Lezzaki's deep voice boomed across the room, his patience snapping.
"Mino. Control yourself."
Mino flinched at the command, his expression twisting in frustration, but he did not dare disobey.
"Release him. Now."
For a long moment, the professor hesitated, his fingers twitching, the veins wrapped around Soren tightening ever so slightly before finally loosening. With visible reluctance, Mino withdrew his power, and the organic restraints slithered back, retracting into his sleeves like living tendrils.
Soren, now freed, exhaled softly and stretched his shoulders as though he had simply been inconvenienced rather than restrained for questioning.
Lezzaki let the silence hang before finally delivering his verdict.
"Soren Gram, you will be suspended from teaching for one month."
The reaction was immediate.
A wave of murmurs swept through the gathered professors, their thoughts evident in their eyes.
Jumei's lips parted slightly in disbelief. That's it? After everything that happened? That was nowhere near the punishment she had expected.
Mino, on the other hand, was visibly enraged, his fingers curling into fists. His jaw clenched so tightly it looked as if he might break his own teeth. But he said nothing. He couldn't. The Headmaster's words were final.
He had no choice but to obey.
With barely restrained frustration, he exhaled sharply and turned back to Soren, yanking his hand in the air as the last remnants of the binding veins fully retracted.
Soren flexed his wrists, rubbing the faint red marks left behind, then shifted his gaze downward.
Lezzaki was still seated, his massive frame casting long shadows across the dimly lit chamber. His presence remained overwhelming, even from his chair.
For a moment, Soren simply stared down at him, unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned away.
His footsteps echoed as he walked toward the doors, his pace unhurried, unbothered.
The other professors hesitated before following suit, some exchanging uncertain glances, others still processing the weight of what had just happened.
One by one, they left, until only Lezzaki remained, seated in his chair, unmoving, his mind undoubtedly racing beneath his stoic exterior.
Meanwhile, Soren made his way back to his office.
The halls were quieter than usual, the usual chatter of students and faculty feeling distant, almost muted.
Reaching his office, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. The scent of old parchment and dried ink greeted him—a familiar, unchanging presence. His desk was still cluttered with open books, pages marked with half-finished notes, as if the events of today had never happened.
He moved with practiced efficiency, gathering the essentials he would need during his suspension. A few books, his personal research journal, and a small ornate box that he tucked into his coat pocket.
His fingers paused over a particular document resting on his desk—his lesson plans for the next month. A lesson plan that would never be used, at least not for now.
He let out a small exhale, then folded the paper in half and slid it into a drawer.
With everything he needed in hand, Soren cast one last glance around the room before stepping out, closing the door behind him.
His next destination—home.
As Soren made his way through the bustling streets, he paid little mind to the sea of people passing by. The lively chatter of merchants, the scent of fresh bread from nearby bakeries, and the distant clang of metalworkers filled the air, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
His suspension had come as no surprise. What did surprise him, however, was how easily Lezzaki had let the matter rest.
One month, he mused. That's all?
His gaze flickered over the shopfronts he passed, barely registering them until one, in particular, caught his attention.
An antique shop.
It was new—he recalled hearing about its opening only two weeks prior, though he had never taken the time to visit. Something about it seemed… oddly out of place. The wooden sign above the entrance was weathered despite its recent establishment, the glass windows faintly dusted as if they had been sitting undisturbed for years.
Soren paused in front of the window, peering inside. The dim lighting cast long shadows over the shelves, filled with trinkets, books, and odd artifacts. Strangely, the shop was empty—no customers, no movement.
His gaze drifted upward to the sky for a moment, then down to the cobblestone street beneath his feet.
...Well, why not?
With that thought, he pushed the door open. A soft chime echoed through the air as he stepped inside.
The atmosphere was thick with the scent of old parchment, polished wood, and something faintly herbal. A quiet hum of energy lingered in the space, though whether it was magic or merely an odd feeling, he couldn't say.
His eyes immediately found the shopkeeper—though 'awake' was not a word he would use to describe her.
Slumped over the counter, a young woman with violet hair lay completely still, her breathing slow and steady. Her oversized, loose-fitting clothes made her look even smaller than she was, and her cheek was slightly squished against her arm.
Soren approached the counter and tilted his head slightly.
"Sleeping, huh?" he murmured.
No response, of course.
His gaze flicked over her for a moment before shifting to the shop itself.
It would be rude to wake her.
And so, without a sound, he moved deeper inside.
His footsteps were utterly silent, a skill honed over years of necessity rather than courtesy. He wove between shelves, his fingers occasionally brushing over the aged spines of books and the cool surfaces of peculiar trinkets.
Strange artifacts lined the shelves—some familiar, others completely unknown to him. A carved wooden box with intricate engravings, a set of rusted keys with no labels, and a delicate silver mirror with a blackened frame.
Soren's fingers hovered over the mirror for a moment before he moved on, his curiosity piqued but not yet enough to touch.
Soren moved through the shop methodically, his eyes scanning each shelf as he took his time examining the various artifacts. Some items seemed mundane—a pocket watch frozen in time, a set of yellowed playing cards, a pair of reading glasses with cracked lenses. Others held a stranger allure—an ink bottle that never seemed to dry, a book with no title yet brimming with handwritten notes, a candle that, despite being unlit, carried the faint scent of burning wax.
One by one, he passed them by, his fingers occasionally brushing against a surface before he moved on.
By the time he finished his quiet exploration, he turned back toward the counter, where the supposed shopkeeper remained in her slumped-over position.
Soren stopped in front of her, tilting his head slightly as he observed her once more.
His lips curled into a smirk.
"Now you fake your sleep, little lady?"
No reaction.
His red eyes flickered with mild amusement, but seeing that she had no intention of breaking her act, he simply shrugged. He had no reason to pry further.
With that, he turned on his heel and made his way toward the exit. The small chime of the door rang out as he stepped outside, the cool evening air brushing against his face.
Behind him, the supposed sleeping shopkeeper finally stirred. Stretching her arms over her head, she lazily turned her gaze toward the door, watching as Soren's figure grew smaller in the distance.
"...Weird man."
Soren's home, from the outside, looked no different from the kind of house a happy, newlywed couple might purchase. It had all the makings of a picturesque residence—clean architecture, a well-maintained garden, and a sturdy door that gave the impression of warmth and welcome.
Yet, inside, there was no trace of another soul.
Soren lived alone.
Stepping through the doorway, he casually removed his coat and tossed it onto the sofa without a care. His movements were slow, unhurried, as if he were more accustomed to drifting through spaces rather than settling into them.
Heading toward the kitchen, he grabbed a glass bottle from the counter—a Sokaas drink, one of the more unique beverages in the world.
Made exclusively by the Ruka, a rare and mysterious species, Sokaas was a drink that few truly understood. It carried an oddly rich yet refreshing taste, neither too sweet nor too sour, with an aftertaste that lingered like a whisper of best memories. The history of the Ruka themselves was equally enigmatic, yet no one truly bothered to unravel it. They had never shown aggression, nor had they ever taken sides in the wars that shaped the world. They simply existed, much like the drink in Soren's hand—silent, but always present.
Tipping the bottle back, he took a long sip, savoring the sensation before letting out a slow breath.
Without pause, he grabbed his coat again, placing it neatly in its designated spot, before methodically returning everything in his home to order.
Finally, he moved toward the bathroom.
The sound of running water filled the quiet space as he stepped into the shower, letting the warmth seep into his skin.
Alone, surrounded by nothing but the steady hum of water, Soren closed his eyes.
After finishing his shower, Soren dried off and slipped into a simple white shirt—the same one he had worn earlier that day—paired with a set of loose shorts. His routine was methodical, unhurried, as though the weight of the day did not affect him in the slightest.
Without pause, he made his way down a narrow staircase, stepping into the dimly lit basement. The air inside carried the scent of old parchment, ink, and a faint metallic tang from the various tools and instruments scattered across the room.
The basement was far from an ordinary storage space. It was a private laboratory, filled with research materials, experiment equipment, and shelves lined with labeled vials, strange herbs, and preserved specimens. Glass containers held various substances, some of which shimmered under the faint glow of alchemical lamps. On one side, a set of beakers and alembics rested atop a stone counter, while on the other, an entire wall was lined with books, journals, and scrolls.
Yet, despite the overwhelming number of ongoing projects, the very first thing Soren approached was his work desk.
The desk itself was cluttered but organized in a way only he could understand—stacks of journals, loose notes covered in precise handwriting, ink bottles, and a collection of quills and pens. Years of research, experiments, and observations were meticulously recorded here, a lifetime of knowledge contained within these worn pages.
Soren sifted through the pile, searching for a specific journal. His fingers brushed past several old records before settling on one—its cover frayed, its pages filled with notes and diagrams that had once consumed his every waking moment. He flipped through it, scanning his past findings with an unreadable expression.
After a few minutes, he set the old journal aside.
It had run out of pages.
Picking up a fresh, blank journal, he opened to the first page and began writing. The rhythmic scratching of ink against paper filled the room, steady and deliberate. His handwriting, though neat, carried a certain sharpness to it—his thoughts flowing faster than the ink could capture.
Time passed, though he paid no mind to it.
Once he finished writing, he placed the journal aside and moved toward another section of the basement, where an assortment of tools and materials awaited.
Soren began preparing his equipment. Glass vials clinked softly as he set them into place, dried herbs were measured with precision, and powders of unknown origin were carefully portioned out. His hands moved with practiced ease, each motion calculated and deliberate.
Whatever he was preparing, it was clear that his night was far from over.
His day had been long.
But it seemed his night would be even longer.