Chapter 55: The Everseeing Eye

Creatures that have rolled in the abyss for over a century, no matter how sluggish, develop some intuition towards impending danger, especially when faced with a matter of life and death.

The response of the seductive demon, Disandaro, was remarkably keen. In the fraction of a second when the mouse appeared before him, he sensed the danger and immediately activated the Sanctum Talisman. The ethereal shield, interweaving reality and illusion, instantly isolated him from the surrounding space. Gathering his wits, he intended to observe before deciding whether to flee or fight. However, when he saw the mouse's claws effortlessly piercing through the protective barrier, he recoiled in panic, legs pushing back, wings beating the air with all his might as he leaped backward.

Yet, the claws gleaming with a sinister light had already torn through the defense a moment earlier, viciously plunging into the flesh of the seductive demon!

Splurt!—A wail of agony escaped the demon as he flew back, blood streaming from his eye sockets. But the combat instincts honed over centuries of life and death struggles reminded him that the danger had only just begun. With no time to tend to his blinded left eye, he swiftly channeled the energy within, devoid of prayer or shaping, unleashing all the chaotic, primal magical energy within his body!

Necromancers typically possess a profound affinity with chaotic energy, allowing them to instinctively wield magic without the need for extensive study or sophisticated techniques. Their spellcasting is as crude and blunt as that of barbarians.

However, due to the less stringent conditions required for casting, the destructive power of necromancers in the chaos of battle is truly terrifying. Swirling masses of chaotic energy materialized out of thin air, powerful detonations shattering countless withered, mutated trees nearby. On the ground, flakes of snow, fundamentally composed of desiccated fungal matter, scattered, revealing the underlying bedrock and lava beneath!

A sharp cry erupted as the cunning demon nearby was overturned by the explosion, tumbling towards a pool of lava. He tore at his throat, emitting a piercing scream of sheer terror, while frantically flailing his limbs. Fortunately, he managed to grasp onto a rock, sighing in relief as he scrambled up the rocky surface in a frenzy. "Too dreadful! Too horrifying! The great Lakkaras must flee, must not perish here."

The mouse, Belleren, launched its ambush successfully, executing a mid-air somersault before landing. As it touched down, it confronted the chaotic energy rushing towards it. Swiftly, it vanished into the shadows, reappearing unscathed after the detonation had dissipated. However, the seductive demon had already taken flight, beating his wings vigorously.

After just one clash, realizing that his unleashed magical explosion had inflicted no harm upon his adversary, the demon understood that he was most likely not this malformed mouse's match. Though demons were known for their frenzy, they typically refrained from seeking death in situations where defeat was inevitable. Having lived for centuries, the seductive demon naturally possessed such rationality; otherwise, he would have perished long ago.

Thus, he spread his wings and swiftly fled the battlefield, simultaneously clutching his bleeding left eye, cursing bitterly under his breath, "Damnation upon this aberration! Mongrel! I shall exact vengeance, mark my words! I shall devour you! And fashion a new whip from your fur!"

However, a sudden dizziness in his mind reminded him that escape wouldn't come so easily. Despite his disorientation, as he plummeted downward, the cold wind roused him, and he swiftly ascended once more. Until he reached a realm beyond the reach of psychic forces, he rejoiced momentarily. Then, he looked down at the mouse on the ground and began to taunt loudly, his voice sharp, "Too feeble! Such power can only intimidate a mere mouse, you malformed mongrel!"

He chuckled madly as he unfurled his wings, circling several dozen feet above the mouse's head. In his view, the creature on the ground, no matter how formidable, could not harm him as long as it remained grounded.

This gave him a new idea—perhaps he could engage in aerial combat to deal with this troublesome adversary?

Suddenly, he found renewed confidence for another battle. The range of attacks purely based on energy was much broader than that of psychic forces.

However, within seconds of this thought arising, he realized his own naivety.

The mouse watched the seductive demon fluttering in the air, twitching its nose disdainfully, its eyes narrowing in scorn.

Its throat rolled, a tiny mouth opening towards the demon's direction. A dozen or so flashes of pure golden light "hissed" out of its throat and eyes. They were slender golden spikes, several inches long, moving so swiftly they left no trace. The seductive demon couldn't fathom how such long objects could emerge from the mouse's mere two-inch body, and not just one, but several. Even more astonishingly, they flew at such incredible speed.

But he had no time to ponder these thoughts. With a scream, just as he attempted to turn and flee, his wings were already riddled with a dozen or more holes from the dense barrage of golden arrows, and his body twisted and contorted as it plummeted towards the ground.

The mouse swayed in small steps, making its way towards the point where the seductive demon would land...

Upon regaining consciousness from the dizziness of astral transit, Panne beheld himself within a vast and tranquil hall, where a group of crimson-robed mages bustled about the shelves laden with copious tomes, the atmosphere heavy with silence and order.

Panne furrowed his brow. Black-robed apprentices were a rare sight here, while formal crimson robes predominated. The simple yet elegant decorations around him assured him that this place was anything but ordinary.

His perceptual field alerted him that the stone statues adorning the corridors were indeed real, imbued with special reinforcement magic. Should anyone err in their steps, they would face a collective assault.

The ground, though uneven, bore inscriptions that brought a sense of tranquility to those who trod upon them, subconsciously inclining them towards silence—enough to prevent Panne's initial impulse to inquire, "Where am I?"

"This is the Institute of the Everseeing Eye in Altarbor, the foremost seat of prophecy studies," came the response, not from the reticent Jonathan as expected, but from a bespectacled female mage in crimson robes. Needless to say, the appearance need not be elaborated upon; both male and female crimson-robed mages were bald. Panne dared not show the slightest hint of disdain towards or engage in observations that could lead to misunderstandings with this female mage—on the edge of her crimson robe collar, embroidered with threads of azure.

This is a high-ranking Archmage of the Seventh Circle.

Panne immediately straightened, his vigilance heightened, fearing any inadvertent misstep.

Simultaneously, he sensed himself being scrutinized by a force, likely ensnared by some probing magic. Then, he observed the female mage furrow her brow, turning towards Jonathan, who had remained silent. "Are you certain this is the candidate you've chosen?"

"I've observed him for a full eight years," Jonathan said. Panne's brow furrowed slightly, not only surprised by the Chancellor's words but more so by Jonathan's demeanor towards this high-ranking Archmage—could a mere Archmage, albeit not of the same school, speak to a high-ranking Archmage with such nonchalance bordering on indifference?

Or was there some other reason?

Panne's mind began to churn. Speculating about his own boss's hidden identity was futile, but his knowledge of the Crimson Robe Mage Association was still rudimentary—a mere novice in the lower academy for eight years, and the subsequent year and a half focused solely on spell research, he lacked much insight into the gossip of the mage association.

At least, compared to other soon-to-be-confirmed Crimson Robe Mages, he was far behind.

After a fruitless bout of speculation, he redirected his attention to the ongoing conversation. A phenomenon then surprised him even more: despite Jonathan's cold and respectful demeanor, the high-ranking female Archmage showed no sign of displeasure.

Panne initially suspected the female Crimson Robe Mage's politeness to be a form of pretense. However, after hearing Jonathan's words, she scrutinized Panne once more, her gaze serious. This made Panne understand that Jonathan's words held considerable weight in the mind of this female mage.

Thus, his inexplicable speculations grew even more.

"Since that's the case, let's give it a try first. But I can't guarantee that Mother will approve of your choice," the female mage said calmly.

This series of dialogues left Panne perplexed, but he vaguely understood that he had caught Jonathan's eye, becoming some kind of candidate, seemingly connected to the mother of this female mage.

However, the specifics were beyond Panne's imagination, so he could only suppress his curiosity.

Anyway, he would find out in due time.

For better or for worse, it could not be helped.

"I believe he is suitable," Jonathan said to the female mage, then turned to Panne. "Follow Archmage Oseria to meet someone important. For the next month, if I don't come to you, do not leave the jurisdiction of that person."

Panne immediately nodded solemnly, then bowed to Oseria, the senior Archmage.

"No need for formalities," Oseria waved her hand casually at the mage, then turned to Jonathan. "Are you leaving now?"

"Yes."

"Good luck, and come back alive," the senior Archmage said to the gradually disappearing Jonathan. Upon hearing this, a strange thought suddenly crossed Panne's mind—could these two middle-aged individuals have a romantic connection based on the tone of their conversation?

At this moment, Oseria beckoned to him, prompting Panne to rein in his wandering thoughts. He followed the high-ranking Crimson Robe into the deeper recesses of the hall, beset by a cascade of perplexities. Not only because Jonathan had brought him to this place and then left without a word, but also because of the unsettling remark from the female Crimson Robe as the Chancellor departed—"come back alive"—which left him feeling somewhat uneasy, burdened with heavy thoughts along the way.

"Do you have any questions?" The corridor stretched long, perhaps several hundred feet, winding and twisting with numerous chambers lining its sides. Having just traversed one passageway and turned a corner into an even longer one, Oseria suddenly inquired.

"Hmm?" Panne, still in a semi-dazed state, faltered for a moment.

"If you have any questions, feel free to ask. There's nothing to fear from a seer," Oseria remarked.

"Do you only know terrifying spells besides divination?" Panne silently jested, though he didn't believe his inner doubts were worth keeping secret. "May I ask... if the Chancellor is in danger?"

He didn't ask Jonathan what he was going to do because if Jonathan hadn't told him, it was likely that Panne wasn't supposed to know.

He already knew enough; any more might be fatal.

"Danger?" Oseria halted her steps, turned back, and gazed at Panne with an indifferent expression. "Do you think being a Crimson Robe Mage is a safe profession?"

"Well..." Panne was suddenly at a loss for words.

Oseria scrutinized Panne, carefully observing the expression on the mage's face. Then, her expression softened slightly. "It seems your concern is genuine after all, and there may be some reason for Jonathan to have chosen you. ...Let's continue." After a pause, Oseria turned back and resumed walking forward.

"Lord Oseria..." After walking a short distance, Panne hesitated for a moment. Perhaps he felt that this senior seer from the Divination department was not as difficult to talk to. Summoning his courage, he spoke, "The Chancellor mentioned that he had been observing me for eight years, but at that time, I had just recently enrolled..."

"That's not surprising," Oseria said slowly, her voice resonating with a magnetic charm that gave the corridor an ethereal ambiance. "The mentors assigned to the lower-ranking academies assess the quality of students shortly after each new intake. They determine who may have potential to stay and who is likely to be eliminated. It's decided long before then."

"Um..." Panne paused, suddenly feeling a sense of absurdity.

"You seem puzzled," Oseria noted.

"It's very strange... those students with the most outstanding talents..." Panne began to speak, but abruptly felt that voicing the next sentence would be quite impolite, so he quickly fell silent.

"If they didn't die at the hands of their classmates, they were killed by the mentors, right?" Oseria seemed to understand Panne's confusion.

Panne nodded. Even now, he still harbored doubts as to why Crimson Robe Mages would eliminate the most outstanding students. Although some mentors attributed this to fearing for their own positions, no matter how Panne pondered, he found such reasons absurd.

"That's a misunderstanding, of course. Are you suggesting that among your peers, there were no particularly exceptional apprentices who managed to survive until graduation?" Oseria inquired.

"Pardon me..." Panne suddenly remembered that in each intake of outstanding students, there were indeed one or two inconspicuous individuals who managed to survive. However, compared to those who perished, this proportion was negligible. Panne was about to say "That's because they were lucky," when he abruptly realized, "Could they have been selected by the mentors?"

"Crimson Robe Mages are not inclined to abandon any apprentice of sufficient excellence easily," Oseria smiled. "Once you become a Crimson Robe Mage yourself, you will understand why those apprentices met their demise. They all had their reasons for dying."

Panne fell silent. It seemed that his understanding of the Crimson Robe Order was still superficial, merely scratching the surface.

"Of course, you cannot be expected to understand these matters at present. During your time here, you might as well make some preparations for advancement," Oseria said as she turned the second corner. The corridor reached its end, and there stood a small door. As they approached, it opened automatically.

Inside, the furnishings were modest: several rows of bookshelves filled with books, a small bed, and a round table with a crystal ball placed on top. Sitting at the table was a short, slender woman.

Oseria led Panne into the room and bowed to the figure with her back facing them. "Mother, Chancellor Janhwas's disciple has been brought here."

Panne also bowed respectfully, then lifted his gaze slightly to observe the figure sitting. With hair cascading down to the floor and a hand, wrinkled with age, resting on the crystal ball, this person appeared to be quite elderly.

"Already brought," came the woman's soft voice, betraying no hint of her specific age. Yet, when she turned around, revealing the golden lace adorning the front of her robe, Panne, though mentally prepared, felt his heart skip a beat.

She was a seat instructor.

...

The Abyss.

The elder demon was bound in heavy runic silver chains — tools used by soul-snatchers to bind their subjects, now repurposed for this occasion.

Disandra was covered in countless wounds, bloodied and battered, far from his former arrogant self. This wasn't due to Belen's cruelty — the rat was squatting on the side, examining the spoils on the ground — the demon's magical treasures.

Before the demon, Amodeiraclath was gleefully brandishing various steel instruments of torture, clutching a contract in one hand, hopping about and shouting wildly at the demon, "You foolish imbecile, Racklash, this is your last chance! Become the servant of my greatness, or I will roast you alive!"

Listening to this absurd interrogation, the rat suddenly felt bored. It had been in the Abyss for some time now, starting to miss a certain "relative" in the mortal realm.

Perhaps it should pick a moment to return for a visit.

It swallowed a few magical treasures, entertaining this thought before drifting off to sleep.