The next three days blurred into a grueling, relentless routine.
With Magister Roderick leading the way, the journey became a moving classroom. The Grandmaster didn't just escort them; he drilled them. He pushed Toshi, Verdehile, and Elycia to their absolute limits, correcting their mana circulation and teaching them the precise breathing techniques required to push their E-rank foundations toward D-rank.
For Clei, Roderick's lessons were even more intense. Recognizing the boy's dense, compressed mana, the old man pulled him aside to explain the exact mechanics of crystallizing a Mana Chamber into a solid Core.
Sitting by the campfire each night, Clei would secretly pull out his worn notebooks. He meticulously wrote down Roderick's orthodox Academy teachings, then cross-referenced them with the heretical notes left by his father, Silas. Where Roderick taught purity and perfect elemental flow, Silas's notes advocated for impure, volatile compression—mixing Ash and Smoke into the fire to create a devastating, unpredictable core. Clei realized that his father's methods were incredibly dangerous, but the destructive output they promised was exponentially higher.
Meanwhile, Teresa enjoyed a profound sense of relief. With a B-rank Grandmaster clearing the road and handling the heavy teaching, she found herself with a rare, carefree stretch of time. She spent the days sipping tea from her thermos, reading her novels, and watching the students sweat. For the first time in her career, leading an academy expedition felt less like a terrifying responsibility and more like a paid vacation.
On the fourth day, the landscape began to shift. The dense green forests gave way to jagged, blackened rock formations. The air grew warmer, carrying the faint, sulfurous scent of the Anatolia caldera. They were exactly one day away from the city.
They were rounding a sharp bend in the canyon road when the carriage suddenly lurched to a halt.
Roderick frowned, stepping out of the carriage. Teresa immediately followed, her relaxed vacation demeanor vanishing in an instant.
Standing in the middle of the road, blocking their path, was a lone figure.
He wore a long, dark coat woven from shadow-silk, the collar turned up to frame a pale, stoic face. On his left breast was the insignia of the Obsidian Order: a golden sun eclipsed by a black blade.
An Inquisitor.
Roderick's eyes narrowed, his earth mana subtly flaring to assert his presence. "I didn't expect the Inquisition to be patrolling this stretch of the canyon, Severin. I thought you were stationed in Lydia."
The Inquisitor, Severin, didn't so much as flinch. Despite being only a C-rank Master, his aura was terrifyingly calm. Inquisitors underwent brutal, profound spiritual training that fortified their foundations to an unnatural degree. He didn't project a Domain, but the sheer, icy discipline of his Holy-infused mana made him feel completely unfazed by the B-rank Grandmaster standing before him.
"Magister Roderick," the Inquisitor said, his voice a dry, emotionless rasp. He offered a shallow, perfectly measured bow. "Teacher Teresa. I am Inquisitor Severin. I was dispatched from the regional cathedral to ask you some questions."
Teresa stepped forward, her tone professional. She immediately pieced together why an Inquisitor would be waiting on the road to Anatolia. "If this is regarding the events that transpired in Althea, I can assure you the situation is contained."
"It's regarding the Hollowed Alpha," Severin replied, his dark eyes sweeping over the group. "My superiors require a comprehensive understanding of everything that happened. Since you are en route to the city, I was sent to gather the specifics before you reach the gates and get tied up in Academy bureaucracy."
Teresa nodded, immediately launching into a concise, highly detailed report. She explained the coordinated Aetherborn horde, the Rank 4 Alpha, the metallic hide, the black veins of corruption, and Deacon Vance's purification. She left out nothing of the battle, maintaining a perfectly objective tone.
The Inquisitor listened in silence. When she finished, he simply said, "I see."
He then began to walk slowly along the line of the carriage, his gaze locking onto each student one by one. He looked at Toshi, then Verdehile, then Elycia. His eyes were like chips of dark ice, analyzing their mana signatures, their posture, their soul.
Then, he stopped in front of Clei.
Instantly, the Inquisitor's breath hitched. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible reaction, but Roderick noticed it.
Severin stared at the masked boy. To his conscious mind, Clei was just a D-rank fire mage. But deep within his spiritual senses—honed by years of hunting cultists and surviving near-fatal brushes with Phantoms in the name of the Radiant God—an absolute, primal alarm began to blare. It felt like standing at the edge of a bottomless abyss. It was an instinctual, suffocating terror, as if a mouse had suddenly realized it was standing next to a sleeping dragon.
What is this? Severin thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. Why does my soul feel like it's being watched by something ancient?
Neither Clei nor Silas knew the true origin of the mark. To them, it was simply a sinister, cursed remnant that Silas had heavily suppressed and sealed. But Silas's seals, while flawless against artifacts, could not entirely mask the deeply unnatural, malignant nature of the energy beneath. Severin's instincts, sharpened by a lifetime of sensing the Umbral Blight, were picking up on that hidden malice. His soul felt like it was being watched by something utterly wrong.
"Step forward," the Inquisitor commanded, his voice dropping an octave.
Clei blinked, genuinely confused by the sudden hostility. He stepped out of the carriage, keeping his posture relaxed but his muscles coiled. "Is there a problem, Sir?"
Severin didn't answer. His gaze swept over the boy from head to toe before locking like a vise onto his left hand. The thick, fire-resistant glove. That was the epicenter of the dread.
"Remove your gloves," Severin ordered.
Clei's heart skipped a beat. His mind raced. He had no idea what the mark truly was. He had asked Silas about it countless times, but his father had only brushed it off, saying it was a sinister remnant he would understand in the future. Silas had heavily suppressed and sealed the mark, hiding its dark mana so deeply that even Divine Artifacts would only perceive it if placed directly against the skin. But to Clei, it just looked like a cursed brand.
Before Clei could formulate a response, Elycia's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes darted to his gloved hand, and a wave of profound alarm washed over her. She remembered that marked hand from her childhood, the one the village had called cursed. A visceral instinct told her that if he revealed it now, something terrible would happen.
She stepped forward, her bow slung across her back. "Inquisitor, please. He has a severe skin condition. The ambient mana irritates his scars. He keeps them on for medical reasons."
Severin ignored her completely. "Remove. The. Gloves."
He took a step toward Clei, raising a hand to physically enforce the command.
At the side, Teresa tensed, ready to intervene, but Roderick beat her to it. He stepped smoothly between Severin and Clei, releasing his B-rank mana. The Dean's parting warning echoed in his mind: The boy must reach Ignis Academy completely unharmed, or things will escalate beyond our capabilities.
The earth beneath his boots groaned, and a suffocating, gravitational pressure flooded the canyon.
"That's enough, Inquisitor," Roderick rumbled, his voice shaking the loose pebbles on the road. "The Dean of Ignis Academy entrusted me to escort this boy safely to the city. That is the end of it."
Severin's face remained stoic, but his eyes narrowed. He tried to push past Roderick, his C-rank aura flaring with sharp, Holy-infused pressure.
Roderick was not to be outdone. He flared his aura, the heavy, suffocating weight of his Earth mana completely locking Severin in place. No matter how refined an Inquisitor's Holy foundation was, a C-rank was still a C-rank. The sheer, physical density of the Grandmaster's earthly mana simply crushed the Inquisitor's sharp Holy aura into submission, pinning the man's boots to the dirt.
Severin glared at Roderick. Knowing he couldn't physically bypass the Grandmaster, he calmed his mana. Instead, he reached into his spatial ring and pulled out a small, ornate silver compass. It was a Radiant Needle, a Masterwork Relic issued exclusively to the Obsidian Order. The Holy Church used these artifacts to sweep for the faintest traces of Umbral mana, ensuring no Phantoms or corrupted individuals slipped through their checkpoints.
He held it directly in front of Clei.
The Inquisitor's eyes were sharp, waiting for the needle to turn pitch black, and waiting for the artifact to react to the presence of the Blight.
However, the needle remained a bright, pristine gold. It didn't twitch. It didn't react at all. A flicker of genuine confusion crossed Severin's stoic face before he quickly masked it, returning to his cold, unfeeling calm.
Clei let out a slow, controlled breath and offered a calm, slightly annoyed explanation. "I burned my left hand badly when I was a child. The scar tissue is ugly and sensitive to the cold. I don't like looking at it, so I keep it covered. Is there a problem, Sir?"
Severin stared at the golden needle, then up at Clei. The instinctual terror in his soul was still there, but the artifact offered no proof. And with a B-rank Grandmaster glaring at him with murderous intent, he had no leverage.
Slowly, the Inquisitor lowered the compass and slipped it back into his spatial ring.
He looked at Roderick, his voice dripping with a cold, veiled threat. "Be careful of your actions, Magister. The Radiant God watches over all. And the Church does not forget those who harbor shadows."
Roderick just crossed his massive arms, unimpressed. "Get out of my road, Severin."
Severin stepped aside. The group boarded the carriage, and Roderick snapped the reins, driving past the dark-robed figure.
As the carriage rolled away, Severin stood alone in the dust. He stared at the retreating vehicle, his mind racing. He muttered the name under his breath.
"Clei Vane..."
He reached into his coat, pulling out a small, encrypted communication talisman. The artifact had failed, but he was sure his instincts had not. He would send a raven to the High Inquisitor in Lydia tonight.
Something was hiding in that boy. And the Obsidian Order would find out what it was.