Ch. 10 — The Scholar of Ages

The chamber’s doors opened with a low, resonant groan, revealing a hall lined with shelves that seemed to stretch into eternity. Tomes of every size and age filled them, their spines glowing faintly with inscriptions in languages Arata had never seen. The air smelled of parchment, ink, and faint ozone, as though the knowledge itself carried electricity.

At the center of the hall sat a single figure.

An old man, robed in deep indigo, his beard long and silver, his eyes sharp despite the weight of centuries. Before him, a desk carved from crystal groaned under the weight of scrolls and quills that moved of their own accord, scribbling endlessly without touch.

The old man looked up. His gaze was not gentle, nor hostile—merely piercing, like a blade that cut to the marrow.

“You’re late, ” he said flatly. His voice carried no echo, yet it filled the vast hall.

Arata blinked, caught off guard—“—Late? I just woke up from a month-long coma—”

“Excuses. ” The old man waved his hand, and one of the floating quills jabbed itself into an inkpot with a sharp snap. “Time here is worth more than the lives of empires. If you waste it, you might as well return to your mortal drudgery. ”

Arata’s jaw tightened—“—Who are you supposed to be, anyway? ”

The old man leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing—“I am Orvos. Scholar of Caelestia—Keeper of the Ten Thousand Truths. And from this day forward—” He pointed the quill at Arata like a spear—“—your tormentor. ”

“Forget it, ” Arata muttered.

The old man clapped his hands once, and the entire hall shifted. Books flew from their shelves, scrolls unfurled midair, diagrams of stars, beasts, and runes lit the space around them. The air itself vibrated with information, each fragment demanding attention.

Arata’s eyes went wide—“—You’ve gotta be kidding me. ”

Orvos’s grin was sharp—“Your body has been reforged, boy. Now we forge your mind—For what use is strength if it wields ignorance like a weapon? ”

A tome slammed into Arata’s arms. He staggered under its weight—despite his newfound strength, the book felt as heavy as stone.

“Lesson one, ” Orvos declared, slamming his staff against the floor. “You will learn the tongues of men, beasts, and demons alike. If you cannot speak to your enemy, you cannot outwit them. If you cannot name a spell, you cannot cast it. If you cannot read history, you will repeat its mistakes and die a fool. ”

Arata opened the tome, its pages filled with jagged, shifting runes—His stomach dropped. “Uh—this looks like an eldritch sudoku—”

“Study. ” Orvos barked. “Until your eyes bleed, and then study more. ”

Arata groaned, burying his face in the book—“—I knew I should’ve taken more notes in high school. ”

The hall rang with Orvos’s laughter—harsh, merciless, but not without a spark of satisfaction.

The days blurred into one another, though in Caelestia, the word day held little meaning. Time flowed differently here, a truth Arata grasped only by the ache in his head and the endless stacks of parchment that seemed to multiply faster than he could finish them.

Runes crawled across his vision, twisting, shifting, reshaping into words. Each symbol carried layers of meaning, not just sound but memory, intention, emotion. Orvos’s voice thundered behind him like a hammer striking iron.

“Again. Translate. ”

Arata squinted at the glowing page—“Uh—‘Fire consumes, but flame endures’? ”

“Wrong. ” Orvos’s staff slammed against the floor, shaking the shelves. “It is ‘The flame consumes, but fire endures. ’ Do you think demons will spare you because you misplace a verb? Their tongues are riddles, boy. A single slip, and you invite your own death. ”

“Never mind, ” Arata muttered.

Scrolls circled around him, each page burning with diagrams of beasts, maps of forgotten kingdoms, and spells etched in countless dialects. His silver hair stuck to his forehead with sweat as he scribbled furiously, his hand cramping around the quill.

When he slumped forward, Orvos snapped his fingers. The ink leapt from the page, forming glowing words in the air. They lashed around Arata like chains, pulling him upright.

“Sleep when you’re dead, ” Orvos said coldly. “Until then, learn. ”

Arata groaned, eyes bloodshot—“Pretty sure you’re the reason I’ll be dead. ”

And yet—slowly, painfully, the chaos began to make sense. The runes no longer swam before his eyes but aligned, revealing patterns. A snarl of jagged symbols clicked into a phrase:

“The abyss whispers, but only the strong may answer. ”

Arata blinked—He had read it—Without stumbling—Without Orvos’s correction.

The old man’s sharp eyes narrowed, but there was a glimmer there—approval, buried beneath centuries of cynicism.

“Better, ” Orvos muttered. “Perhaps you are not entirely hopeless. ”

Arata leaned back, exhausted, a faint grin tugging at his lips despite the headache splitting his skull—“—Heh. I’ll take that as a compliment—”

Orvos snorted, turning back to his endless scrolls—“Do not grow proud, boy. This is but the alphabet of eternity—You have yet to touch grammar. ”

Arata buried his face in his hands—“Kill me now—”

The hall echoed with Orvos’s dry laughter.

Scrolls unfurled around Arata in a dizzying spiral, their pages glowing with circles of fire, water, stone, and air. Symbols flickered like constellations, shifting from one shape to another as if alive.

Orvos stood at the center, staff raised, his voice echoing like thunder.

“Magic is not miracle. It is law. Four pillars form its foundation—fire, water, earth, wind. Every spell, every craft, every devastation you have ever heard of stems from these roots. ”

“Hey. ” Arata yelped. “Abuse. This is student abuse. ”

“Discipline, ” Orvos corrected. “Now listen, or remain a fool forever. ”

The old man swept his staff, and the spiraling runes collapsed into four blazing sigils that hovered around Arata.

“Fire devours. Water endures. Wind shifts. Earth anchors. But none exist alone. The balance between them is the true art. ”

The fire sigil flared, heat blasting Arata’s face, and he stumbled back, shielding his eyes.

“Each element has strength, ” Orvos said, “and each has cost. Fire burns bright but consumes its wielder. Water heals but erodes. Wind is swift but fleeting. Earth is steadfast but unyielding. ”

Arata wiped sweat from his brow, staring up at the glowing symbols. “—So what, I’m supposed to master all four? That sounds a little, don’t you think? ”

“? ” Orvos repeated, tilting his head.

“Overpowered, ” Arata explained quickly. “Like, level broken. ”

Orvos glared—“There are no cheats in the laws of the world. Only balance—To grasp power without discipline is to court ruin. Remember that, boy—”

The sigils pulsed once more before fading, leaving only faint sparks in the air.

Orvos lowered his staff—“You will study each. You will learn to shape them with thought alone, without chant or ritual. But you will not—must not—use them without cause. The elements are no toys for bored men—”

Arata raised a brow—“So—magic isn’t a get-out-of-jail-free card. Got it—”

The old man’s eyes narrowed, but a faint spark of approval flickered there.

“You learn quickly. Perhaps too quickly. That arrogance will cost you if you are not cautious. ”

Arata folded his arms, grinning despite himself—“Well, guess I’ll just have to prove I can handle it. ”

A single candle burned on the desk between them. Its flame flickered lazily, casting long shadows across the marble floor.

Orvos leaned on his staff, eyes sharp—“Lesson one: flame. Summon it—Control it—Do not let it devour you—”

Arata stared at the candle, then at his own hand—“—That’s it? Just make fire? How hard can that be? ”

“Hard enough to kill you, ” Orvos said dryly.

Arata rolled his shoulders, taking a deep breath. He closed his eyes, reaching inward to the ember Elyon had planted within him. He could feel it—the steady thrum in his chest, the warmth flowing through his veins.

Heat stirred in his palm—Sparks danced across his skin. Arata cracked one eye open—his hand glowed faintly, light gathering at his fingertips.

“Yes. ” he hissed under his breath. “It’s working. I’m basically a shōnen protagonist now—”

fwoom.

Flame erupted, not a candle-sized spark but a blazing fireball the size of a melon. Arata yelped, nearly falling backward as the fire roared up toward the ceiling.

“Holy crap holy crap holy crap. ”

He flailed, trying to smother it with his other hand—only to make it worse. The fireball split in two, flames licking dangerously close to the shelves of scrolls.

Orvos’s staff cracked against the floor. A ring of blue energy snapped into place, snuffing out the fire in an instant. Smoke curled through the hall, carrying the sharp smell of scorched parchment.

Arata froze, panting, his hair singed at the tips—“—Oops. ”

Orvos pinched the bridge of his nose—“Idiot—”

“Hey. First try, okay? Cut me some slack. ”

“You nearly burned a thousand years of knowledge to ash. ”

Arata rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly—“Guess you could say I—started with a bang? ”

The old man’s glare could have incinerated him on the spot.

“Again, ” Orvos snapped.

And so it went—Again and again, Arata reached for the flame. Sometimes he produced nothing but sparks. Sometimes he conjured infernos that nearly melted the marble floor. Each failure left him sweating, cursing, gasping for breath.

But slowly, painfully, he began to shape it—A spark became a controlled flicker. A flicker became a steady flame. At last, a single, fragile ember hovered above his palm—small, trembling, but steady.

Arata stared at it, chest heaving—“—Heh. Look at that—I made a campfire marshmallow flame. ”

Orvos’s gaze softened, just slightly—“Crude—but controlled—Better than I expected—”

Arata let the corner of his mouth quirk, though exhaustion tugged at his eyelids. “Told you I’m a quick learner—”

“Quick learners burn quickest, ” Orvos retorted. “Do not grow careless. You’ve only lit the first spark. The path ahead will demand mastery, not novelty. ”

The ember in Arata’s palm winked out, leaving only faint warmth in his skin.

He clenched his fist. Despite the failures, despite the scolding, a fire stirred in his chest—not just literal, but something deeper.

For the first time, he felt it: the thrill of shaping the impossible with his own hands.

The hall was silent except for the hum of runes etched into the marble floor. Arata sat cross-legged in the center of a glowing circle, palms resting on his knees. Around him floated four faint sigils: red flame, blue water, green wind, and brown earth.

Orvos stood just beyond the circle, staff planted firmly. “Now you will learn restraint. Summon each element, one by one, and hold them in balance. Too much of one, and the circle will collapse. ”

Arata squinted at the glowing symbols—“—So basically, magical juggling. ”

“Juggling is for fools at fairs. This is balance, the essence of harmony. Fail, and you will not merely drop a ball—you will be crushed beneath the collapse. ”

Arata’s smile faltered—“—No pressure—”

He closed his eyes, reaching inward. The ember flared, and he pulled, carefully, carefully. A spark of fire flickered in his left palm. A droplet of water hovered over his right. A faint breeze stirred his hair, and beneath him, the marble rumbled with the whisper of stone.

The four sigils pulsed brighter, orbiting him slowly.

“Yes, ” Orvos murmured. “Now keep them steady. ”

Sweat beaded on Arata’s brow. The fire wanted to flare, the water wanted to disperse, the wind pulled at both, and the earth dragged downward. His arms trembled as if he were balancing weights that shifted unpredictably.

“Okay—okay this isn’t so bad, ” he muttered. “I’ve played worse minigames. ”

The flame sputtered suddenly, flaring twice its size. Arata yelped, jerking his hand—and the water sphere exploded in a spray across his face. The wind sigil spun out of control, buffeting him like a gale, and the earth beneath him cracked with a deafening Boom.

When the last echo of the practice hall faded, Kael’s palm hovered over Arata’s shoulder—approval without praise. The sky answered a heartbeat later: a split of light torn open above the city, calling the First Flame home.

The entire circle shattered, hurling Arata backward into a pile of scrolls. Dust and parchment exploded into the air as he groaned, sprawled upside down with his legs tangled in a shelf.

Orvos rubbed his forehead—“Hopeless—”

Arata raised a hand weakly from the wreckage—“I—had it under control. Totally—Just—testing gravity—”

The old man’s lips twitched—just faintly, almost imperceptibly.

“Again. ”

And so it went. Over and over, Arata summoned, balanced, failed, and tried again. His body ached, his mind throbbed, but each attempt lasted longer than the last. Hours—or perhaps days—passed in the timeless hall, until at last, the sigils hovered steady around him.

Flame, water, wind, earth—Four in harmony, circling his body like planets.

Arata breathed out slowly, sweat dripping down his temple—“—Finally. Success—”

Orvos nodded, eyes gleaming—“Better. You begin to grasp it—Balance is not achieved by force, but by listening. Remember that—”

Arata grinned tiredly, opening one eye—“So basically—don’t be a dumbass. ”

“Crude, ” Orvos said, but his mouth twitched again. “Accurate. ”

The sigils faded, sinking back into the marble—Arata slumped forward, half-laughing, half-exhausted.

The hall was quiet but alive with whispers. Not voices—words themselves. They slid across the air like serpents, curling into his ears, scratching against his mind.

Arata sat hunched over a parchment covered in jagged script. The symbols pulsed faintly, like they were alive, writhing if he looked too long. His lips moved, shaping the sounds.

“—Gra’shul. ven’ath. morru. ”

The air grew colder—The shadows around the shelves seemed to stretch.

“Enough. ” Orvos’s staff cracked against the marble. The whispering ceased at once, the shadows snapping back into place.

Arata jerked upright, heart pounding—“Wh-what the hell was that?”

“The tongue of demons, ” Orvos said, his voice low, eyes sharp. “A language of hunger. It was not meant for mortal throats. Speak too carelessly, and the words will answer back. ”

Arata wiped sweat from his brow, his mouth dry. “—That would’ve been nice to know before I started chanting eldritch horror karaoke. ”

Orvos ignored him, drawing a circle of symbols midair. The runes burned black for a heartbeat before fading.

“Knowledge is power, but also temptation. Many who seek it are consumed by it. The more you learn, the louder the abyss whispers. Remember that. ”

Arata’s chest tightened—He thought back to the shadow in the trial—the sneer, the blade of black fire. That hunger—That darkness. It hadn’t been gone at all—It had been waiting.

He looked down at his hands, and they trembled faintly.

“—So magic’s not just dangerous because of enemies. It’s dangerous because of me. ”

Orvos regarded him quietly, then nodded once—“At last, you begin to understand. ”

Silence fell between them. The weight of the words lingered in the air, heavier than any book.

Then Arata forced a grin, breaking it. “Well, good thing I’ve got you breathing down my neck, huh? No way I’ll get tempted if I’m stuck with homework forever. ”

The old man snorted, but there was a spark of satisfaction in his eyes—“We will see. ”

The shelves around them shifted, scrolls rearranging, diagrams of beasts and stars unfolding once more.

“Come. You have learned letters, tongues, balance. Now you will learn history. Know the wars fought before, the heroes who failed, and the demons who still walk free. ”

Arata groaned, dragging a hand down his face—“Oh, great. More all-nighters—Just like college—but with extra eldritch nightmare fuel. ”

Still, as he followed Orvos deeper into the endless library, he felt it—the weight of knowledge pressing into him, shaping him, forging him. Painful, exhausting, terrifying—but also exhilarating.

For the first time in his life, his mind was sharpening like a blade.

The library shifted again. Scrolls unraveled midair, their parchment glowing faintly as images spilled across the walls like paintings come alive.

Arata stared, wide-eyed. Vast battlefields stretched before him—armies of men and angels locked against tides of beasts and horned demons. Blades of light clashed against claws of shadow, wings were torn from the sky, and towers crumbled into fire.

Orvos’s voice rumbled low, steady, like the toll of a bell.

“The First War. Long before your world knew nations, before men could even name the stars, the demons rose. They poured into the mortal plane, feasting on life, crushing kingdoms before they could be born. ”

Arata swallowed hard, his chest tight—“—And they lost? The demons, I mean—”

“Not lost. Delayed. ” Orvos’s staff tapped against the marble. “The angels descended, breaking law to defend humanity. Their light burned the demons back, sealed them beyond the veil. But angels are not permitted to walk freely. Their bodies turned to ash the moment the veil closed. They won—at the cost of themselves. ”

The image shifted. Wings of fire fell like meteors, ash scattering across the battlefield. Warriors knelt, broken, as the tide receded.

Arata’s throat tightened—“—They sacrificed everything—”

“Sacrifice is the only currency worth spending against the abyss, ” Orvos said. His gaze cut to Arata, sharp as a blade. “Which is why you exist. A flame that is mortal, yet unyielding. A weapon angels cannot be. ”

Arata froze, staring at him—The words settled like lead in his stomach.

“—So I’m basically. their replacement. ”

“Not replacement. Continuation. ” Orvos’s eyes gleamed, hard but honest. “The demons will return. They always do. And when they rise again, humanity will not have angels to save them. They will have you. Or they will fall. ”

The silence pressed down heavy—Arata’s fists clenched at his sides.

“—That’s insane. I’m one guy. You expect me to fight a whole war? ”

“No. ” Orvos’s voice softened, just slightly. “I expect you to light the fire that others will rally to. One flame can burn an empire. One spark can ignite a world. ”

Arata looked back at the images of battle—the screams, the fire, the collapsing towers. His chest ached, and he thought of Miharu’s smile, of Daichi’s laughter. Two years. Two years until all of this came crashing down on their heads.

His hands trembled—But slowly, he tightened them into fists.

“—Then I’ll do it. I’ll fight. I don’t care how many centuries it takes to train me. I won’t let them take everything. ”

Orvos studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. A rare gesture of approval.

“Good. You will need that resolve. Hold it close, boy. It will be tested more than your strength. ”

The images faded, the library dimming to silence once more.

Time lost its meaning in the library.

Days bled into weeks, weeks into months, months into years—and yet when Arata closed his eyes, Earth remained only two years away. The thought haunted him, pushed him, sharpened him.

He devoured languages until words no longer tangled his tongue. He spoke the flowing syllables of angels, the guttural snarls of demons, the rolling chants of ancient tribes long dead. He read histories carved in stone, burned into scrolls, etched into living light. He memorized the names of kings who fell and heroes who rose, only to fail against the abyss.

And through it all, Orvos drove him harder than any flame or blade. Every mistake was met with scorn, every triumph with another test.

Yet slowly, grudgingly, the old man’s sharp eyes began to soften.

One evening—though “evening” was only a concept here—Arata stood at the center of the hall, reciting a passage in flawless demon tongue. His voice did not tremble, the shadows did not stir. He finished with steady breath, the last syllable echoing like steel against stone.

Orvos’s staff tapped once against the marble.

“—Acceptable, ” he said at last.

Arata’s thin smile, wiping sweat from his brow—“Coming from you, that’s basically a standing ovation. ”

The old man’s lips twitched—“Do not grow arrogant. You have only learned to wield knowledge without drowning in it—That does not make you strong. Only dangerous—”

Arata chuckled, rolling his shoulders—“Dangerous sounds like a good start to me. ”

Before Orvos could retort, light spilled across the hall. Selestia entered, her presence soft yet commanding. The scrolls stilled, the runes dimmed, as if the library itself bowed to her.

“It is time, ” she said simply.

Arata straightened, blinking—“Time—for what? ”

Arata felt his pulse quicken. He shifted once toward Orvos. For a fleeting moment, the old scholar’s eyes carried something rare—pride, buried deep beneath centuries of discipline.

“Do not waste what you’ve been given, boy, ” Orvos said quietly.

Orvos snorted, but did not deny the nickname.

The doors closed behind Arata as he followed Selestia into the light.

The library’s silence returned.

The Scholar of Ages watched the fading glow for a long time, then whispered to himself.

“—Perhaps this flame will endure. ”

Months bled into years in Caelestia’s elastic time; lessons hardened into instinct, and theory yielded to practice.

Selestia’s gaze met his, calm but firm—“You have tempered your mind. Now, you must temper your flame in battle—Come. The next stage awaits—”