The talk with Roselys halted for the moment as she relented, saying he wouldn't need to do anything before she gave some form of information first. They agreed on it and parted ways without further discussion.
The next few days unfolded smoothly, filled with productive and satisfying work. Academy life proceeded without complications, allowing Vencian to settle into a rhythm that felt almost natural.
The academic knowledge from Vencian's memories continued serving him well, enabling navigation through lectures and discussions without drawing unwanted attention. Original content can be found at novelFirｅ.net
Professor Thalverin's classes on ancient architecture flowed seamlessly. Vencian contributed answers when called upon, drawing from inherited knowledge.
His responses earned nods of approval while keeping him safely within the boundaries of expected noble education.
The interdisciplinary practicum with Saely and Rapheldor progressed smoothly as well. Their group had successfully completed assignments, reconstructing ancient land charters with minimal friction.
Rapheldor often joined him and Elias during breaks or when both of their classes were together, while Saely treated him with the careful respect.
The fighting pit operated like clockwork under Casalus's management. Vencian played his role as Lucian with growing confidence, winning when instructed and losing when the betting required it.
His reputation among regular spectators had solidified into something reliable and profitable.
Urias had become a useful tool. The noble's son hung on every prediction Vencian fed him, convinced that Lucian possessed the insider info into the pit's outcomes. His gratitude had transformed into dependence, making him eager to please and quick to follow guidance.
Casalus had approached after Vencian's latest match with unusual energy, speaking of bigger matches and real money. Something significant was approaching, though the details remained deliberately vague.
For Vencian, it was one step closer to his goal that he had made to accomplice as soon as possible.
It was the end of the week, meaning a reprieve for all students for the day. For most, this meant relaxation or catching up on reading.
For Vencian, it meant a chance to follow up his investigations.
The riverboat's frame scraped against the stone pier with a grinding sound that cut through the morning mist. Vencian stepped onto the dock with the other passengers, his boots finding solid footing after the gentle rocking of the crossing. The Daraeth River stretched behind him, its surface still shrouded in vapor that would burn away as the sun climbed higher.
Quesil Migdol1 rose before him like a stone finger pointing toward the sky. The Tower of Disciples had stood for centuries, serving purposes that changed with each generation while maintaining its imposing presence. Its walls bore the marks of age and weather, yet the structure remained solid and unyielding.
Other passengers dispersed quickly, each pursuing their own business in this place of learning and research. Vencian walked alone up the stone path that wound from the pier toward the tower's entrance.
His cloak hung heavy with moisture from the river crossing, but the exercise of walking would warm him soon.
Quenya appeared at his side, her features clear now that the morning air no longer veiled them. She had remained quiet during the boat ride, seemingly content to observe their surroundings without commentary.
Vencian paused at the entrance. The doors stood unguarded. They never needed guards. The barrier itself was alive with the will of its creator.
Ilvor Therix's work. One of the last wielders of the Old Magic, remembered in the church's sacred texts. He had built the tower to preserve what he gathered, a legacy meant for disciples rather than rulers.
That will was still here. A presence that decided who could stand within its walls.
The inscription above the doors was easy to recall. What is more dangerous than no knowledge is knowledge in the hands of a fool. He wondered how many had been cast out after failing to prove otherwise.
The inscription was written in Urimeth, an old language from which most tongues of the kingdom were derived, including Airan and Reais.
Vencian drew in a breath before crossing. He worried for Quenya as much as for himself. The test had been passed by the original Vencian through his own merit. What if the tower's consciousness noticed the difference? Would it recognize him as a fraud or allow him through?
"Here we go," he murmured.
Crossing the threshold was like brushing through a static curtain—hair prickling up, gone the next instant as if he'd imagined it.
The pressure he feared never came. Neither did the rejection he expected arrive. To his surprise, Quenya crossed as freely as he did. The threshold let him slip through as if it couldn't be bothered. Worth had already been weighed somewhere else, and the fourth floor seemed content to agree.
Quenya appeared at his side. She gave a small nod, her gaze fixed on the vast entry hall. "This is fascinating."
"Can't disagree." Vencian said.
Memories of his many visits here made it easy for him to find his way, but he still couldn't help being struck by how unique the place was.
This place is one of the remnant of what this world had been once. A world in which humans were blessed by the divines when they didn't need to be bounded by an Archean to wield supernatural powers.
Such evidences in this world continues to convince Vencian that he may be an anomaly or something he can't quite figure out but he is not alone.
There are more things than himself that cannot be explained through common science or his modern knowledge. All that he had were guesses.
But coming to place on his day off was necessary and a plan he had already made long ago.
Because this is the only place where Vencian can find unorthodox knowledge that isn't taught in schools or academies.
Whatever fragments remained of the blood ritual the original Vencian did would not be lying in plain reach. But if there was any place that might hold them, it was here.
The hall was silent except for the hum of the barrier. Side chambers spread outward, but his path was clear. He walked to the lift, a stone platform ringed by runes.
As his boots touched the circle, the surface thrummed. The air closed in for a moment, pressing like unseen fingers testing his presence. It relented quickly. The platform rose.
Quenya watched him without doubt. "I hope we can find something worth finding here."
He kept his eyes ahead. "Me too. I don't expect anything obvious though."
Contrary to what one might think from a place like this which stored the knowledge of a person who once existed centuries ago, this isn't a place where hidden scroll or secret magic rituals are stored.
That's what he knows from the memories. What else he hoped is for at least a clue or direction where he can proceed his search for the meaning behind the blood ritual the original Vencian did.
The ascent slowed. The wall runes confirmed the number: four. The platform halted.
Vencian stepped forward, pulse tight in his throat. Whatever this floor revealed would determine whether the trip had been worth it.
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Author's note: Sorry for not posting yesterday. I realized the quality had slightly degraded over the last ten or so chapters, so I wanted to pause and polish the chapters, present and future, once more. Hope you guys can understand.