The moment the academy court announced Peter's execution in two hours, I knew I had to act fast. I took it as a sign—no, a divine opportunity. Without wasting a second, I ran to the noble quarters where Peter's mother resided.
"Mrs. Packson! Your son is in grave danger!" I shouted, pounding on her door.
No answer.
Driven by panic, I broke down the door—and froze.
There she was, lying lifeless on the floor.
Fear gripped me at first, but I forced myself to stay calm. Scanning the room, I found a letter near her body. It claimed to be written by Mrs. Packson herself—and what it revealed shattered my world.
She was a non-godblood.
The letter confessed she had assassinated the king by planting a mana bomb—crafted from a dismembered breast, an abhorrent form of dark magecraft used by non-godbloods. I vomited at the sight of her mutilated chest. So many questions raced through my mind.
Did her husband know?
How did no one detect her presence all these years?
Why didn't the priests sense anything?
I made a decision in that moment. If this letter were found, Peter's last chance at survival would vanish. I burned it.
With less than an hour left, I realized I had no choice—I had to free Peter by force, even if it meant facing off against Grade 3 mage knights.
"Die, non-godblood!" one of the knights shouted.
"I'm innocent!" Peter cried out.
"Johannes!" he screamed when he saw me. "What are you doing here?!"
What was I doing? Was I really about to commit treason for a friend branded as a devil's descendant?
"Johannes! Answer me!" he yelled again.
"I'm here to free you," I said, steadying my voice.
The knights glared at me.
"What did you just say, boy?" one growled.
"Talking to a devil's child is heresy," spat another.
"You're just sixteen—step aside or die," the third warned.
I quickly assessed the situation. Three knights. Grade 3. Mana pools likely between 65,000 and 68,000 kunts. All fully armored and armed with swords. I had only my manament weapon—a black blade, forged from my soul.
"Last warning!" one barked.
Suddenly, a knight lunged. I parried the blow, but it sent me skidding to the edge of the room. Before I could recover, lightning flashed from the left. I blocked it—barely. Confidence surged in me... until I was struck by water magic from behind and hit with a binding spell on my right.
Trapped. No grimoire. No spells.
My vision blurred as the knights prepared their final strike. Their grimoires pulsed. The tension was suffocating. I accepted my fate.
So this is how I die...
But just as the blades closed in, darkness burst from my body. A paralyzing, overwhelming wave of fear engulfed the room.
Did I just cast fearcraft... without a grimoire?
Could my mind be my grimoire?
I focused. Fire, I thought—and my sword ignited in crimson flames.
The knights clawed at their faces, overwhelmed by hallucinations. I ended it with one clean sweep—Crimson Strike. When the flames faded, only ash and coal remained.
I rushed to Peter's cell, opened the gate, and embraced him.
"I know you're innocent," I whispered.
We tried to flee, but Instructor Bale appeared, blocking our path. His eyes scanned the room, the carnage, the lingering aura of fear.
"A Nightmare Room... this is forbidden magecraft," he muttered. "Who cast this?"
He eyed the blood on my blade. "How do you know this spell?"
"I read about it... in the ancient tomes," I lied.
His expression darkened with uncertainty.
A mage using spells without a grimoire...
A godblood invoking a craft without divine authority...
What am I becoming?