CHAPTER 38: DON’T UNLOCK THIS CHAPTER.

"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 training 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.""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 training 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 see them,"