Chapter 180: The Cost Of Neglect (2)
Harlan’s mouth curved into a wry, knowing smile as the implication settled fully into place.
"Then this must mean you already know of Lord Dream."
The male Ancestor’s eyes, still pale from the long recovery, shifted toward him with quiet recognition.
The water in the healing pool lapped gently against the stone edges as he spoke.
"We’ve heard of him," the male Ancestor said, "but not much beyond that... just whispers, really."
The female Ancestor inclined her head slightly, damp strands of brown hair clinging to her shoulders.
Her voice carried the same steady calm, though beneath it was a current of genuine curiosity.
"Indeed... but tell us, Harlan—why place the future of the Academy in the hands of someone so mysterious and so young?"
They had seen Akasha only rarely, fleeting glimpses during the Invasions, enough to know he was not even a century old.
"What compels a Headmaster of your experience to entrust the fate of our people to one whose past is shrouded and whose years are still so few?"
Harlan stood straighter at the edge of the pools, the cool mineral air of the cave brushing against his skin.
He did not look away from either of them as he answered, his voice steady and free of any attempt to soften the truth.
"Ancestors... I’m sure you can see it. The aspect of power," he said.
"The things Lord Dream can offer the Academy are not ordinary gains. They are the kind that appear only once in an era... resources, pathways, and notoriety that could elevate us far beyond the limits we have accepted for generations. I will not pretend otherwise."
He fell quiet for a moment, the silence stretching between the soft glow of the healing pools and the distant drip of water from the cave ceiling.
When he spoke again, the words came lower, carrying a grim weight that settled into the chamber like a reminder none of them could ignore.
"Also... It is the Golden Age."
The two Ancestors exchanged a long look across the space that separated their pools.
Understanding passed between them without the need for further explanation.
They recognized the choice for what it was: in times such as these, a man would rather place his hopes in what he could not fully understand than remain a fool clinging only to the familiar and the known.
The female Ancestor spoke first, her voice calm yet decisive.
"When you all are finished with your little conquest, we would like to meet this Lord Dream ourselves."
The male Ancestor gave a single, slow nod of agreement.
Harlan lowered his head in a deep, respectful bow, the motion precise and without hesitation.
"I will see to it that it is done."
He straightened and turned toward the shaft that had brought him down, the cool air of the descent already brushing against his back as he prepared to leave.
Just as he was about to take his first step upward, the male Ancestor’s voice called out to him again—quieter this time, more deliberate... and wrapped in the subtle feeling of someone who had lived long enough to know the cost of mistakes.
"It’s never wise to waste talent, Harlan." He said, "As you said... This is the Golden Age, and anything could happen."
Harlan stopped at the rim of the shaft, his gaze sharpening as a single name surfaced in his mind, clear and unshakable as steel.
’Tyron...’
----
Later that same year, Harlan Steele cut across the open skies near the Central Continent, the wind of high altitude pressing hard against his robes as the distant silhouette of the Dark Hold rose ahead of him.
’Tyron... this will be my last act of kindness as your Master,’ he thought, his mind lingering on the disciple he had once trained with such high hopes.
Even though this would be the final time he offered Tyron his help, he still wished that Tyron would build something lasting for himself instead of letting that stubborn pride become the heavy burden that pulled him under.
After a long stretch of flight, the Dark Hold’s outer districts came into view—crowded streets, dim lantern light, and the constant low pulse of activity that never fully slept.
Harlan descended without ceremony and stepped through the entrance of an information-type Dark Bar, the kind of establishment where knowledge moved as freely as wine and often carried a much sharper edge.
The interior hit him at once with layered noise and scent....
The clink of glasses, the low murmur of conversations, the rhythmic thump of music, and the warm, slightly sweet smell of alcohol mixed with sweat and perfume.
Bodies moved across a small dance floor under shifting red and gold lights.
In the corners, men and women leaned close over tables, exchanging quiet words that could raise a fortune or... possibly end a life.
Near the center of the room, Tyron Alabaster sat at a low table, a half-empty glass in one hand while a dancer moved with practiced, sinuous grace in front of him.
Her hips swayed in time with the music, the fabric of her outfit catching the light with every turn.
Tyron watched with a relaxed, almost lazy focus, the earlier intensity of his Academy days softened by the drink and the atmosphere.
"I hope you’re at least making use of your time here..." He muttered as he offered no open criticism.
No, he had a clear grasp of places like this. And knowing the kind of information that could be found here, he just pushed the thought to the back of his mind.
Without wasting more time, he walked forward at an unhurried pace and settled into the empty seat beside Tyron as though he had every right to be there.
The moment Tyron’s eyes landed on him, they widened slightly in clear surprise.
Despite the clean break he had made years ago, the old title still rose to his lips without hesitation.
"Master..."
"Oh? Still calling me that, even after everything," he said, the sound carrying a mix of old familiarity and quiet resignation.
"Some habits die harder than others, it seems."
He reached into his storage with a casual motion, produced one hundred divine stones, and pressed them into the dancer’s waiting hand.
The woman accepted the payment with a practiced smile and slipped away into the crowd without another glance, the music swallowing the soft sound of her departure.
Seeing this, Tyron’s brow furrowed for a brief moment at the dismissal, then the expression eased into a low chuckle as he lifted his glass again.
"What is this, Master? Did your dear Lord abandon the Academy or something?"
Harlan shook his head once and let his gaze drift toward the far side of the bar for a short stretch of silence, watching the press of bodies and the flicker of lantern light without truly seeing them.
When he spoke again, his voice had settled into something quieter and more deliberate.
"I do not have much time, Tyron. The Academy is currently in the middle of a conquest."
Tyron’s expression tightened at once into a frown.
’Did... he find me just to gloat?’
The glass froze halfway to his lips as a sharp, defensive thought sliced through his mind.
Harlan continued without waiting for a reply.
He produced a dark divine ring from his storage and set it on the table between them with a soft, deliberate click.
The metal gleamed under the shifting light, its surface traced with faint, intricate patterns.
"This contains enough divine stones and resources to sustain you for a full millennium," Harlan said. He paused, his gaze flicking toward his disciple.
"Also... it would be best if you left this world. There are certain things I will not risk by defending you.
You’ve learned too much about Lord Dream, and I’m certain he will come for you sooner or later."
Tyron’s mouth curled into a mocking smile as he set the glass down with more force than needed, the sharp clink cutting through the low hum of music.
"He should come and give it a shot," he said, his tone dripping with defiance. "I’m not scared of that bastard."
Harlan shook his head again, the motion calm and final, and chose not to answer the challenge. His gaze remained steady on the younger man as he continued.
"Inside the ring is information as well... details on a possible way out of the world of Kalpa. A getaway ticket, if you choose to use it."
He rose from the seat in one smooth motion, the chair scraping softly against the floor.
For a moment he stood looking down at Tyron, the noise and movement of the bar flowing around them both.
Then he spoke the last words with genuine weight, free of any remaining authority or expectation.
"Take care of yourself, Tyron."
With that, he turned and walked toward the exit, the crowd parting slightly around him until the door closed behind his back and the music swallowed the last trace of his presence.
Tyron remained seated at the table, the divine ring still resting untouched between his fingers and the half-empty glass.
A complicated mix of residual pride, old loyalty, and reluctant uncertainty settled heavily in his chest, leaving him staring at the place where Harlan had been without a clear answer for any of it.