Tirius tore through space and stepped onto the open grounds of Astraeus Academy.
The moment his boots touched the blood-soaked earth, they sank slightly, the ground softened by the sheer volume of corpses and spilled life. His sharp gaze swept across the battlefield, taking in the carnage that had turned this once-pristine land into something unrecognizable.
The scent of blood hung thick in the air, suffocating, clinging to everything. The rivers of crimson stretched far, pooling in uneven depressions, seeping into the academy's sacred grounds.
The open space, once meant for grand duels and lectures on the path of power, had become a graveyard where the fallen lay in silent testament to their failure.
Students and professors stood at a distance, their faces drained of color. Horror was etched into their expressions, their bodies stiff, barely able to process the massacre before them. Some clutched their robes as though seeking comfort, while others trembled, unable to take their eyes off the grotesque sight that loomed before them.
A mountain of bodies.
The dead had been stacked upon each other, an unholy monument to slaughter, their broken forms carelessly thrown together. Blood trickled down its sides, soaking the already crimson ground, turning the academy into a place of dread.
And at its peak, seated like a king upon his throne, was NOX.
His posture was relaxed, his head tilted slightly, as though contemplating something of mild amusement. His blindfold remained in place, yet it did nothing to diminish the unsettling weight of his presence.
Tirius took another step, his boots pressing further into the sodden earth. The air was still thick with something beyond death—despair. It lingered, clinging to the battlefield, as though refusing to fade. The intensity of it was suffocating, an echo of the Dharma Soldiers' final moments.
And yet, amidst it all, one figure remained standing.
A single Dharma Soldier, a Rank 7 warrior with gray hair, stood drenched in the blood and gore of his fallen comrades. His body swayed slightly, exhaustion evident, but it was his expression that caught Tirius' attention. Hollow. Lost. As if the soul within him had already died, leaving behind only an empty husk.
Tirius scrutinized him.
He understood. The despair in the air was not just from the dead. It was from the living.
Then, NOX moved.
His head turned slightly, his blindfold shifting ever so slightly as if his unseen gaze locked onto his approaching uncle. Then, a playful smile touched his lips.
"Shadow Uncle," he greeted, his voice light, almost teasing. "You're late."
Tirius remained silent, still processing the aftermath of what had unfolded before him. He was no stranger to battle, having waged countless wars, yet this was no battlefield. This was something far worse—an unholy ground steeped in carnage and despair, where the echoes of slaughter still seemed to linger in the air.
The Dharma Soldiers had perished without even the faintest chance to fight back. Their deaths had not been swift; their despair was palpable, a testament to the horror they must have endured, falling one by one.
Had his nephew truly done this?
Tirius exhaled heavily, realizing that he had still underestimated NOX's deep-seated hatred and utter madness toward the Dharma Soldiers and the Society. There was no hesitation, no mercy—only a relentless, calculated eradication.
With a wave of his hand, Tirius tossed the three intact bodies of the fallen generals and the assassin onto the ground.
Unlike NOX, he believed in granting the dead at least the dignity of a proper burial. These generals had spent their lives safeguarding humanity; even if they fell here, they deserved that much respect.
NOX's blindfold shifted ever so slightly as his gaze settled upon the three corpses.
Tirius studied him intently, scrutinizing every flicker of movement in his nephew's expression, searching for a sign—anger, satisfaction, regret—anything.
But to his astonishment, NOX's face remained completely unreadable. He looked upon the bodies as though they were nothing more than discarded debris, devoid of hatred, pity, or even contempt.
A Rank 9 Awakener was an absolute force in the Lower Planes, an existence revered and feared alike. Yet NOX stood here, gazing at the lifeless forms of three such beings as if they were insignificant. He was this calm?
An unsettling sense of unease crept into Tirius' mind. His nephew was becoming unfathomable—dangerous in a way that even he could no longer predict.
But Tirius, in his usual manner, sighed and shook his head, unwilling to overthink the matter. "Are you alright?" he finally asked.
Interrogating NOX about the details of this massacre seemed pointless.
He was his nephew, one he had given his life for, and his clan sacrificed everything to keep him alive. If NOX was truly a devil, then so be it.
All that mattered was that he was safe. That was enough.
After all, if NOX had sustained even a single scratch, Tirius would have to face the wrath of his father, NOX's grandfather—an ordeal he had absolutely no desire to deal with. His peaceful, lazy life was already exhausting enough with his current responsibilities as a guardian.
NOX, however, was quick to shatter the solemnity of the moment. "Do you really think mere Rank 7 Awakeners could harm me?" he scoffed, his voice laced with arrogance. "Back in the day, even Empyreans trembled at the mere mention of my name..."
Tirius arched a brow as he watched NOX's nose metaphorically extend with each word. His nephew had finally found a chance to brag, and by the heavens, he was going to milk it for all it was worth.
"You were just born yesterday, and you dare to look down on such existences?" Tirius snorted, unimpressed. His nephew didn't even have the decency to brag with truth.
Rule number one of bragging tradition: one must only boast about things that actually happened!
A sudden impulse surged within Tirius—the desire to beat some proper bragging etiquette into his nephew with a well-placed fist for each rule violation.
Yet, as NOX basked in his self-indulgent triumph, Tirius decided to let him have this moment. After all, NOX had suffered quite the humiliation the previous night, and if boasting about imaginary past glories helped him recover his pride, so be it.
After a brief silence, NOX's lips curled into a mischievous smirk. "Shadow Uncle, shall we lodge a formal complaint against the old man? I mean, look at this security disaster—absolutely disgraceful."
Tirius paused, then realization dawned. Oh. Oh.
A slow, devilish grin spread across his face. This was his chance.
"That old bastard," Tirius muttered, his tone brimming with anticipation. He could finally unleash a lifetime of pent-up grievances. He could finally rip into that smug, infuriatingly self-satisfied man who had haunted his youth with his relentless training, insufferable wisdom, and—most of all—that damnable, ever-so-smug white beard.
In normal circumstances, Tirius could tolerate all his past suffering. But the sheer arrogance that radiated from that old man whenever Tirius failed? That was truly unforgivable. The memory of that maddening smirk surfaced in his mind, and a shudder of rage ran through him.
And now—now he finally had a reason to strike back.
Technically, he was NOX's guardian. NOX, the heir of the Dark Heaven Clan, an Empyrean Clan's direct descendant, had suffered psychological trauma within the Academy's sacred grounds. And as a responsible parent figure, he had no choice but to demand justice.
Tirius' expression darkened with feigned indignation. "Yes! The heir of the Dark Heaven Clan, an Empyrean bloodline, endured such humiliation under the Academy's watch! As the Dean, that old relic must provide an explanation!"
His voice rang loud, his righteous fury echoing through the Academy for all to hear.
NOX and Tirius exchanged a glance, their gazes locking in perfect synchronicity. Then, with wicked grins, they nodded in unison.
The war against the Academy's Dean had begun.