Building a Terrorist Group in The Academy Novel

"Young master, we have arrived at Rimevale," the voice of the carriage driver woke Aiden from his slumber.

When Aiden peered out of the window, he realized the city was different from how the previous Aiden remembered.

Streets that were once crowded with life were now silent. The sound of footsteps and laughter had been replaced by the occasional echo of the wind. A few people, hunched and grim, could be seen walking sporadically.

The main avenue, where lights once shone brightly, lay in shadow. Signs of neglect were everywhere. The city still stood, but its heart had long since stopped beating.

'The news of my father's execution has already arrived,' Aiden thought. It was clearly not a good sign.

The carriage headed south, and after half an hour, they reached the Lord's manor. When Aiden arrived at the gates, several guards stood waiting, their faces stern, with no sign of a warm welcome.

Aiden stepped out of the carriage; his steps deliberate. He moved forward without hesitation, his stride long and unhurried.

The sound of his footsteps echoed, steady and unbroken, leaving no room for interruption. His gaze stayed focused ahead, not wavering for anyone or anything in his path.

His posture was upright, his movements controlled, as if the world around him were distant and insignificant.

The guards, unsure of how to react, moved aside as he passed. By the time they realized they were supposed to stop him, Aiden's silhouette had already faded from sight. The guards exchanged stupefied glances, gulping loudly.

As Aiden passed by the guards, they barely moved, as if a shadow had brushed past them. He entered the mansion without pause, his eyes scanning the grand foyer.

The polished marble floor reflected the light from a massive chandelier hanging above, filling the space with a soft glow. In the center, a wide staircase split into two, curving up to the second floor, leading to twin hallways on either side.

The space was large, with columns flanking the entrance, and the wealth behind the design was evident in every corner—from the intricate carvings along the banister to the gleaming stone beneath his feet.

"Young master… what are you doing here?" a voice rang out, filled with surprise. A lanky old man emerged, his bushy beard and hair unable to hide the passage of time. A forced smile plastered his face, but his eyes held no warmth.

"It seems I'm not welcome in my own house," Aiden said flatly, ignoring the butler's questioning.

Aiden looked down at the old man with languid eyes, clearly unimpressed. "No... no, how would I dare disrespect the young master?" The butler, Abraham, forced another smile, bowing deeply. "Please, I didn't mean to offend you."

There was no trace of repentance in his apology, and Aiden knew it. Abraham had never liked him, and now, without his father's protection, the butler was clearly looking down on him. Aiden could tell the man had someone backing him—no commoner would dare be so brazen with a noble, even one in disgrace.

"Stop the act, Abraham," Aiden interrupted, brushing past him. "Notify my uncle of my arrival. Tell him the new marquis has arrived from the capital."

Without waiting for a reply, Aiden ascended the grand staircase, ignoring the butler's reaction. Abraham's face twisted in contempt for a brief second, but he quickly resumed his servile expression.

"There's no need, young master," Abraham called out. "He's already in the marquis's main room, expecting you."

Aiden couldn't help but smile as he continued walking.

His steady footsteps echoed in the hallway. Maids who happened to be in his path scurried away in fright as if someone had stepped on their tails.

After a short walk, Aiden stood before a large wooden door, its veins forming intricate patterns around the iron handles.

BAM. Aiden flung the door open with both hands.

The room he entered was grandiose, but it reeked of cheap alcohol. The blood-red carpet gave the place a disturbing atmosphere.

A rectangular wooden table stood opposite the door, its surface littered with scattered papers. Behind it, a pair of crimson curtains blocked the windows, casting an oppressive shadow over the room.

Sitting behind the table, on a luxurious chair, was a middle-aged man with a rounded belly and a bushy mustache. He held a stack of papers, his face serious.

"There's no need for you to be here, nephew," the man said in an authoritative tone. "Let your uncle handle the fiefdom's problems. When I'm done, I'll give you back the head seat."

He waved a hand dismissively, signaling Aiden to leave, as if he were far too busy for this interruption.

Instead, Aiden sprawled on the right sofa and rested his head on the backrest, his eyes closed, completely ignoring his uncle's words.

His uncle, clearly displeased by the silence, forced a smile. "You must be tired from your journey. Go and have Abraham prepare a room for you. I'll come see you as soon as I'm finished here."

Still, Aiden didn't respond.

Finally, he broke the silence. "It seems the Hoyle family is filled with exceptional actors, dear uncle." Standing, Aiden approached the table slowly, his gaze piercing. "Have you never considered becoming a clown with those acting skills of yours?" he asked, his cold smile not reaching his eyes.

"Wh-what?" his uncle stammered, taken aback. Aiden had always been weak and cowardly, never daring to challenge him.

"First that sack of bones, and now you," Aiden continued. "You all know I'm mourning my father's death, so I truly appreciate your concern. But… it won't be necessary anymore."

His uncle's face contorted with rage, and he shot up from his chair, nearly toppling over in the process. "You… you scoundrel!" he shouted, his voice trembling. "You have the nerve to talk to me like that now? You worthless—"

Before he could finish, a sharp pain shot through his chest. He looked down, bewildered, only to see a dagger embedded deep in his flesh.

Aiden had stabbed him without hesitation.

"Y-you... demon..." his uncle croaked, his voice trembling with fear. He clutched at his chest, trying to stem the bleeding, but it was futile.

Aiden gripped the hilt of the dagger and pulled it free, his hand steady. Blood dripped slowly from the blade, but Aiden's eyes—glowing red and devoid of emotion—remained fixed on his uncle's dying form. The smell of iron filled the room, mixing with the stench of alcohol.

His uncle's eyes widened in disbelief as his life drained away. He slumped to the ground, his gaze locked on Aiden, his mind unable to comprehend the betrayal.

"Save me the act, uncle. I don't have time for your games," Aiden said coldly. Those were the last words his uncle heard before his consciousness slipped away.

Even as the body fell to the floor, Aiden's expression remained unchanged, devoid of any trace of remorse or humanity. There was no flicker of guilt, no hesitation—just cold, calculated precision.

As he stood over the lifeless body, Aiden felt an unexpected emptiness. He had expected something—guilt, fear, maybe even regret—but there was nothing. The man's fading life stirred no emotion within him.

"Is this it?" he thought, almost disappointed by his own lack of reaction.

His eyes, glowing crimson, remained cold and unblinking. They burned with a strange intensity, the only light in the dimly lit room. It was as if the act of murder had awakened something deep within him, something powerful and chilling.

In the darkness, only those red eyes remained, haunting and silent, filled with a terrifying, quiet power.