Club of the Hopelessly in Love (2)

"Welcome..." he said, opening his arms with theatrical flair. "To the Super Secret Hideout... La Vie en Rose."

The name hung in the air with dramatic echo, as if expecting applause. But I could barely react.
This place... was far beyond anything I had imagined.

From the secret entrance sealed with a code in Jotundrim, to the stone-carved staircases lit by pulsing runes, everything there felt like it had leapt out of a wild dream—or a magical book someone had left open by mistake.

And then came the room.

It wasn’t just the way it looked. It was how it made me feel. The air was different. Lighter. More alive. There was something about it that reminded me of the Black Forest, like the environment itself filtered the air, cleared your thoughts. And, almost unsettlingly, I felt at home.

Almost as much as I did inside the library. Or during those quiet nights beside the pack, watching the starry sky while the wolves slept.

My mind searched for an explanation, but my body already knew the answer. "Mana..." I murmured, scanning the room carefully.

It was everywhere. In the room’s contours, in the cracks in the stone, in the symbols carved into the floor. A subtle, living energy wrapped around everything—each object glowing with different intensities, as if the space itself breathed magic.

‘Some stronger... others more delicate... but all alive.’

I frowned, focusing on the invisible pulse flowing through each stone, each marking.
‘What the hell is this place? And what is this group really hiding behind that ridiculous name?’

And as if my thoughts had been whispered to the wind—and the wind happened to be a gossip—doors began opening along the sides of the room.

Footsteps echoed across the stone floor. A small group emerged, their presence clashing with the sacred air of the space.

The voice came first. “Lewis was right. You really are something.”

The boy who spoke had dark blue hair, cut in fine layers, and piercing golden eyes. His posture was upright, refined—almost noble. He looked more like a school prince than someone who’d join some ridiculous love-struck club.

Two figures stepped out of the shadows behind him. One of them, unfortunately, was Lewis, wearing the most self-satisfied grin in the fortress.

The other...

I closed my eyes, letting out a heavy sigh as I recognized the silhouette. The cup of water, the broad frame in armor, but footsteps light as a feather.

‘Of course... no way a crazy old man like that wouldn’t be a member—or worse, the founder—of something this deranged.’

The man raised his glass like a toast to my defeat. “Hah! I doubted it at first... but look at that. It really is this Alexander.” His voice was deep, slow, and carried a smug satisfaction with every syllable.

“Now you owe me ten copper Crownes,” he added, turning to the boy with the blue hair, smirking.

Crowne. The local currency. Split into four tiers: copper, silver, gold, and platinum. Every hundred of one got you the next. And apparently... also worked for dumb bets.

“Welcome to the—”

“The Club of Hopelessly in Love. Yeah, I know.” I cut off the blue-haired boy, my voice dry, making it clear I wasn’t in the mood for theatrics.

He blinked, surprised, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks. “Ah... so... I see Lewis talked too much.”

The boy sighed, straightening up. His golden eyes now held steady, his expression tucked behind a mask of seriousness.

“First of all, about that name...” he paused, arms crossing with a graceful flair, “that was our former name... Unfortunately. It comes from a time when the group had lost its way. But don’t worry, it’s been retired.”

He stepped forward. The blue rune light flickered across his face.

“So, if you would, please...” his voice lowered, sharp as a blade, “don’t ever use it again.”

Tension hovered for a beat.

“Secondly…” He raised his right hand to his chest in a formal, almost theatrical salute, his chin slightly lifted, “pleasure to meet you. I’m Damian Dracknum. Leader of the gentleman's order… or order of gentleman's if you prefer. ”

The name fell like a sword driven into the ground.

I arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That name’s pretty cheesy too.” Lewis tried to hold in a laugh and failed, muffling it with his sleeve.

The man with the water glass, on the other hand, took a sip—only to spit it all out with a guttural curse that echoed off the stone walls.

Damian merely smiled. “Maybe it is,” he replied with that calculated calm that people who are far too confident tend to have. “But, let’s be honest… it’s better than the last one, isn’t it?”

“I’ll give you that.” I sighed, more out of exhaustion than agreement.

“And it reflects our philosophy well,” he continued, each word delivered like something he’d rehearsed in front of a mirror.

He paused briefly. His golden eyes locked onto mine. “So…” he offered a subtle smile “Ready to join us?”

I leaned in slightly, arms crossed. “Before anything else…” I said, my tone lower, more direct. “Is it true you can use level-one magic?”

Damian’s smile faltered—only for a heartbeat.

But I didn’t let up.

“And how the hell do you guys have all this?” My voice rose, sharp. “Runes, secret passages, a magical hideout, items overflowing with mana? What are you? A theatre club with black ops funding?”

The questions came in a rush. For a few seconds, silence answered for them. Damian kept his gaze locked on me, but his expression hardened. Not with anger—something colder. Calculating. Weighing whether it was worth telling me more.

Then he looked toward the boy who had brought me here. The boy just shrugged with both hands raised in that universal ‘don’t look at me, I just brought him gesture.’

Damian let out a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice had changed—deeper, carrying a weight that hadn’t been there before.

“As for this place…” he began. “The so-called Waiting Grounds are technically part of one of Dracknum’s oldest strongholds.”

He paused, letting the name hang in the air like it mattered more than it probably should.
“This place is full of tunnels, sealed passages, forgotten rooms lost to time. Our founders stumbled upon this one—by accident or fate. That’s all.”

‘That explains the mystique of the entrance… and those glowing runes along the way.’

“And as for our ‘secret budget’…” Damian allowed himself a half-smile, almost smug. “Let’s just say a few of our founding members now hold rather… elevated positions in Dracknum.”

He said it with the kind of tone used to explain obvious things to a child. And maybe, in his mind, that’s exactly what I was. (Although, admittedly, a very curious one.)

But the most important question was still hanging in the air.

“Alright, but what about the magic?” I pressed, straight to the point as always. “You really can use level-one spells?”

Damian folded his arms, looking at me as if he knew exactly the effect his answer would have.
“Yes. I can.”

My heart skipped a beat.

“But… what about the restriction?” My eyes widened, stunned. “The Dracknum Seal blocks the mana flow! That’s not a rumor. It’s law!”

Damian inhaled deeply. A beat of silence. Then... he smiled. Slowly. Confidently. Almost provocatively.

“That...” he tilted his head slightly, “is an internal secret.”

‘He’s not going to say it. He wouldn’t dare…’

“Join us…” his eyes gleamed, “and I’ll tell you everything.”

‘He really said it.’

✦ ✦ ✦

A few hours later, in the dead of night.
In Arcadion, capital of the kingdom of Allythéon.

At the far western edge of the city, nestled within ancient, well-guarded walls, stood a tall and imposing tower. Its architecture clashed with everything around it—elegant lines, gleaming materials, proportions that defied reason. And yet, for some strange reason, it didn’t feel out of place. Quite the opposite: its presence made Arcadion’s skyline even more breathtaking, shrouded in mystery.

This was the Royal Family’s Magic Tower, known as Aetheryon.

Just as blacksmiths, artisans, and healers keep their own workshops to train apprentices and perfect their craft, mages too gather in places dedicated to study and the refining of magic arts.

These places are called Magic Towers—not always towers in the literal sense, but always sanctuaries where magic reigns supreme. Within these sacred halls, formulas are perfected, artifacts forged, spiritual contracts sealed, and the limits of magic are tested—and often, transcended. It’s widely said that the greatest magical discoveries the world has ever known were born within the walls of a magic tower.

For anyone seeking to reach the pinnacle of any magical discipline—be it spellcasting, alchemy, enchantment, necromancy, or the crafting of grimoires and ancient relics—entering a tower like this is not optional. Without it, true mastery remains forever out of reach. After all, magic isn’t something one simply learns—especially not if one aims to reach the highest tier of power: Archmage.

The visible structure of Aetheryon Tower, though majestic, was only the façade—the “reception,” so to speak. To the common folk, that was the real tower. But for those granted access to true knowledge, there was far more beneath the surface.

Below the tower, hidden by illusions and protective seals, lay an ancient circular chamber. Its walls were etched with arcane symbols, floating glyphs, and inscriptions that shimmered in response to mana. Doors—none of them ordinary—lined the perimeter, each one a key, a gate. Among them, a single passage led somewhere else entirely, another realm. But the certain words for it would be another place.

Passing through it, one would emerge in a vast square with a gleaming, polished floor, surrounded by floating mana crystals. It was as though the place breathed magic. And there, lifting one’s gaze to the infinite sky painted in shades of midnight, a mage would behold the true Tower of Aetheryon.

Taller than any mountain, surrounded by floating rings of energy, it spiraled upward like a blade piercing the heavens in search of the unknown. Even in the depths of night, no darkness could obscure its grandeur. The night itself seemed to withdraw, reverent in the presence of such a structure.

This was the tower where Allythéon’s true mages sought eternity.

And at the very top of that tower, high above the clouds, where the winds were tamed by runes and silence ruled, was the office of the President of the Royal Magic Tower.

To call it an “office,” however, was almost an insult to the sheer scale and complexity of the space. It was a grand hall, divided into three distinct but harmonious sections:

To the left, a laboratory teeming with alchemical instruments, astral mirrors, glass tubes filled with glowing liquids, and precision mechanisms that looked like they were ripped from a tome of impossible inventions. Runes pulsed along the walls, and a golden mist lingered in the air.

To the right, a library curved like a fortress wall, with dark wooden shelves stretching from floor to ceiling, packed with ancient grimoires, tomes in forgotten tongues, and scrolls bound with silver thread. Some books floated freely, as if seeking out their proper place.

And at the center—the heart of the chamber—a more subdued, elegant space: a black marble floor polished to a mirror sheen, a hand-carved ebony desk, wine-red velvet armchairs, and a wide sofa before a low table made of weathered oak. The entire area was bathed in the pale light spilling through a vast glass wall that served as a window to the world beyond—where a full moon hovered above the distant lands of Allythéon.

And there, standing before the massive window, hands clasped behind his back, his purple cloak rippling softly in the enchanted breeze, was Leopold Stargazer—the Twilight Mage. President of the Royal Magic Tower of Aetheryon.

His eyes, a striking shade of rose, caught the moonlight like the surface of old mirrors. His long white beard was meticulously groomed, though it now bore the weariness of age—not neglect, but weight. The weight of too many thoughts, too many memories.

He exhaled deeply, and the sound echoed softly, like the closing of a spell.

“Heinzenberg… old friend…” he murmured, his voice hoarse and slow, as if speaking to ghosts. His fingers touched the cold glass, as though trying to reach something beyond the night. “In the end… you were always right.”

Leopold closed his eyes for a moment. The fatigue wasn’t physical. It came from somewhere deeper. Heavier. The weariness of eras.

“This land…” his voice returned, lower now, like a prayer, “was never meant to bloom. Everything here is built upon ruins—and even the ruins, someday, collapse into the ashes of what came before.”

He walked slowly to the desk, leaning lightly on a long, ancient staff adorned with embedded crystals that pulsed with a faint glow—not out of weakness, but from the habit of one who carried the weight of time, and the dignity of someone who had seen too much to walk with empty hands.

"The kingdom… Allythéon is… marked," he murmured, sinking into the velvet armchair worn by years of use. The furniture groaned softly beneath him—a quiet sound, but steeped in history. Leopold rested his elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced like a man in prayer… but without faith or altar. Just an old man at the mercy of his ghosts.

"Marked by blood, by war… and by the secrets that whisper beneath the very foundations of reality."

His eyes settled on the flickering flame of a simple candle on the desk. The light dancing as if it knew it was being watched.

"Conflict… destruction… ruin…" he repeated, each word heavier, graver. "It's as if we live within a tapestry unraveling as it’s being woven. And every thread, every attempt to mend it, only pulls us deeper… closer to the abyss."

He turned his gaze slowly toward a small side table. Atop it sat an unfinished painting: a vast plain under a clear sky, a hill in the distance, and at its summit… ancient walls, barely visible through soft strokes, guarding a city long forgotten. The capital of a kingdom swallowed long ago, forgotten by time.

A fragile, melancholic smile touched his dry lips—not born of joy, but of a memory that had hurt so much, it no longer did.

"We were too young to understand…" he murmured, "dreaming we could touch the sky… forgetting that the sky burns."

Leopold leaned back in the chair, his tired eyes drifting again to the moon, hanging unchanged over the world.

"Heinzenberg…" his voice barely a whisper. "I sinned. Made mistakes that would make a demon look like a saint… But let this—let this be the last of them."

He fell silent, letting the tower speak for him. The faint crackling of the candle and the soft hum of a magical draft filled the room.

"The flames of destruction are drawing near… Or maybe they never went out. Maybe they've always burned beneath the ashes of this land that insists on rebuilding itself, like a body that bleeds and still tries to walk."

Leopold closed his eyes for a moment, sifting through memories he’d rather forget. When he opened them again, the flame was reflected in his gaze, as though a part of the tower were burning within him.

"Your words still echo, even now..." he said bitterly. "The darkness we feared so much—perhaps… just perhaps… it was purer than the light we worshipped so blindly."

“Kh-hurgh... hrrggk—”

A sudden cough shook him, violent and jarring. His body recoiled, reacting out of instinct. He pressed a handkerchief urgently to his face. When he drew it back, the once-white linen was stained a vivid red—clear as an omen. It wasn’t the first time. But somehow… this stain looked darker.

He drew breath with effort, chest rising and falling in shallow waves as the world around him slowly righted itself.

"Not yet…" he whispered, forcing his focus back. "I can’t join you yet, old friend."

With a slow movement , he moved his arm closer to the candle and pulled it toward him. He watched the flame for what felt like an eternity. Then his trembling fingers hovered above the light, as if searching for an answer in its dance.

"I owe them that much…" his voice now just a thread—fragile, frayed, stitched together with pain and regret. "To those I deceived… to the poor souls I dragged into this endless cycle… hoping they might be the ones to break it."

“To th—”

“Kh-hurgh... hrrggk—!”

The coughing returned with brutal force, raking through his chest as though trying to tear out his very soul. He doubled over, pressing the cloth tightly to his lips. The wet, muffled sound echoed through the quiet room, broken only by the faint crackle of the candle’s flame.

“To those who… without knowing… chose to carry a piece of this suffering.”