Eldritch Guidance

-10 hours ago-

Mitra peered out from a window in a nearby building, her gaze fixed on the scarred battlefield below. The once-pristine field was now a chaotic tapestry of upturned earth, smoldering craters, and lingering ice that shimmered faintly in the light. The aftermath of the battle between two powerful mages was evident in every scorched patch of ground and every jagged fissure that split the earth. At the center of it all floated Johannes Scefer, a noble of the prestigious Scefer family, suspended in mid-air like a marionette. His eyes were wide, unblinking, as though he had been frozen in time, untouched by the world around him.

The university's most skilled mages had been called in, who now swarmed the field like ants around a fallen titan. Robes of various colors and crests fluttered in the breeze as they chanted incantations, waved intricate devices around, and scribbled frantic notes in their grimoires. Despite their collective expertise—some of the greatest minds in the arcane arts available on the continent—no one could decipher what was going on before them. Johannes remained an impenetrable mystery, his condition defying every known spell, curse, or magical phenomenon.

Theories were whispered among the mages, ranging from some sort of kinetic stasis to soul displacement, but none could be proven. The air was thick with frustration and unease, a palpable tension that even the most seasoned scholars could not shake.

And, any attempt to move Johannes proved utterly futile. An invisible, impenetrable force enveloped him, as though he were encased in an unyielding shell that defied all logic and magic alike. No matter what they tried—physical force, telekinetic spells, or even intricate rituals designed to dismantle barriers—the result was the same: anything that came too close to Johannes was violently repelled, as if the very air around him rejected all intrusion. Even the most skilled mages, wielding spells that were unmatched in their complexity, found their magic dissipating harmlessly against the unseen force, leaving no trace of their efforts.

What was more baffling was the complete absence of aetheric signatures. Aether, the fundamental energy that underpinned all magic, was undetectable in the force surrounding Johannes. It was as though whatever held him in its grip existed outside the known laws of the arcane, a phenomenon that defied both analysis and comprehension. The mages tasked with studying it were left dumbfounded, their instruments and senses failing to register even the faintest whisper of magical energy. It was as if the force was not just immune to magic, but entirely separate from it—a paradox that left the scholars questioning everything they thought they knew about the nature of magic itself.

The magic affecting Johannes was unlike anything recorded in the annals of the university's vast archives. It bore no resemblance to kinetic stasis, soul-binding curses, or even the most obscure forms of metaphysical manipulation. It was something entirely alien, a force that seemed to operate on principles beyond their understanding. Whispers began to circulate among the mages, speculating that this could be the work of a long-lost ancient magic, or perhaps something even more sinister—a power from beyond the known realm, something that should have remained hidden. The power of a nameless god.

Mitra, watching from her vantage point, couldn't help but feel a slight pang of guilt.

She had been warned about Cid by Jafar, but at the time, his words had seemed too far-fetched to take seriously. Jafar claimed that Cid possessed an uncanny ability to predict cause and effect, orchestrating a chain of unlikely events with almost preternatural precision. To Mitra, the idea had sounded absurd—like something out of a fantastical tale rather than reality. If such a person truly existed, she reasoned, they should be impossible to catch, let alone detect. What made Jafar and Alan so special that they could perceive and confront such an impossible existence? Their claims had struck her as exaggerated, perhaps even paranoid.

But now, as she stared at Johannes, frozen in that eerie, unbreakable stasis, she couldn't deny that Jafar had been right. Cid was no ordinary mage. The evidence was right in front of her, undeniable and terrifying. Whatever power Cid wielded, it defied logic and reason, leaving even the most seasoned mages baffled. Mitra clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as frustration and anger bubbled within her. She had underestimated Cid, and now Johannes—and countless others—were paying the price.

Her thoughts drifted back to Jafar, and a pang of guilt twisted in her chest. She recalled the state he had been in the last time she saw him: pale, bloodied, and barely clinging to life. A single bullet had pierced his side, leaving him on death's door. If not for Alan's quickly applying healing magic, Jafar would have been lost. The image of him lying there, broken and vulnerable, filled her with a seething rage—not just at Cid, but at herself. She had been overconfident, believing that the team of elite mages she dispatched would be more than enough to handle even a high-ranking mage. She had anticipated resistance, of course, but nothing like the chaos that had unfolded.

Explosions they carried detonating at random, enforcers tripping and falling in ways that defied explanation, their necks snapping as if guided by some unseen hand. The operation, meticulously planned and flawlessly organized, had descended into madness within moments. Now, dozens of enforcers were dead, their lives snuffed out in a series of freak accidents that couldn't possibly be coincidental. Mitra's jaw tightened as she replayed the events in her mind, each memory fueling her anger. She had failed them. She had underestimated the enemy, and now the cost was written in blood.

But she wouldn't stand there wallowing in her guilt or rage. No, she would channel it. Cid had proven himself to be a threat unlike any she had ever faced, but that only made her more determined. She would hunt him down, no matter how impossible it seemed. She would drag him back to the university, alive if possible, to face justice for his crimes. This wasn't just about vengeance anymore; it was about restoring order, about proving that no one will be allowed to hurt the people of this university.

As she stood there, lost in the storm of her thoughts, a familiar voice cut through the silence like a blade.

Alan: "Mitra!"

She turned to see Alan standing at the entrance to the room, his face a canvas of conflicting emotions—anger, worry, and a flicker of determination. He was the student she had unofficially taken under her wing, the one she had seen potential in, the one she had planned to eventually name as her disciple. But now, he looked less like a promising apprentice and more like a young man burdened by the weight of the chaos unfolding around them.

Mitra: "Alan…" she said softly, her voice carrying a rare tenderness that surprised even herself. "How's Jafar?"

Alan's jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

Alan: "He's stable," he replied, his tone clipped but laced with frustration. "But the doctors don't know when—or if—he'll wake up."

Mitra's chest tightened at the news. She had seen Jafar's condition herself, had known it was dire, but hearing it confirmed still felt like a blow.

Mitra: "I'll make sure the best healers in the university attend to him," she said, her voice softer now, almost maternal. It was a side of her Alan had never seen before, a crack in the stern facade she usually wore. "Go back to him. Be by your friend's side. He needs you."

But Alan shook his head, his expression hardening.

Alan: "Me being there won't help him any more than the healers already are. I can do more elsewhere." He took a step forward, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her pause. "I'm here because I heard you're leading a group to chase after Cid soon. Is that true?"

Mitra hesitated, her gaze drifting back to the window. Beyond the glass, the scarred battlefield stretched out. She debated how much to tell him. Alan was still young, still untested in the ways of true combat and the harsh realities of their world. But if she intended to take him on as her disciple—if she truly believed in his potential—then she owed him honesty.

With a quiet sigh, she turned back to him, her expression resolute as she returned back to her rigid demeanor.

Mitra: "Yes," she said, her voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of tension. "Cid fled into the teleportation room. Somehow, he managed to modify the runes on the teleportation circle—as if he already knew the specialized rune combination. It shouldn't have been possible, but he did it. Still, we were able to trace roughly where he teleported. We're assembling a manhunt team now, with law enforcement and the university, to track him down and bring him to justice."

Alan's eyes burned with a fierce determination, the storm of emotions within them tempered by a newfound resolve.

Alan: "Then I'm coming with you," he declared, his voice firm and unyielding.

Mitra: "No," Mitra said flatly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Alan's jaw tightened, and he took a step forward.

Alan: "Listen, I need—"

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Mitra: "To get revenge," Mitra interrupted, her gaze piercing as she cut him off.

Alan: "No… it's not that," Alan replied, though his voice wavered slightly, betraying the conflict within him.

Mitra: "Then what?" Mitra pressed, her tone softening just enough to encourage him to continue.

Alan's expression shifted again, the anger and determination giving way to something more uncertain—confused, even apprehensive. He hesitated, as if wrestling with his own thoughts, before finally speaking.

Alan: "I… I don't know how much Jafar told you about Cid. But we made a promise to him—a promise not to tell anyone about Cid. At the time, I thought… I thought he wouldn't hurt anyone else. And part of me still believes that if we had kept our promise, none of this would have happened. So… I don't know." He paused, his voice faltering as he struggled to articulate the turmoil inside him. "Part of me does want revenge, yes. But another part… another part wants to make this right. To make it right after breaking the promise I made."

Mitra studied him in silence, her sharp gaze softening as she took in his words. She could see the weight of guilt and responsibility pressing down on him, the conflict between his desire for justice and his loyalty to his word. It was a burden she understood all too well.

Mitra: "I see…" she said coldly, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. "The answer is still no."

Alan's frustration flared, but he pressed on, his tone urgent.

Alan: "Listen, I'm sure Jafar told you about Cid's weird ability to calculate the future. But there's something about it that even I don't fully understand: it doesn't work on me. For some reason, I'm… an exception. He indicated it when I talked to him. If Cid uses that ability to predict your movements, you might never find him. He could evade the entire manhunt effortlessly. But he can't predict me. If I'm with you, we might actually have a chance at finding him."

Mitra turned back to face him, her piercing gaze locking onto his. She studied him intently, weighing his words with the precision of someone who had learned the hard way not to dismiss valuable insights. Ignoring Jafar's warnings about Cid had already cost lives—lives she couldn't afford to lose again. She wasn't about to repeat that mistake with Alan.

Mitra: "No," she repeated, her voice firm but no longer as dismissive.

Alan: "Please! Let me—" Alan began, desperation creeping into his tone.

Mitra raised a hand, silencing him with a sharp gesture.

Mitra: "You're not joining the general manhunt team," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Instead, you'll be joining my team—along with a few of your fellow disciples—to chase after Cid directly."

Alan blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

Alan: "Does that mean I'm officially your disciple now?"

Mitra: "Yes. It's not the most ideal situation, but circumstances have forced my hand. Go to Building H77 and prepare. We'll be heading out soon."

Alan nodded, a mix of relief and determination washing over him. He turned to leave, but before he could take more than a step, Mitra's voice stopped him in his tracks.

Mitra: "Alan," she said, her tone quieter now but no less commanding. "This isn't a game. Cid is dangerous, and more people could get hurt. If you're coming with me, you follow my orders without question. Understood?"

Alan: "Understood," Alan replied, his voice steady. He met her gaze one last time, a silent promise passing between them, before turning and striding out of the room.

Mitra watched him go, her expression unreadable. She knew the risks of bringing him along, but she also believed when he said he had a unique immunity to Cid's calculations. As she turned back to the window, her mind raced with plans and contingencies. The road ahead was fraught with danger.

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

Somewhere deep within a hidden facility in Port Vaal, Scarlett sat hunched over a workbench, her hands steady and precise as she carved intricate runes into a vibrant red crystal. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the occasional burst of sparks that flew as her etching tool met the stone's surface. She wore welding goggles, their lenses reflecting the flashes of light as she worked, her movements deliberate and unhurried. Each stroke of the tool was accompanied by a faint hum of aether, the magical energy she channeled into the runes with meticulous care.

The process was slow and demanding, requiring not just technical skill but an intimate understanding of the aetheric currents that flowed through the crystal. As she worked, the runes began to glow faintly, their lines shimmering with a subtle, otherworldly light. The air around her crackled with energy, a testament to the power she was weaving into the stone.

After several long minutes, Scarlett finally set the etching tool down and removed her welding goggles, revealing sharp, calculating eyes that immediately scrutinized her work. She held the crystal up to the light, turning it slowly to inspect every angle. The craftsmanship was impeccable—the crystal itself had been cut to perfection, its facets catching the light in a way that made it seem almost alive. The runes, now fully infused with aether, resonated with stable energy, their intricate patterns a proof to her mastery of the craft.

To any decent enchanter, the crystal would have been nothing short of a masterpiece. The precision of the runes, the balance of aether within them, and the flawless execution of the design all spoke of an artisan at the height of her skill. But Scarlett's expression remained impassive, her critical eye already searching for any imperfections, no matter how minor.

Satisfied with her work, Scarlett turned to her side where Luke Vaga, the CEO of Vaga Industries and an automotive tycoon, stood watching her with an unnerving, almost mechanical stillness. His presence was as cold and calculating as the machines his company produced, his eyes fixed on the crystal with an intensity that bordered on unsettling. He had observed her entire process in silence, his expression unreadable, his posture rigid.

Without a word, Scarlett handed the gem to Vaga.

Scarlett: "Here," she said, her voice clipped but confident.

Vaga took the crystal with the same detached precision, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He placed it into a nearby machine, a sleek, high-tech device that hummed softly as it began its analysis. The two of them waited in silence, the only sound the faint whirring of the machine and the occasional beep as it processed the crystal. After a moment, there was a sharp click, and data began to stream across a nearby computer screen. Vaga leaned in, his eyes scanning the information with a speed and efficiency that mirrored the machine he operated.

Finally, he removed the crystal from the device and handed it back to Scarlett, his expression as impassive as ever.

Luke: "The thermal flow deviation is off by one percent," he said in a flat, monotone voice. "Please redo it."

Hearing those words, something inside Scarlett snapped. Her jaw tightened, and she could feel the heat of anger rising in her chest, as though a blood vessel might burst in her head. She stared at Vaga, her eyes blazing with fury, but he remained unmoved, his cold demeanor only fueling her rage.

Quickly, she snatched the crystal from his hand and hurled it across the room with all her strength. It sailed through the air before smashing against the far wall, shattering into countless shards. The energy she had painstakingly infused into the crystal was released in an instant, erupting outward in a fiery explosion that lit up the room with a blinding flash. The force of the blast sent a shockwave through the air, scattering tools and papers and leaving a scorch mark on the wall where the crystal had struck.

For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the faint crackling of dissipating energy. Scarlett stood there, her chest heaving, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Vaga, however, remained as stoic as ever, his expression unchanged, as if the outburst had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Scarlett: "ONE PERCENT!!!" she exploded, her angry voice echoing through the chamber. "You're going to make me redo this stupid enchantment for the fiftieth time because it's off by one percent?!"

Vaga simply nodded, his mechanical demeanor unshaken.

Luke: "One percent is unacceptable," he replied, his tone as flat and emotionless as ever. "Perfection is not optional."

Scarlett's hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms as she fought to keep her temper in check.

Scarlett: "You're not going to find another fucking enchanter on this continent who can get as close as I have to your insane specifications! Do you have any idea how difficult this is?!"

Luke: "I told you before," Vaga said, his voice calm and infuriatingly measured, "the enchantment has to be perfect because it interfaces directly with the analog core of the FX-6 model. Even a one percent deviation could destabilize the thrust output and—"

???: "Um, is this a bad time?" another voice called out, cutting through the tension like a knife.

Both Luke and Scarlett turned their heads sharply toward the entrance of the chamber. There, framed by the dim light filtering in from the corridor, stood a figure shrouded in a dark hood that draped over his face like a shadow. The new arrival peeking in with an almost comical hesitation, as if unsure whether to step forward or retreat.

He wore a thick black leather coat, its surface studded with silver rivets that caught the faint light like scattered stars. Beneath it, a black shirt clung to his frame, paired with dark denim jeans that hung low, adorned with chains that jingled faintly with every slight movement. The outfit was a chaotic blend of rebellion and menace, the kind that screamed "trouble" in every possible way.

Luke: "Fenny," he said, his tone still monotone, though there was a faint hint of recognition. "It's good to see you."

Scarlett, on the other hand, was far less welcoming.

Scarlet: "Why are you here?" she snapped, her voice dripping with annoyance.

Fenny stepped fully into the room, his posture mirroring Scarlett's irritation.

Fenny: "What the fuck do you mean, 'why am I here'? You're the one who called for me!" he shot back, his voice indignant.

Scarlett: "Called you?" she said, her anger momentarily replaced by confusion. "I didn't call… oh…that's not good." Her voice trailed off as realization dawned on her, her expression shifting from anger to worry.

(Author's Note: Putting this in the main body of the story for when a bot takes this. Hey there! You're reading a story be me, Saberfang. This was likely taken from royal road or scribble hub. If you like my work please read it on those websites or on patreon at patreon.com/user?u=83747391)