CHAPTER 34: LOST CONTINENT.

"However..." Alaric’s voice dropped—so low and firm that it pulled everyone’s full attention. Gone was the patient tone, gone was the calmness. What replaced it was a grim edge that hadn’t been heard from him in years.

"There is something even more serious than the demons... right now."

The room fell utterly silent. Even the faint hum of magic from the map projection seemed to fade as every person turned to him with alert eyes.

These people were not just leaders—they were battle-hardened legends. And yet, every one of them instinctively straightened, sensing the weight of what was coming.

"The Lost Continent is showing signs of returning."

The moment the words left Alaric’s lips, it was like a cold wind swept through the room. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, reactions rippled across the table.

A few eyes widened, shock overtaking composure. Others narrowed, brows furrowed in disbelief or suspicion. But all of them shared one thing in common—unease.

The Lost Continent.

A place spoken of only in whispers, buried under myths and fear.

It wasn’t just a forgotten land—it was a graveyard of who could have become legends, a continent erased from all records after the Great Cataclysm, said to hold things even the demons feared.

And now, it was coming back.

"...That’s not something we can take lightly," Arson murmured, his fingers slowly curling over the table’s edge.

"Yes... the future generation is in grave danger, if it’s really returning," Morrack said, his voice low and grim. There was no pride in his tone now—only concern.

Alaric didn’t deny it. He simply nodded once, firmly.

"And that is why," he continued, voice echoing across the hall, "I will be changing the academy’s schedule. This year, whether your sons or daughters, princes or princesses, nobles or prodigies—none of it matters."

His eyes swept across the room, unwavering.

"Even if this is the so-called Golden Generation... the schedule will be three times harder than a normal year."

He let that statement settle like a hammer strike.

There was no room for debate.

He was Alaric, the head of Eldoria—the most powerful academy in the known world. His word was final.

"Reasonable," Yellindra, the fairy, finally spoke, nodding thoughtfully. Her wings shimmered faintly, brushing a soft glow across the table. "If they want to survive that cursed continent... they’ll need far more than talent."

"True," Eric agreed, folding his arms as a slight blaze flickered in his eyes. "Golden generation or not—if they can’t handle that much, then we can’t expect anything from them."

"By the way..." Nidella spoke, her voice like the ripple of calm waters beneath moonlight, "who were the two who stopped the demon rampage on the central continent?"

All eyes turned.

Nidella Stormcrest, the representative of the Merfolk—calm yet fierce.

Her light blonde hair shimmered faintly with tinges of blue, like sunlight hitting ocean tides. Her eyes, deep emerald-green, carried the depth of the sea and the sharpness of someone not easily fooled.

Alaric smiled faintly, as if her question had drawn him from grim thoughts to something far more pleasant. His tone softened just slightly.

"Oh, those two..." he said, folding his hands together. "They are the new students. They’ll be enrolling at Eldoria this year."

Surprise flickered across a few faces. Even Arson raised a brow.

"You’ll understand when you see them," Alaric continued, that faint smile not quite leaving. "Words won’t do them justice."

A beat of silence passed, then Nidella chuckled—a warm, bell-like sound that could ease storms.

"Oh my, keeping secrets and creating suspence now, are we?" she teased, her voice dancing like waves over coral.

Alaric exhaled through his nose. "Not suspense," he replied evenly, "just anticipation. You’ll see."

"Hmm... the Lost Continent would make a fine training ground for him," Solas muttered to himself, his hand resting under his chin as if he were thinking about what to have for dinner rather than one of the most dangerous places in the world.

But even though he spoke softly, every person at that table heard him clearly—after all, they were Archons. Their senses were way sharper than any normal being.

"Training ground? Are you insane?" Morrack nearly shouted, visibly shaken, his black eyes twitching slightly, as his fist tightened on the table.

The fairy narrowed her eyes, her vibrant butterfly-like wings flickering with shifting hues of soft light and arcane glow. "You muscle-headed lunatic. Who do you resent so much that you’d throw them into that wretched place under the pretext training?"

Solas simply shrugged, his tone far too calm, like he was talking about sending someone to a local sparring match. "What? I don’t resent anyone. That’s just my student’s next step in training."

Everyone in the room went quiet.

They all shared the same shocked thought.

He took a student?

This eccentric man... actually took an apprentice?

"You?" Morrack’s voice cut through the silence again, and he pointed at Solas, disbelief written all over his face. "When the hell did you take a student?"

"Oh, a few months ago," Solas answered with a lazy grin, leaning back in his chair like it was no big deal.

"Damn, just whose bad luck would be that rotten to end up as his student? Hahaha!" the dwarf Samuel laughed heartily, his rough voice echoing in the room as his thick arms crossed over his chest. His shoulders even shook a little from the amusement.

"I pray for the innocent soul," Nidella said with a soft sigh, her hands clasped gently together as if she truly meant the words. Her voice was like a quiet melody, filled with both pity and concern.

"Poor child, probably already regretting life decisions," Eric muttered under his breath, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

The rest of the table nodded, some chuckling, others shaking their heads in disbelief. Solas? A mentor?

The very idea was something between a joke and a tragedy.

However, they all know one thing. If the guy survived he would be monster.

******

In the heart of the Crimson State, surrounded by the vast Duke Estate and silver lakes, stood the Crimson Palace—a structure so magnificent it looked less like a man-made estate and more like a divine offering placed gently upon the earth.

Built from deep white and red stone that shimmered faintly under sunlight, the palace towered with elegance.

Its grand spires stretched high into the sky, topped with golden domes that gleamed like small suns. The outer walls were etched with ancient runes and patterns, each one a tribute to generations of nobility.

Vines of white roses wound their way across the balconies and arched windows, softening the sharp grandeur with delicate beauty.

Inside, the chandelier hanging from the ceiling casted a soft, dim light. It usually gave the room a calm, warm feeling—but today, the light seemed dull and heavy, as if mourning.

On a large bed lay a woman with long white hair and golden eyes. She blinked slowly, her gaze weak. Her body was thin and frail, her skin clinging to her bones. Even in this weak state, she looked like a sculpture carved with care and grace.

Beside her sat a man. His sharp features, which once carried pride and strength, now looked broken.

His black hair was messy, and heavy dark circles hung beneath his tired eyes. His face showed a mix of exhaustion, regret, and deep sorrow.

They were the Lord and Lady of Crimsons.

Standing nearby were the other members of the Crimson family. The patriarch’s second wife and the twin sister of his first wife stood silently, tears staining their cheeks and hands trembling from grief.

To their right stood a young boy, no older than twelve. He shared his father’s sharp face and had his grandmother’s eyes. He stood still, quiet, but his eyes showed that he understood what was happening.

And furthest from the bed stood the former Lord and Lady of Crimson—Fiona and her husband, Edward. Edward’s face had aged with stress and time. His expression was calm, yet unreadable, his eyes fixed on the woman lying in bed.

Everyone in the room knew the truth. The moment they all feared was drawing near. The inevitable was just a breath away.

"Was it really that important," Drake whispered, his voice raw, barely holding back the tremble, "that you had to send our daughter away for months... when you’re like this?"

He sat beside her, fingers tightly clasped around her pale, frail hand. Her skin was cold, her breathing shallow—but her golden eyes still held that calm, distant wisdom.

Lyria, the Lady of Crimson, smiled faintly, the curve of her lips soft but weary. "Hm... still holding onto that, are you?" Her voice was light, though each word seemed to sap a bit of her strength. "If I had to answer... yes, it was very—very important."

*******

[A/N]- Yo, i am trying to make a discord server, as the one in the description ain’t working. So if any of you know how to make one. Comment.