today. This place... these people—you can’t just rip reality apart like this.”

  Vael chuckled darkly. “Reality is a toy for those strong enough to bend it. You think you’ve mastered something just because you glow in the dark now?”

  Kairo Vornhart landed beside Ryssha in a blur of silver and blue, his twin blades drawn. “We fight as one, Aeon. You’re not alone in this.”

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  “Nor ever will be,” Elian added, stepping out from a teleport glyph, already channeling radiant light through his palms. Lucen followed in stride, the sigils on his jacket sparking with energy.

  The five of them formed a line behind Aeon. The Virelios Core. They had no official title—but fate had chosen them as the vanguard.

  Vael’s smile widened. “Ah, friendship. So beautiful, so fleeting.”

  He raised his hand. From the shadows behind him emerged four silhouettes—Tavin Grynth, the blade-dancer of fallen time; Myris Velstra, the mindflame sorceress whose thoughts could twist perception; Varek Khoran, brute executioner with a body forged in the pits; and Zelphira Dyvra, mistress of void-song, whose melodies unraveled order.

  “Meet my hands,” Vael said. “I brought them to test your little rebellion.”

  Without warning, Tavin lunged at Darion. Steel met steel in a flurry of blinding motion. Myris faced Ryssha with a grin of wicked delight, launching a barrage of illusory fire. Varek charged Lucen, the very ground shattering under his steps, while Zelphira’s haunting song lured Elian into a dreamspace of inverted memory.

  Aeon and Vael stood untouched at the center of the chaos.

  “I should kill you now,” Aeon said, aura flaring with a power far beyond the mortal scale. For a heartbeat, his form blurred—cosmic tendrils whispering into view. “But then... you’d never reveal what you’re really after.”

  Vael tilted his head. “Oh, Aeon. You think I’ve shown even a fraction of my hand?”

  And then, with a snap of his fingers, the Door to Hell began to close—not sealed, but stored. It folded into Vael’s shadow like it had never existed.

  “Just a taste,” he said. “We’ll play again soon.”

  He and his pawns vanished in a storm of black fire, leaving behind silence, dust, and the haunted looks of those who had seen too much.

  Aeon dropped to one knee, fists clenched. The weight of suppressed divinity surged in his veins.

  “I need to become stronger,” he muttered.

  And the others, battered and scarred, rallied around him. The next arc had begun.