Chapter 58: Late to class

The blinding sphere of pure white flame roared with deafening intensity, the extreme heat instantly searing the air out of Atlas’s lungs.

Inside the molten vortex, Skull’s icy blue eye-flames flickered wildly, his skeletal frame turning red-hot as the construct’s bones began to splinter and crack under the sheer thermal pressure.

A sharp, tearing agony sliced straight through Atlas’s soul core as the feedback from Skull’s bond surged back to him.

’He’s going to melt.’

Atlas didn’t think. Driven by pure instinct, he lunged forward into the searing heat wave, his boots scorching against the baked earth.

He didn’t have enough shadow essence left to manifest a full blade, but he had something else — the raw, desperate intent to protect his summon.

He thrust his right hand into the outer edge of the flame pillar, channeling every remaining drop of his soul energy directly into the bond link.

"Skull, convert!" Atlas screamed, his voice hoarse. "Revert to core form, now!"

The skeletal hound let out one final, cracking soul-shriek before his body shattered into a dozen fragments of light, collapsing inward into a dim, fractured soul-gem that tumbled back into Atlas’s shadow.

The mental backlash hit Atlas like a sledgehammer, forcing a spit of dark blood from his lips as he dropped to his knees.

With Skull gone, the towering column of wild flame lost its primary target. The serpent-like fire head wheeled around in mid-air, its molten yellow eyes fixing onto Atlas.

The Chimera, now stripped of its obsidian armor and existing purely as a unstable, collapsing elemental force, surged forward for a final, suicidal strike.

It opened its jaw, preparing to swallow Atlas whole.

Atlas stared up at the oncoming wall of fire. He had no energy left to dodge, no shadow chains to bind it, and no shield to block.

But as the monster lunged, its head stretched forward, exposing the raw, swirling heart of its elemental core right at the junction of its neck.

One shot.

Atlas gritted his teeth against the blistering heat that scorched his skin.

Dropping his wooden training sword, he reached into his waist pouch and pulled out a jagged, dense shard of high-density soul-stone — the last heavy catalyst he had stored.

He didn’t swing a blade. He drove his whole body weight forward, diving beneath the roaring jaw as it snapped down above him.

Passing right under the monster’s chin, Atlas jammed the jagged soul-stone straight into the dense, exposed core cluster at the beast’s neck.

"Siphon... overload!" he roared.

The raw, destabilized soul-stone acted like a sponge thrown into a raging furnace.

It absorbed the compressed elemental mana too quickly, causing the Chimera’s neck core to instantly swell, turn a blinding purple, and fracture.

A silent, concussive wave of dark force erupted from the neck joint.

The Chimera’s flaming body froze mid-air as deep, dark fissures spider-webbed across its entire form.

The beast let out a low, muffled rumble before its body exploded outward in a harmless shower of dying, golden embers.

Atlas hit the hard dirt, the force of the blast rolling him over three times before he came to a stop against the stone ridge.

His vision blurred, the dark sky of the simulated domain spinning above him as the sensation of his soul core collapsing into deep exhaustion pulled his consciousness down into total blackness.

Atlas snapped his eyes open, gasping for air as his body jerked violently against his bedsheets.

The familiar wooden beams of Room 150 settled into view, illuminated by the soft, gray light of the early morning sun filtering through the dormitory window.

A suffocating heat clung to his body; his tunic was completely soaked with sweat, sticking to his chest, and his skin radiated a heavy, unnatural fever.

His chest heaved as he sat up, rubbing his burning eyes.

Deep inside his chest, his soul core felt hollow and bruised — the lingering mark of Skull’s severe injury and the massive energy drain from the trial.

"Whoa, easy there," a voice called out.

Atlas turned his head slowly to see Eric standing near the central table, holding a stack of textbooks.

Derrick was leaning against his wardrobe, a half-eaten apple in hand, looking at Atlas with deep concern.

"You’re drenched, man," Derrick said, stepping closer and frowning as he looked at Atlas’s flushed face. "You’ve been tossing and turning all night, groaning like you were fighting a war in your sleep."

Eric walked over, setting his books down and extending a hand to press his palm against Atlas’s forehead.

He drew his hand back instantly with a sharp recoil. "You’re burning up, Atlas. Your skin is like an oven."

"I’m fine..." Atlas muttered, his voice raspy as he swung his legs off the bed.

His knees felt slightly weak when his feet hit the cold floor, but he forced himself to stand upright. "Just... running a bit of a temperature. A quick wash will fix it."

"This has been happening for three days straight," Eric pointed out, his tone serious as he adjusted his glasses.

"You come back from training exhausted, and by morning you look like you’ve been run over by an armored carriage. If it’s a mana-backlash or a fever from soul-strain, you can’t just brush it off."

"Eric’s right," Derrick chimed in, tossing his apple core into a small bin.

"The mid-term evaluation trials are coming up. If your core gets damaged because you’re hiding a fever, you’ll be benched for the whole semester. You need to see the campus medical staff later today."

Atlas looked at his two roommates, seeing the genuine worry in their eyes.

He couldn’t tell them about the Soul Forge, nor could he explain that his fever was the physical manifestation of fighting a second-tier beast king in an artificial domain.

"All right," Atlas compromised, giving them a small, reassuring nod as he pulled a fresh uniform from his chest. "I’ll drop by the infirmary after classes today. Promise."

Derrick let out a breath. "Good. Now hurry up and change. Look at the clock."

Atlas glanced up at the brass wall clock ticking near the door. His eyes widened.

It was ten minutes to eight.

"Shoot," Atlas cursed under his breath, grabbing his towel and throwing off his damp tunic. "Mr. Crosswell’s tactical theory class starts at eight sharp!"

"We tried to wake you up twenty minutes ago!" Derrick yelled as he grabbed his coat. "If you’re late again, he’s going to make you scrub the sub-level armory with a toothbrush!"

Atlas didn’t wait to reply. He splashed cold water over his face at the basin, pulled on his clean academy uniform in a blur of frantic motion, and laced his boots up tightly.

Without even stopping to grab a breakfast roll from the table, he snatched his satchel and burst out the dormitory door.

The courtyard was already bustling with students making their way to the academic halls. Atlas sprinted past them, his boots thumping rhythmically against the cobblestone path.

He pushed his exhausted body to move faster, ignoring the dull ache in his thighs and the lingering heat in his veins.

He cut through the central garden, leaped over a low stone retaining wall, and rounded the corner of the main lecture hall just as the central bell tower began its first deep chime.

Atlas skidded around the final archway, his chest heaving as he reached the wide oak doors of the tactical strategy hall just as the second chime sounded.

Standing at the doorway, a heavy leather-bound lesson ledger tucked under his arm, was Mr. Crosswell.

The instructor paused, turning his sharp, dark eyes toward Atlas. He watched the young student come to a halt, hands resting on his knees as he caught his breath, sweat glistening on his forehead.

The heavy silence stretched for a moment as the final bell chime faded into the morning air.

A slight, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of Mr. Crosswell’s mouth. He stepped forward and laid a broad, heavy hand on Atlas’s shoulder, giving it a firm, solid squeeze.

"You managed to reach on time today," Mr. Crosswell noted, his tone calm and approving. "That’s good. Come in."