On the top floor of a certain magic tower in Allinger.
Rogerio held the intelligence gathered by other members of the Pale Hand and let out a soft sigh. "The Holm Crown Award—he must be the youngest recipient ever. Whether he becomes a high-level Archanist in the future or not, he is destined to be remembered by history."
As he spoke, he ran his fingers over his tightly fastened collar, as if wishing for another beautiful amulet to hang there. Unfortunately, in the end, his talent for combat and magic simply outstripped his aptitude for the arcane. Despite years of toil, he had never won the "Immortal Throne" award, and could only watch as later arrivals like Felipe and Lucian each received the highest symbols of honor in their respective fields.
"Standing on the shoulders of giants—ha, standing on the shoulders of giants. The 'Professor' probably never imagined his student would win the Holm Crown Award so quickly. He's likely still engrossed in his experiments, trying to artificially synthesize a decisive life substance, aiming to capture both the Holm Crown Award and the Immortal Throne at the same time. Ha ha—will you lot acknowledge that achievement and grant him the Immortal Throne?" The undead Adol lounged on the sofa with legs crossed, a glass of "Azure Dew" in hand.
If you didn't look at his lifelessly terrifying face and the two dancing specks of red flame in his eye sockets, you might mistake him for a living person.
They had already investigated the surviving sub-high-level Holm Crown Award recipient, Richardson, and confirmed that he was not the Professor.
Rogerio sneered. "That depends on whether this 'giant' of his can live until then. None of the major awards are given to dead men. Besides, Felipe has already made significant progress."
He then summoned a member of the Pale Hand and ordered, "Upgrade the surveillance priority of Lucian Evans to the same level as Larry, Timothy, and Ulysses. Monitor his movements and advancement at all times."
Lucian was no longer watched by the Pale Hand solely because of the "Professor"—he had begun to receive their attention in his own right. But before his research potentially threatened the Pale Hand, they would merely raise the level of surveillance rather than exhaust themselves trying to destroy him. Without sufficient incentive, killing a genius who for now only showed potential was the worst of all possible choices, with far more to lose than gain. The Supreme Council would absolutely never tolerate such an unscrutinized internal feud.
"Also, tell him to continue helping us track down the 'Professor's' traces. The 'Lich Transformation Ritual' we promised will absolutely not be reneged upon." Rogerio added one more reminder to the core Pale Hand member.
On the sofa, the undead Adol held his glass of azure liquid as it swirled gently, watching Rogerio and the Pale Hand member with a calm expression. Internally, he sneered: "Stupid humans…"
…………
In the pitch-black winter night, the alchemical arc-streetlamps lining the road burned ever dimmer.
A carriage rolled over a thin layer of snow and slowly pulled up before the tallest building in the Nobility District—the "Holm Royal Magic Tower."
The driver jumped down from the carriage, holding a dim yellow lantern, and respectfully opened the carriage door. "Mr. Evans, Mr. Lazar, we've arrived at the Holm Royal Magic Academy."
As a coachman long in the employ of the Holm Royal Magic Academy, he understood far more about mages than ordinary people did—and held them in far greater awe.
Adjusting his black double-breasted long coat, Lucian stood at the carriage door and drew in a deep breath of the biting, icy air, sweeping away the stuffiness that days of meetings had brought.
No sooner had he stepped into the tower with Lazar than a middle-aged man approached them. His pale yellow hair was slicked neatly back, gleaming with pomade, and every movement was carefully poised to project an air of perfection. "Welcome, Mr. Evans. I am Rodham, butler of the Holm Royal Magic Academy. By order of His Excellency Maurice, I am here to guide you in selecting potions, materials, or magical items worth two thousand arcane points. Oh, and will you be staying here tonight?"
Because the Holm Royal Magic Academy had deep ties to families like the Hohenberg and Ruiz lines, the forms of address here carried a strong aristocratic flavor and a far stricter sense of hierarchy.
"Hello, Mr. Rodham. Take me to see the magical items first—I'm still in need of a robe." Lucian gave a slight nod. "If there are any available rooms, please arrange for me and my companion to stay here."
Rodham, whose strength—bolstered by various magical potions—matched that of an ordinary knight, pressed his left hand to his chest and bowed deeply. "It is my honor to be of service. Moreover, Mr. Evans, once you received the Holm Crown Award, you automatically became an honorary member of the Holm Royal Magic Academy. I'll have your credentials ready shortly. You are entitled to everything here without question."
It was already eight o'clock in the evening, and the ground floor of the magic tower was very quiet. The only sound was the crisp echo of Lucian and Lazar's footsteps on the stone floor.
At that moment, a group of people descended from the second floor. At their head strode a man past middle age, draped in a black greatcoat over a deep-red double-breasted long coat, and something about him struck Lucian with a sense of inexplicable familiarity.
It was those striking silver-gray eyes. It was his resemblance to Natasha—fifty or sixty percent alike. In a moment of distraction, it was as though Natasha had been transformed into a man and aged decades. But his complexion was terrible: ghastly white, gaunt and withered, bearing none of Natasha's smooth, luminous skin.
Both his black greatcoat and long coat bore an embroidered purple-red crest—its outer ring composed of cloud-like lines, its center a crown imbued with a sacred quality. Flanking the crown were a scepter and a longsword.
"A false-heraldry scholar," Lucian identified at a glance—the crest of the Holm royal family, that is, the Hohenberg family crest. Similar patterns appeared on some of Natasha's clothing.
Walking half a step behind this member of the Holm royalty, side by side with him, was a middle-aged, brown-haired man whose once elegant long coat was stretched taut over his rotund, ball-like frame. He clutched a black leather bag under one arm, his chubby face plastered with an obsequious smile.