“Just your humble shadow, my lord.” Tiraz’s grin held steady as Zandir choked on air. High above, a fresh swarm tore through the breach, their multi-jointed legs glinting like cut glass as they scaled down the plaster. These were not the sluggish Glass-Spiders but swift, blade-limbed Glass-Hunters, their movements unnervingly fluid as they descended upon the trapped students. Niravi shrank against the wall, knuckles white around her bronze focusing charm. When her panicked stare locked onto his, Tiraz softened his mouth, giving her the subtle, level nod Roshir had always offered before a hunt. Then he stepped forward. Coils of scarlet heat wound tight around his ribs, steadying the decoy's brittle bones. He didn’t draw a weapon, nor did he adopt a flashy combat pose. Instead, his hands moved with almost casual grace, a dance of precise, economical gestures. With one hand, he extended a palm towards Niravi’s squad. A blue film snapped into being, settling over the recruits like an inverted bowl. It wasn’t a shield, but a distortion field that made the charging Glass-Hunters stumble and veer wildly, unable to penetrate the warped space. [Kinetic Dampening Veil unlocked: Tier 3] Simultaneously, his other hand moved in a swift, almost imperceptible arc towards the nearest Glass-Hunter. No visible spell formed, no blast of force. Yet the stalker's vitreous joints seized mid-leap. The thorax caved inward under sudden pressure, collapsing into a heap of dull grit. With a twitch of his wrist, the beast flanking Niravi's left folded, its faceted legs shearing off at the sockets. Tiraz paced through the melee without breaking stride. Every turn of his heel deflected a claw; every flick of an open palm snuffed out another threat. He dismantled them piece by piece. A tap against an armored carapace splintered its core. A deflected lunge sent a screeching quad-ped crashing into two more, clearing the flagstones. Through it all, his calm grin never slipped. The academy scions clung to the colonnade, useless spells sputtering out in their palms as they watched the support decoy clear the floor. Zandir, still sprawled outside the grand hall, watched his carefully constructed world collapse. The cheers of his admirers, the terror of his enemies, the easy credit for others’ victories—all were dissolving into dust before this smiling phantom. Spittle flecked Zandir's lips as he realized his prestige was burning away before the entire academy. His hand scrabbled at his belt pouch, retrieving a small, jagged shard of obsidian. This was no ordinary artifact; it was a Glass-Bane, a forbidden relic capable of severing a caster’s connection to their aura, leaving them a hollow shell. Amid the howling breach and scattered debris, an errant shard could be blamed on the rift. “Die,” Zandir hissed, leveling the jagged tip directly at Tiraz’s spine while the decoy fended off two prowlers clawing at the blue ward. But a shadow fell over Zandir. A glint of polished metal. Miyara stepped out of the dust directly above him, her grip tightened white on her spear shaft. Before Zandir could launch the Glass-Bane, Miyara moved. She spun the spear in a short arc, driving the bronze counterweight of the butt down into the notch below his collarbone with a dull crack. Zandir shrieked, a sound of agony and disbelief, dropping the obsidian shard. His arm went limp, hanging uselessly at his side, blood already seeping through his tunic. “Stay down,” Miyara said, her tone flat and disgusted. “You miserable excuse for an officer.” Behind her, the last prowler collapsed into sand, and the silent star-chart behind Tiraz's brow flared into brilliant alignment, connecting dormant memory nodes across the velvet dark. [Major Node Unlocked: Sister’s Salvation. Core Skill: Reality Sundering Blade activated.] A low hum resonated through the shattered hall, a sound that vibrated deep in the bones. Tiraz’s smile vanished, leaving his jaw set like iron. He raised two fingers toward the fissure. A streak of deep crimson shot upward, thinning into an impossibly sharp line that sliced directly across the tear. The rift folded inward without a sound. Its jagged margins puckered like stitched canvas, sealed against the desert sky with the resonant chime of an iron bell. Dust drifted through the hall. Zandir wept in the corridor gravel while Tiraz stood alone under the cracked cupola, his borrowed pulse settling to a calm, steady rhythm. Just then, heavy footsteps echoed through the shattered doorway. The Headmaster strode past the sheared hinges, flanked by a dozen Royal Guards with halberds drawn. His gaze swept the broken floor, bypassed the cowering nobles, and stopped dead on Tiraz. “What… what in the name of the Oracle happened here?” the Headmaster demanded, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and fear. Zandir, still clutching his mangled shoulder, saw his last chance. He staggered to his feet, pointing a trembling, bloodied finger at Tiraz. He sputtered, spraying red across his chin. “Demon!” he shrieked, his voice hoarse and desperate. “He’s a demon! He caused it! He ripped the sky open, I swear! He brought the monsters!” Before anyone could process Zandir’s hysterical accusations, a figure emerged from behind a shattered pillar, dusting off his robes with a theatrical flourish. It was Bakkur, holding up a polished recording-gem that glowed with a steady green luminescence. “Oh, did he now, Lord Zandir?” Bakkur said, his voice unusually clear and loud in the sudden silence. “Because this little beauty just so happened to capture you locking the grand hall doors from the outside, and then, uh, confessing your plans to let the support squad die.”

Star-Chart Slaughter