Chapter 179: The Cost of Neglect
Neglect...
Simply put, it’s the failure to give enough attention, care, or help to someone or something that needs it.
Simple enough, right?
Well, in the world of Fantasy... and in the verse of Pantheos in particular, the cost of neglect could be much more damning than anyone could ever imagine.
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Eleven years ago, above the Southern Continent of Kalpa, Tyron Alabaster flew hard and alone, the wind tearing at his robes as the land fell away beneath him.
The Academy of Veils was already behind him... its gates, its halls, and every carefully laid promise that had once bound him to the place.
He had severed those ties with his own hands, and the aftertaste of that decision still burned in his chest like swallowed acid.
"Fools!" he snarled into the rushing air, the word ripped away almost as soon as it left his mouth.
"Every last one of them. Ready to kneel for that so-called Lord Dream as if the rest of us never existed."
His hands clenched hard enough that the knuckles ached.
The glory that should have been his... the recognition, the authority, the undisputed place as the headmaster’s main disciple...
It had all crumbled into nothing the moment Akasha appeared and turned every eye away from him.
That was the root of the hatred that now lived in his gut... the main reason he decided to leave in the first place.
Everything he had been promised had been stolen by a single rising figure, and the Academy had allowed it to happen.
"Even those broken Ancestors... why didn’t they step in?" he muttered with disgust, even though he hadn’t seen them countless times.
Yet, like everyone else, they had promised he would be the one to lead the Academy to new heights.
At present he was still only a Constellation Emperor, powerful by ordinary standards yet suddenly directionless, the future he had mapped so carefully reduced to empty sky.
He flew without a clear destination until one name rose through the anger with cold practicality: the Dark Hold.
If the Academy no longer wanted him, then he would find a place that still understood the value of ambition and resentment.
"One day," he vowed under his breath, the words low and absolute, "I will make every one of them see the truth. Lord Dream is not the one who deserves their praise. I am."
With that promise, Tyron angled his flight toward the distant, shadowed territories of the Dark Hold.
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[A/N: To clarify, in the timeline, this scene occurs two years into Akasha’s evolution into his Lesser Unus form, which is also two years after the Yomi Arc.]
Two years after Tyron Alabaster severed his ties with the Academy of Veils, Harlan Steele stood alone inside the war room.
The wide projection before him displayed the opening movements of their conquest across the Southern Continent.
Formations of Academy forces advanced in clean, coordinated waves, yet Harlan’s attention only half-rested on the unfolding campaign.
His thoughts kept drifting backward to the disciple he had once placed so much quiet expectation upon.
As prideful as he was, Harlan could not deny the truth... Tyron possessed real talent, the kind that should have flourished under proper guidance rather than rotting in isolation.
Over these two years, he had never fully released the younger man from his awareness.
A second projection bloomed into existence beside the first at a simple gesture, revealing Tyron still residing within the shadowed depths of the Dark Hold.
The image was clear enough to show the same hard set of the shoulders, the same restlessness that had always marked him.
"Two whole years," Harlan murmured, voice low in the empty chamber. "And he has remained there the entire time."
A slow sigh escaped him as he studied the distant figure.
"Things would have been much simpler if you just learned to adapt." He muttered, unable to understand why the boy had been unable to accept the new order that had risen with Lord Dream.
Even knowing Tyron carried an unusual pride and a streak of darkness beneath it, Harlan had believed the power and opportunity Lord Dream offered would have been enough to win loyalty from anyone.
"Ah... Maybe I should have guided him better," he murmured to himself. Since he was the Master of Tyron, he felt it was as much his fault as anyone’s...
And recalling the age-old saying: a master for a day is like a father for a lifetime.
He felt he had to do something to ease the burden, without going against Lord Dream.
The war room remained silent for another moment before a calm, unmistakable voice spoke directly into his mind.
"Harlan."
A second voice followed at once, feminine and equally familiar, carrying the quiet authority of long years.
"Come visit us."
Harlan’s eyes widened slightly, the projections forgotten.
"Ancestors?"
The single word left his mouth half in disbelief and half in sudden, sharp focus.
He rose from the war-room chair without another glance at the displays.
The heavy silence of the chamber pressed against his back as he strode into the deeper corridors of the Academy.
Stone walls older than most disciples passed on either side.
His footsteps echoed softly against the polished floor until he stepped into a broad, sealed chamber lit only by the residual glow of protective formations.
At its center stood a pedestal of dark, unadorned stone. Resting upon it was a smooth orb that seemed to drink the surrounding light rather than reflect it.
[-100 DP]
HUMMMM!!!!
Harlan lifted one hand and fed a precise measure of divinity—no more than a hundred points—into the artifact.
The orb responded instantly, and in the next moment, the stone before the pedestal split apart in a smooth, widening seam, uncovering a descending shaft that exhaled cold air and carried the hushed weight of ancient formations.
Seeing this, he wasted no time and stepped forward.
One step carried him over the edge, and then the fall overtook him.
The walls blurred past in a controlled rush of darkness and cool wind until the space below opened into a wide cultivation cave.
Soft, steady light rose from two broad healing pools set into the stone floor, their surfaces faintly luminous with residual energy.
Within each pool rested an Ancestor.
Both were human... and both bore brown hair and deep brown eyes.
Their skin stayed pale from a long recovery, the incomplete healing evident in the cautious stillness of their posture.
Harlan landed lightly at the edge of the pools.
He lowered his head in clear, practiced respect, the posture of a man who had never forgotten the hierarchy that existed above even a Headmaster.
"Ancestors," he said, voice steady yet edged with genuine concern. "How long have you been awake... and how do your injuries fare?"
The male Ancestor opened his eyes first. His voice came slow and measured, the tone of someone who had watched eras pass without urgency.
"Long enough to observe." The man said, "Though our injuries remain... manageable."
The female Ancestor spoke next, her words equally unhurried.
"We have stayed attuned to the Academy’s recent movements. The currents of power across the Southern Continent are not difficult to follow when things happen so... loudly."
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."