Theron’s body was practically imprinted into the wall, but what Dean Thistle saw made him frown.
There was an enormous burn mark across Theron’s chest, forming a veiny pattern that looked quite grotesque. The skin was almost transparent and pulsing, but it was clear that it had also healed long ago.
Then Dean Thistle sneered. “Is this your method of trying to hide it? Pathetic.”
Dean Thistle stood for the first time.
“Burne. Deal with it.”
“With pleasure.”
Teacher Burne almost eagerly hopped from the corner. He had been waiting to deal with Theron all along.
“Do not kill him. Even if he is from Daggers of the Night, he can be useful.”
Burne froze, a flash of disappointment crossing his eyes. But he also didn’t dare to disobey.
Soon, he was in front of Theron, the latter still imprinted into the wall.
With a sneer, Burne raised a bony finger.
“How naive of you. This mark of Daggers of the Night is a Soul Imprint. Even if you burn away its outward facing appearance, the connection is still there. I just have to…”
Puchi.
Burne’s finger punched a hole through Theron’s collarbone.
A cry came from Theron’s lips, the roar of pain coming from the depths of his soul.
Burne almost didn’t want to admit just how much he enjoyed it. He had been tired of this child for a long time already. The Thistle name wasn’t something that could be besmirched by just anyone. Even the Imperial Clan would face their wrath for their mistakes.
But even worse than that minor slight, Theron dared to speak to his patriarch with such arrogance. This filled Burne with far more rage than anything else.
He had watched Patriarch Thistle grow every step of the way. The respect he had for him was deeply ingrained long ago, not just for his strength, but even more so for what he had done for a Thistle like him, born without their bloodline.
Who did this child think he was?
Theron’s cries became hoarse, a dark blood pooling down his chest as though it came from the depths of his heart.
The sneer on Burne’s lips started strong, but it soon froze, and then it became a frown.
“I’ve said not to kill him.”
The chilliness in the Patriarch’s voice made Burne shiver. He hurriedly pulled back his finger and Theron collapsed to the ground in a blood and sweat soaked heap.
“What is the problem?”
“Pa—Dean, he… he… I didn’t find anything.”
Dean Thistle’s eyes narrowed.
“He isn’t of Daggers of the Night?”
“… No…” Burne sounded unsure, but then he firmly shook his head. “No, there are no such soul ties on his body.”
“Is that so…” Dean Thistle looked toward Theron, seemingly not caring about his injured state. Instead, he seemed a bit… pleasantly surprised. Then he chuckled. “… It seems that I have wronged you a bit.”
Theron didn’t reply, but Dean Thistle didn’t seem to care either. His apology wasn’t very sincere in the first place.
If Burne felt so nonchalant about dealing with Theron, then how much more arrogant must the Patriarch of a Marquisette Clan be?
That was right… the real reason Burne kept having to correct himself wasn’t because he couldn’t expose the fact that Dean Thistle was the Patriarch of the Thistles. Everyone would already know that.
The real reason was that the Patriarch’s formal title was Marquis Rouge Thistle.
To choose to call him Patriarch over such a lofty title… what else was that if not disrespect directed toward the crown?
“Brand him.” Rouge commanded.
“Right away!”
Burne seemed to be excited again. Rolling Theron over, he slammed a palm onto his chest, seemingly not caring about the pools of blood.
Theron convulsed. But this time, he couldn’t scream even if he wanted to. His body was entirely locked out of his control.
This wasn’t the first time he experienced such a thing.
The last time was none other than during his initiation to Daggers of the Night.
Once again, he was being branded.
Theron collapsed to the floor, his body quivering.
“Feed him this, give him new robes, and give him his mission.”
Dean Thistle strolled out of his office, opening the door as though he didn’t care if anyone peeked inside.
What difference would it make when he could just kill them with a wave of his hand?
In an instant, he vanished.
…
Theron coughed. Lying in a pool of his own blood, he barely managed to sit up, strong medicinal effects raging through his body, and his injuries were quickly healing, but the humiliation likely never would.
His clothes had been stripped from his body, his soul had been poked and prodded at, his chest torn into… and in return he was given a perfunctory apology and a new soul brand.
“Clean yourself up. I do not have all day. The Dean’s office should also be spotless before you leave. You can’t expect to leave behind such a mess, right?”
Theron didn’t say a word, his jaw clenched and a coldness radiating from his eyes.
Half an hour later, everything but the hole in the wall was fixed.
“Huh, it seems that Water Mancers are good for something. Maybe I should have you clean my abode as well.”
Once more, Theron didn’t reply. His face was pale, but his new robes hung from his body just as pristinely as before.
“Ah, right. Your mission. As the Dean said, your performance with the Classes is worthless to him. This is not where real geniuses are made. It’s not too long until you’ll be at Silver Mancy’s door. You want the resources of the Thistles? Go catch three Mancy Beasts.”
“… A person can only fuse with one Echo at Silver Mancy.” Theron said.
“Who said they were for you?” Burne cackled.
…
Theron left with his jaw clenched and his eyes cold. But when he returned to his dorm room, what rage he seemed to have carried vanished into thin air.
He sat down in a calm meditation, his soul as unbothered as spring’s breeze.
It seemed that he would be going with Plan A. That was good. The risk of Plan B was too high even for his liking.