Chrono lay in a pool of his own blood.
He was still breathing, Somehow, Barely.
The stone beneath him was cracked.
His chest barely rose, each breath like shards dragging through his lungs.
The silence of the chamber was unnatural—no birds, no wind, only the soft ticking hum of the Chrono-Core suspended in the center of the endless void.
Its crystal arms spun slowly, almost lazily, like it had all the time in the world.
Then—
A boot slammed into his ribs.
"Wakey, wakey, sunshine."
Chrono choked, coughed blood, and rolled to his side as another kick landed in his stomach.
The pain flashed white-hot behind his eyes.
He didn't scream.
He couldn't.
His body was beyond that now.
The Patriarch stood over him, grinning like a demon in silk.
"You alive, pretty boy?" he said with a grin, leaning in close.
"No? Good. You listen better when your ribs are poking your lungs."
He crouched down and slapped Chrono across the face—not with anger, but with theatrical flair.
Like he was tuning an instrument.
He crouched beside him, brushing bloody hair from the boy's forehead with mock tenderness.
"Lesson Two," the Patriarch said.
"Why we beat the everloving shit out of you? So you don't die the first time some real wizard sneezes in your direction."
"You've fought Normies, sure."
"Maybe even beat some."
"But you've never faced a wizard."
"Not a real one."
"Not one that learned how to slit your soul without touching you."
"We don't fight like you fight."
"We don't play with rules."
"When we cast, the world fucking bends."
"Time slows."
"Air burns."
"Bones melt."
"Reality twists into our will."
He knelt again, this time with a syringe in hand.
"And that's why you're going to keep dying in here."
"Over and over."
"Until you stop being whatever the hell you were out there."
"That's lesson Three, Chrono," he said.
"Pain is the first truth."
"You don't fucking grow in comfort."
"You grow when your ribs are broken, your jaw's dislocated, and you're crawling through fire asking yourself if you still want it."
He jammed the syringe into Chrono's neck and pressed the plunger.
Chrono's back arched as the serum rushed through him like fire.
The solution was thick, glowing slightly, laced with what seems to be alchemical stabilizers and mana threads.
It burned—but deeper than pain.
It burned his soul.
"It's a special recipe," the Patriarch whispered.
"Designed to rebuild you at the cellular level."
"After every one of these lessons"
"I'm going to inject your sorry ass with something special."
"Potion."
"Elixir."
"Doesn't matter what you call it."
"It'll stitch the muscle."
"Strengthen your bones."
"Let your cells breathe time instead of choking on it."
"It forces adaptation."
"Forces your mana to listen."
"Your body will scream, and you'll thank me when it's done."
He stood again, this time slower.
More solemn.
"I'm not here to make you strong," he said.
"I'm here to make you a monster."
The room darkened.
Or perhaps it was just Chrono's vision fading.
"Now let's talk magic."
"Real magic."
"Not the prissy Hogwarts syllabus."
"Not 'flick and swish' horseshit."
He paced.
"You think a wand makes a wizard? That's like saying a fork makes a chef."
"Cute."
"But Wrong."
"There are branches."
"Schools."
"And each is a weapon in the right hands."
He raised one finger.
"Transfiguration : The art of turning one thing into another."
"Flesh to stone."
"Air to blades."
"Yourself into something terrifying."
"Real mastery? You become what you cast."
"That's the oldest horror."
"Change is its essence."
"Power in conversion."
Another finger.
"Enchantments : You bind mana into objects, Runes, Sigils, Tattoos."
"Make a ring explode on command, make boots that hover, swords that scream."
"Half your future war gear comes from here."
A third.
"Alchemy: True transformation., Philosophical shit, Lead to gold, Flesh to godhood, Not just mixing, Rewriting.."
"Even fucking homunculi if you're clever enough."
"Creation at its dirtiest."
Fourth.
"Potions : Alchemy's bastard child, Boil down magic into something you can swallow, inject, or drip into someone's tea, Mind-fuck brews, Strength enhancers."
"Poisons that make your blood boil and make your enemies' skin melt."
"All chemistry, all horror."
Fifth.
"Divination: And no, not crystal ball bullshit, We're talking real sight."
"Reading echoes in the weave."
"Seeing probable futures."
" Sensing a spell ten miles away"
"Dangerous, fragile, but useful."
"Not prophecy—pattern recognition, Helps you avoid dying stupidly and Helps you curse someone long before they see it coming."
Sixth.
"Defense: Shields, Wards,Reflective barriers."
"You'll need this unless you want your heart to explode from a curse mid-sentence."
Seventh.
"Hexes and curses : Filthy, violent, permanent magic."
"The kind that infects."
"Warps."
" Makes you wish you were dead instead."
"Arithmancy."
"Numbers and spell-logic, Mathematical magic, Predictive equations, Curse geometry,The secret bones beneath every working."
"If you don't know Arithmancy, you're just guessing."
"Ancient Runes."
"Language of the old world."
"Pre-spellcraft."
"Pure meaning."
"Inscribe the right rune on a wall, and you don't need to be there when it kills someone."
"Astronomy."
"Celestial alignment."
"Magic flows stronger on certain stars, times, moons. Spellcraft woven through constellations."
"Don't laugh—even time magic bends easier when the stars approve."
"Herbology."
"Plants are bastards."
"Some scream."
"Some bite."
"Some cure curses older than your bloodline."
"Learn what grows where, and which root can melt a man's liver in two seconds."
"Charms."
"Subtle, precise, beautiful."
"And terrifying."
"Levitate, disarm, silence, bind."
"Not flashy—but in the right hands? Charms turn a room into a cage."
He grinned.
"Then you have the deep arts."
"Time."
"Soul."
"Dream."
"Space."
"Blood."
His tone turned reverent.
"These aren't just branches."
"They're realms."
"You don't study them."
"You submit to them."
"And they change you."
"Forever."
Chrono was still breathing, eyes locked, silent.
The Patriarch knelt beside him one last time.
"You will learn all of it. But first…"
He leaned close, voice like poison syrup.
"We burn away the weak."
He stood, raising both arms.
He stood, lit a cigarette, and exhaled a plume of smoke shaped like a screaming face.
"Adapt or die, Zion."
"Class is in fucking session."
Chrono didn't move.
The Patriarch snapped his fingers.
The serum surged again—mana jolting through nerves, fusing bone, knitting skin.
Pain flooded Chrono's system.
He screamed without voice.
Then—
His fingers twitched.
His arms.
He rose, trembling, barely conscious.
"Good," the Patriarch said, circling.
"Now let's see if you remembered anything."