The dawn crept over Hendwards Kingdom like a reluctant specter, its golden light tainted with streaks of blood-red that clawed across the sky. The sun rose, a reluctant witness to the world below, casting long, jagged shadows over fields where wildflowers bloomed with an almost unnatural vigor, their petals glistening like fresh wounds. Children raced through the meadows, their laughter sharp and discordant, slicing through the stillness as farmers bent over their crops, their movements mechanical, as if driven by some unseen force. In the kingdom's heart, the markets erupted into chaos—merchants' shouts clashing with the clatter of coins, their stalls crowded with faces that flickered between desperation and greed. Above it all loomed the Magic Academy, its spires piercing the heavens like the teeth of a slumbering beast, its stones whispering secrets too dark to name.
Within its echoing halls, Class A buzzed with a tension that bordered on dread. The chamber was vast and cavernous, its walls etched with runes that pulsed faintly, as if alive, their glow casting an eerie pallor over the room. The desks, scarred and splintered from years of failed spells, stood in rigid rows, their surfaces stained with the ghosts of blood and ink. At the front, a towering chalkboard dominated the space, its blank expanse a void waiting to be filled with forbidden knowledge. The students sat hunched, their whispers a low, nervous hum that prickled the air.
The door groaned open, and David entered, his silhouette framed against the dim corridor like a figure from a nightmare. His robe flowed like liquid night, swallowing the light, while his eyes burned with a feverish intensity that belied the silver streaking his hair. His face, lined with the scars of battles fought in shadow, carried an unsettling calm. He raised a hand, silencing the room with a gesture that felt more like a command than a greeting.
"Good morning, students," he said, his voice a velvet blade, soft yet laced with menace. "No tedious histories today. We dive into the abyss of practical magic."
A shiver of unease rippled through the class as David approached the chalkboard. With a shard of enchanted chalk, he began to draw—a perfect circle, its edges shimmering with a sickly blue light that seemed to writhe. Within it, he traced shapes—sharp triangles, jagged pentagons, and spiraling runes that twitched like living things, their forms radiating a quiet malice.
"**This**," he said, stepping back, his voice dropping to a hiss, "is what I call a Level One Magic Circle. Basic, yes, but a gateway to power. Today, you'll learn to twist it, to force it upward through physics, mathematics, shapes—and the raw, untamed essence of magic itself. From Level One to Level Ten, we'll rip its limits apart."
He turned, his gaze a predator's, sweeping over the students' pale faces. "Watch."
With a flick of his wrist, a small magic circle materialized before him, its light dim and flickering, as though struggling to exist. Then, with a guttural murmur, a flame burst forth—a sickly, writhing thing that crackled with a sound like breaking bones. The students flinched, their breaths catching as the fire danced, casting grotesque shadows that clawed at the walls.
"**This is Level One**—a fire attribute," David said, his tone flat, almost bored. "How do we make it *more*?"
A boy near the front leapt up, his voice trembling. "Sir, isn't it impossible to amplify a circle once it's formed? Don't we need a new one for a bigger flame?"
David's lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "A sharp mind. Sit." He paused, letting the silence coil around them like a noose. "What feeds a fire? Wood. Oil. Gasoline. *Fuel*. Now—how do we force that into a circle? Close your eyes. Picture it growing. Feeding."
The students obeyed, their eyelids fluttering shut as their breaths grew shallow. David's voice slithered through the darkness, a serpent in their minds. "See the runes stretching, multiplying. Feel the flames clawing higher, gorging on an unseen source."
A choked gasp shattered the stillness. Eyes flew open to reveal the circle expanding, its edges thickening like veins pulsing with black blood. The runes doubled, their shapes twisting into something grotesque, and the flame roared upward, a towering inferno that bathed the room in a suffocating heat. Sweat dripped from the students' brows, their robes clinging like damp shrouds as the air grew thick with the stench of scorched earth.
"**This is Level Two**," David intoned, his voice cutting through the haze. "To climb higher, we replicate the symbols, the shapes, the algorithms—force them to obey. Watch."
Another gesture, and the circle swelled again, its light now a bruised purple. The flames surged, a monstrous entity that devoured the air, its heat pressing against their skin like a living thing. Shadows writhed across the walls, taking on shapes—clawed hands, gaping maws—that vanished when stared at too long. The students' faces glistened with sweat and terror, their breaths ragged as David stood unmoved, his expression a mask of cold control. With a snap, he snuffed the spell, and the heat collapsed into a void, leaving only a faint, acrid tang.
"As you've seen," he said, brushing chalk dust from his fingers with deliberate calm, "we don't need a new circle to amplify its hunger. This method feeds all attributes—fire, water, earth, air. Your assignment, due Wednesday in three days, is to master this. It will set your rank in the sparring session. **Fail, and you're cast out of the Academy—forever.** Prepare, or perish."
He swept from the room, his robe trailing like a shadow, leaving the students frozen in his wake. The weight of his words hung heavy, a guillotine poised above their necks. Alice, her red hair a beacon of defiance, turned to Ruby and Casca. "We *can* do this," she said, her voice steel wrapped in fear. "We *will* survive."
Ruby, her dark curls trembling as she nodded, whispered, "Together. We'll make it."
As dusk bled into the sky, David retreated to his chambers, a bone-deep weariness gnawing at him. The demonstration had siphoned something vital from him, leaving a hollow ache. He collapsed onto his bed, seeking only a moment's respite, but sleep descended like a predator, dragging him into its jaws.
He awoke in a void—a boundless nightmare where the ground shimmered with black water, rippling beneath his boots like the surface of a cursed mirror. Each step echoed with a wet, hollow slap, the sound swallowed by an oppressive silence. A cold dread coiled in his gut as he recognized this place: the Sin of Dreams, where the mind's darkest terrors took flesh.
Ahead, the Magic Academy loomed, its spires twisted into gnarled claws, its stones blackened as if scorched by an unholy fire. David advanced, the water dragging at his legs, until the air thickened with the reek of rot. A tableau of horror unfolded—hundreds, thousands of corpses sprawled across the earth, their flesh peeling away in strips. Flies swarmed in buzzing clouds, their drone a maddening dirge, while crows tore at the remains, their beaks dripping with gore. One crow turned, its eye a milky void that pinned David in place, stripping him bare.
A skeletal hand seized his ankle, its grip icy and unyielding. He looked down into a face half-eaten by decay—eyes dangling like obscene ornaments, jaw hanging slack. "Why, teacher?" it croaked, its voice a wet gurgle. "Why did you do this to us?"
The cry multiplied, a cacophony of a thousand tortured voices clawing at his skull. "**Why did you kill us? What did we do to you, teacher?**" The words burrowed into his mind, each one a shard of ice and guilt.
David staggered forward, the water now ankle-deep with blood, until he reached Class A. The doors creaked open, revealing a charnel house—desks shattered, walls smeared with crimson handprints. At the center lay Alice and Casca, their bodies broken, their eyes hollow sockets staring into nothingness. He stumbled toward them, his pulse a frantic drumbeat, and dropped beside Alice. Her hand lashed out, cold and rigid, clamping around his wrist.
He came, she rasped, her voice a death knell. "He killed Ruby. Go—save her!
David jolted awake, his body slick with sweat, his scream trapped in his throat. The dream's claws clung to him, its visions pulsing behind his eyes. He launched from his bed, magic flaring as he soared through the night, a wraith racing toward Ruby's quarters. Hovering outside her window, he probed with his senses, seeking her mana. Relief surged as he found it—steady, alive. But a second signature flickered nearby, jagged and foreign, like a splinter in his mind.
He slipped into her room, the silence a suffocating shroud. Ruby lay in her bed, her chest rising and falling, serene in sleep. "Thank the gods," he breathed, his voice a ragged whisper. "She's safe." Yet doubt gnawed at him. If she slept, why had her mana burned so fiercely in his scan?
He edged closer, hand trembling as he reached for her forehead. Time fractured as a wet *thud* split the silence. Ruby's head rolled free, severed clean, hitting the floor with a sickening bounce. Blood gushed, a dark tide pooling around her body, her lifeless eyes locking onto his—wide with betrayal. David collapsed, a guttural wail tearing from him as he clutched her head, its warmth fading against his skin, tears mingling with the crimson staining his hands.
A voice oozed from the shadows, smooth and venomous, dripping with glee. "Well, well, who do we have here? Our dear main timeline David.
A figure stepped forth, cloaked in a darkness that seemed to devour the light. His face was David's own—twisted, older, eyes glinting with a sadistic hunger. Another David, from another timeline, a doppelgänger born of nightmare. The air thrummed with malice as they faced each other, the silence a tightening noose.
And there, in the flickering gloom, with Ruby's blood painting the floor, the true horror unfurled its wings.