Abyssal Monarch: Rebirth of the Forsaken

The lecture hall for Temporal Divination and Prophetic Insights was unlike any space Jin-Su had encountered at the academy. From the moment he stepped inside, it felt as though he had entered a realm outside reality. The walls shimmered and flowed like liquid silver, their surfaces shifting between polished stone and cascading light. Glyphs floated freely in the air, their patterns intricate and hypnotic, occasionally emitting soft tones as if the room itself were alive and speaking in a language no one could understand.

The floor, a polished black marble, reflected not only the surroundings but flickered with glimpses of places that seemed entirely elsewhere—forests in twilight, cities in ruin, deserts lit by twin suns. It felt as though every step carried him deeper into a world teetering on the edge of time.

As Jin-Su stepped further into the room, the chatter of students softened, and the telltale buzz of whispers followed in his wake.

"That's him," one voice hissed, just loud enough to catch.

"I heard he crushed Kang-Woo. Twice. Can you imagine? Twice!"

"Yeah, but does he even need this class? What's he gonna do, predict himself winning again?"

"He even got Kang-Woo cut from his family? Could you imagine?"

Another voice chimed in, this one tinged with humor. "Maybe he's here because he finally found something he can't punch his way through."

Jin-Su caught that one and allowed himself the faintest smirk, but he didn't look back.

From the far side of the room, a more cynical voice cut through the murmurs. "Bet he's here to hog more attention. He can't not be the center of everything, right?"

"Yeah," another muttered, voice low but dripping with sarcasm. "Probably just wants to see if time itself will bow to him."

Jin-Su kept his expression neutral, but he could feel the occasional sharp gaze aimed in his direction. Not everyone admired him, and he knew that. It wasn't new.

"Do you think he'll try to intimidate the professor?" someone whispered from a different corner of the room, their tone nervous but curious.

A more sarcastic reply floated in. "Oh sure, like they wouldn't see that coming."

The whispers faded as Jin-Su took a seat in the middle row, the murmurs shifting back to the room's surreal features and the strange energy in the air. He placed himself strategically to observe the class while avoiding becoming its focus, though the lingering gazes of curiosity and envy made it clear that he already had everyone's attention.

Students trickled in, their chatter subdued by the palpable atmosphere of the room. Everyone was waiting for the instructor, and from the whispered rumors circulating, it was clear no one truly knew what to expect.

When the teacher arrived, they did not walk through the door.

The figure simply appeared, as if stepping through a veil of reality itself. One moment, the space at the front of the class was empty, and the next, it was filled with a being so alien that the room collectively fell silent.

The instructor was tall, nearly unnaturally so, their height exaggerated by the slenderness of their form. Their limbs were long and thin, tipped with clawed fingers that shimmered faintly like obsidian. Their skin glowed faintly, as if lit from within by starlight, and shifted constantly in hue—from the soft blush of dawn to the rich gold of twilight, and even the deep indigo of midnight.

Instead of hair, a crown of living light swirled around their head, shifting in color and shape like a nebula captured in motion. Their face was smooth and featureless, save for a sharp jawline and a faintly glowing blindfold that covered where eyes might have been. The blindfold was inscribed with silver glyphs that moved constantly, forming patterns too complex to decipher, as if they were sentences written in a language meant for the universe itself.

The figure's entire presence shimmered, and with every moment, their form seemed to shift. At times, they appeared ancient, their frame stooped and frail, the light of their crown dimmed to a faint glow. At others, they radiated the vibrance of youth, their movements quick and spry. Occasionally, they even seemed childlike, their features small and playful, though their aura of wisdom never diminished.

Despite their lack of eyes, their presence was magnetic, their head tilting slightly as if they were examining each student, one by one. The glyphs on their blindfold glowed brighter as they began to speak, their voice reverberating in a way that was both melodic and deeply unsettling—a harmony of tones that resonated with impossible depth.

"Time," the instructor began, their voice cutting through the silence, "is a paradox. It is fixed, yet fluid. Immutable, yet ever-changing. To understand it is to accept that you cannot control it, only glimpse its infinite possibilities."

The figure paused, their form shifting subtly, their tone taking on a childlike curiosity. "I am Orlith, a servant to time. I weave the threads that connect moments, though I cannot pull them taut. You will learn to see the threads, though you will not understand them fully. Not yet."

They raised one clawed hand, and a golden thread of light appeared, spinning into existence from nowhere. It twisted and danced in their fingers, casting shifting patterns of light across the room.

"Each of you is but one thread," Orlith continued, their tone now aged and weary. "And every choice you make tugs at the web, altering the paths that lie ahead. Some paths lead to greatness. Others…" Their blindfold pulsed faintly, the glyphs spinning faster. "Lead to ruin."

The lesson began with theory, Orlith explaining the mechanics of temporal divination. "The threads you seek are glimpses of possibility," they said. "Mana is your anchor, guiding you to moments that may yet come to pass. But beware—what you see is not guaranteed, only a whisper of what could be."

Then came the practical exercise. Orlith distributed crystal spheres to each student, their surfaces smooth and cool to the touch. "Focus your mana," they instructed, their form now childlike, their voice lilting. "Open yourself to the flow of time. Let the sphere reveal the threads to you."

Jin-Su held the sphere, channeling his mana into it with practiced ease. Its surface rippled, and his vision blurred as the room melted away.

He was no longer in the lecture hall.

Instead, he stood in the shadow of betrayal, a moment frozen in time.

Figures surrounded him, their faces hidden in shadow, their forms indistinct yet familiar. Their voices, however, were sharp and vivid.

"You've gone too far," one voice said, cold and trembling with restrained fury.

"This is the only way," another added, quieter, but with no less conviction.

Jin-Su saw himself brought to his knees, powerless and defeated. He heard his past self cry out in fury and confusion.

"You're making a mistake!"

The phantom sound of steel rang in his ears, and he felt again the weight of their judgment—heavy and final.

The vision ended abruptly, leaving Jin-Su gasping for breath, the phantom weight of betrayal still pressing on his chest.

The lecture hall came back into focus, and Jin-Su set the crystal sphere down with trembling hands. Most of the students were already filing out, their faces a mix of awe and unease.

"I can't believe I end up on the streets, man!" one student groaned, his voice laced with disbelief.

"You can't?" another replied, sarcastic and smirking. "Guess your destiny isn't as kind as you thought."

A small group huddled near the door, their conversation just as animated.

"I knew that the dean would accept my proposal!" one of them exclaimed triumphantly, puffing out his chest.

"Friend," his companion shot back with an incredulous laugh, "were you hallucinating in the future? Because that feels highly unlikely."

Others muttered to themselves, half-lost in the aftershock of their visions.

"I'll make my money back," one student muttered under his breath, gripping his crystal sphere as though it held the key to salvation.

The buzz of gossip and speculation filled the room, but Jin-Su remained quiet, his own thoughts heavier than the idle chatter around him.

But Jin-Su stayed behind, his thoughts racing as he approached Orlith.

"I need answers," he said, his voice low but sharp. "What I saw… it wasn't a possibility. It was exactly what happened to me. Every detail. Every word."

Orlith turned toward him, their blindfold glowing faintly as their form shifted into that of an ancient figure. "Did it?" they asked, their tone calm and measured.

"Yes," Jin-Su snapped. "Every moment, every action. It was all the same. Tell me—" He took a breath, his voice trembling with frustration. "Is fate written? Am I doomed to relive this no matter what I do?"

Orlith's form shimmered, growing playful and childlike as their voice turned light, almost teasing. "Tell me, Jin-Su: are your actions now the same as before? Do you trust the same hearts, speak the same words, walk the same path?"

Jin-Su faltered. The weight of the question pressed against him, a crack forming in the certainty of his anger.

"The threads of time are not chains," Orlith continued, their blindfold glowing brighter. "But even the freest of threads can tangle if woven carelessly. What matters is not the past you've seen, but the choices you make now."

Their presence began to fade, leaving only their voice behind. "The question is not whether fate is written, Jin-Su. It is whether you are writing it the same way."

And then they were gone, leaving Jin-Su alone in the now-empty room, his thoughts a storm of doubt and determination.

This time, he vowed, his choices would be different.

They had to be.