Page 38 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

But if that was real...what am I?

I glance down at my hands, finding them solid yet somehow translucent when viewed from certain angles. I exist in a state between physicality and concept, present yet removed from direct interaction.

Did Mortimer's ritual kiss do something beyond mere magical transfer? It split me somehow – creating the displaced observer I now embody while leaving my physical form vulnerable to Lysth's attack.

My attention returns to the countdown display. The number of individuals remains at seven despite my doppelgänger's apparent death. This confirms my suspicion that I still register as present, albeit in this altered state.

Lysth's laughter abruptly silences as he draws himself to full height, crystalline form glittering with corruption-infused pride.

"I've fulfilled my purpose to my Lord," he announces, addressing my stunned bond mates who remain locked in the pentagonal formation, their ritual disrupted but its magicalstructure still intact. "Thanks to my bribed cooperation, I will aid in making him the Pureblood he deserves!"

Pureblood.

The word sends ripples of comprehension through my displaced consciousness. Whoever this "Lord" might be, they covet the rare abilities associated with pureblood vampiric lineage – abilities I apparently possess, though I've never fully understood their origin or extent.

He hired Lysth to try and kill me so they can become a Pureblood. That makes no sense. Wouldn’t they need to be associated with me in some sort of way for it to even be active like that?

I don’t know enough about the origins of Purebloods to even make the right assumption.

Before Lysth can elaborate further, movement flickers at the periphery of my awareness. A dark shape rises behind the corrupted sylph, its form indistinct yet vaguely familiar.

Tendrils of tainted black shoot forward with viper-like precision, penetrating Lysth's body through the lingering wound in his chest – the very spot where my doppelgänger's blood crystalline thorn had struck him earlier. The corruption-infused tentacles weave through his crystalline structure before wrapping around the pulsing heart visible within his semi-transparent torso.

Mordax stands revealed as the source of these deadly appendages, though little remains of the shifter I briefly met during our descent. His form has surrendered completely to corruption, body morphed into something barely recognizable as humanoid. Oily darkness coats every inch of visible skin, features blurred as if constantly melting and reforming.

Only his eyes retain any suggestion of his original self – and even these flicker between hollow emptiness and desperateawareness, as if the true Mordax fights for momentary control against the corruption that's claimed him.

Those eyes fix on me – not my bond mates, not Lysth, but directly on my displaced form that supposedly remains invisible to ordinary perception. The recognition in that gaze confirms that whatever state Mordax exists in now allows him to perceive beyond normal dimensional boundaries.

His face, what remains of it, stretches into what might charitably be called a smile.

"You've reached the end of your story, Sylph," he declares, voice grating like stone against metal. "May your 'Lord' never achieve such a grand rank without learning the root to becoming a Pureblood...is self-sacrifice."

Self…sacrifice?

The tentacles constrict with sudden, brutal force. Lysth's crystalline heart shatters within his chest, fragments exploding outward through his transparent form in a deadly constellation of corrupted shards. His expression shifts from triumphant to horrified in the milliseconds before his consciousness extinguishes.

With his final strength, Mordax lurches backward, arms still wrapped around Lysth's collapsing form. Together they topple over the platform's edge, bodies locked in a fatal embrace as they plummet toward the volcanic landscape below.

The counter beneath the timer adjusts immediately, the number seven reducing to five.

Five survivors, as the trial foretold.

The realization brings no comfort as I struggle to comprehend what I've witnessed. My own death –or some version of what could have happened– followed by Lysth's betrayal and subsequent destruction alongside Mordax.

Events moving so rapidly that processing them feels like trying to catch lightning in bare hands.

Yet beneath the confusion, certain truths crystallize with sudden clarity:

Someone manipulated this entire scenario – from the corrupted cloud that infected Mortimer to Lysth's secret allegiance to this mysterious "Lord." Nothing about this trial has been standard Academy procedure.

We've been pawns in a game whose rules remain obscure even as its conclusion approaches.

The timer pauses its inexorable countdown – five seconds remaining.

My bond mates remain frozen in shock, the pentagonal formation maintained by magical inertia rather than conscious effort. Whatever happens when that timer reaches zero, we face it in disarray rather than unified purpose.

The platform trembles beneath us, obsidian surface rippling as if suddenly liquefied. The vibrations intensify with each passing second, cracks appearing along edges that previously seemed impervious to damage.

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