Return of the Runebound Professor Chapter 893: Believe It

Yoru found it amusing. And this very amusement was immensely satisfying. There were still many emotions she was working to understand, a great many that remained largely foreign to her. Since leaving the Damned Plains and joining forces with Noah and his students, she had acquired a wealth of knowledge far exceeding her initial expectations from them all. From what she could discern, amusement—at least in its purest form—seemed to flourish with surprise. It was considerably more difficult to derive pleasure from an event when its occurrence had been foreseen.

And Moonlit Prophecy had never allowed anything to catch her off guard.

Yoru discovered she rather enjoyed amusement. She had experienced faint glimmers of it before, like the smug superiority that accompanied knowing she had already won a battle before it even commenced, but that was a far more subdued sensation. It wouldn't be inaccurate to say it was an entirely different feeling from this one.

However, as far as Yoru was concerned, amusement was a luxury.

It wasn't an emotion she could frequently indulge in.

Even with her newfound self-control, there was a limit to the latitude she could permit. The necessity to orchestrate every minute detail of the lives around her had vanished. But certain elements still required precise arrangement. A few individuals had to be in specific locations, and a handful of strategically placed remarks needed to be uttered.

Noah possessed considerable power, his cultivation advancing at an alarming pace in all the wrong directions. The remainder of the group were strong in their own capacities, some significantly more so now than merely a few months prior. Yet, if there was one singular truth Yoru had truly internalized from Moonlit Prophecy's dominion over her, it was this simple fact:

Power was conditional.

The most formidable mage in all of Arbalest would be nothing more than an above-average combatant in Obsidia. Even a gathering of mages like Noah's students would be utterly vulnerable if the Factions of Obsidia managed to isolate and dismantle them. Individuals were perpetually striving for dominance, like flames seeking to expand, and the most fertile fuel was the latent potential of those yet to fully realize their strength. Yoru could not permit such a scenario to unfold.

If she had to incinerate a few pieces of that firewood herself to achieve her objective… then that was a sacrifice she was more than prepared to make.

However, this did not necessitate her controlling every facet of existence. Currently, there were only three certainties she held. The first was Zeth's remarkable competence. The False Herald—as the Truthseekers referred to him—would undoubtedly complete his mission. The Prophet currently wished to avoid drawing undue attention to herself. She could not simply obliterate him on the spot. There was even a reasonably high probability that Zeth would survive. Yoru hadn't scrutinized the ultimate outcomes of that particular engagement too closely. But, as she departed, she caught just enough of a glimpse of the unfolding scene to elicit a smile.

Yoru navigated through the throng. Noah's song had already permeated a substantial portion of the hall. Individuals all around her were already discussing it, most incredulous at the sheer foolishness and audacity required to draw such significant attention to oneself.

“Some fool is merely showing off, hoping one of the Faction Heads will select him,” a voice from the crowd to Yoru's left remarked. “He’s just hoping to be chosen as a performing puppet. Ignore that idiot. It’s not worth your time. What I want to know—”

“Are you joking?” Another voice interjected from beside the first speaker. “Did you not sense the power within that Formation? That fellow might be ostentatious, but there's no way he was vying for some comfortable position. He's trying to attract the notice of someone powerful. He might actually possess the strength to demand it.”

“What, you believe that’s a Rank 7?” the first individual scoffed. Several other mages nearby were also listening intently to the exchange.

Yoru subtly altered her path to pass by them as their conversation continued.

“Absolutely not,” the second man countered. “But he could be a high Rank 6. Don’t pretend that Formation lacked substance. I didn’t need my Domain to perceive its intricate construction. He's a Formation Master, no doubt. But I don't even think that's the crucial point. You're focusing on the wrong aspect. The real question isn't merely his strength, but his ultimate objective. Why would anyone deliberately invite that level of scrutiny?”

“Perhaps he's just an idiot,” a bystander offered. “Strength doesn't always correlate with intelligence. Some might believe any form of attention is beneficial. He might even be correct in that assumption.”

“That is a possibility,” Yoru commented as she approached the group of mages. “But I recognize the attire he's wearing. The black mask… yes. There's no uncertainty. That's Spider. This isn't the first time he's orchestrated something of this nature. I'm quite confident that was the same individual responsible for the demise of the Sky Dragons.”

“Wait a moment,” the first man interjected, his eyes widening infinitesimally. “I believe I recognize that name. Isn’t he the individual who vanquished the accursed Strifeclaw?”

“Damn,” another mage swore, casting apprehensive glances around as if anticipating Spider’s imminent appearance. “You’re absolutely correct. I’ve heard tales of that cultivator. He was a menace, wreaking havoc across the local lands on his ascent to the tournament. Rumor has it he obliterated an entire town that dared to defy his decrees. Gods, I heard he accomplished half those atrocities in a single day. Can it truly be him?”

Concealed behind her mask, Yoru’s smile broadened. It appeared her burgeoning legend was already outpacing her. She subtly rejoined the throng, leaving the mages to their hushed discussions. Their whispers, like insidious tendrils, began to insinuate themselves into the conversations of countless cultivators nearby. It would not be long before Spider’s narrative mutated so drastically that its original form would be nearly unrecognizable. By night’s end, scarcely a sliver of truth would remain within the entire account.

Yet, this outcome was perfectly acceptable.

For such is the very crucible in which legends are forged.

***

Noah navigated the dense assembly, his pace hurried yet carefully controlled to avoid undue attention. In hindsight, attracting notice had become somewhat inevitable. He had already garnered perhaps the maximum amount possible. His last recollection placed at least five or six mages in close proximity by the time he had dismounted the elevated platform.

The inability to access his domain was a source of considerable irritation. He had no awareness of their current locations, creating a distinct possibility of inadvertently approaching one of them. If Noah were to be entirely candid, he wasn't even certain of his own motivation for attempting an escape. There had been no explicit prohibition against playing music or perching atop tables.

“You there,” a voice commanded, emerging from the crowd to block his path. “Hold on for a moment. Have—”

Noah pivoted, deftly sidestepping a mage laden with sustenance from the dining hall, and plunged back into the sea of people before his interdictor could articulate their pitch. The prospect of being ensnared in a situation akin to a magical timeshare presentation struck him as profoundly more dreadful than imminent demise.

There was an unshakeable certainty regarding his ultimate fate. It would arrive irrespective of his evasions, and it certainly wouldn't be accompanied by subpar pastries or an illusory voucher for a journey that could never be undertaken.

His sole recourse was to persist in his movement, harboring the hope that his pursuers would eventually succumb to ennui. However, his vexation was not absolute. Beneath the surface of his annoyance, a subtle grin played upon his features. Regardless of subsequent events… he had achieved his objective.

***

The Masquerade event was in full, dazzling splendor.

Attendees circulated, drifting between various clusters, seeking any potential advantage for the upcoming tournament, while formidable cultivators tasked with recruitment for their respective Sects diligently searched for their chosen prospects. Nearly every individual was in a state of active engagement.

Yet, positioned discreetly at the periphery of a modest table, recessed sufficiently within the crowd to avoid undue notice by leaning against a wall, stood a single mage who remained utterly motionless. Their visage was obscured by an owl-themed mask, and a luxuriant white cape cascaded around their shoulders. The cowl had been drawn forward, shrouding their head and hair, casting the mask itself into profound, mystical shadow.

The mages positioned adjacent to them were fully engrossed in animated discourse.

And despite the owl-masked cultivator’s utter silence, they absorbed the content of the others’ conversation with remarkable attentiveness.

“You harbor disbelief, do you not?” one of the mages within the assembly inquired. “It strains credulity that any individual would court such intense scrutiny. It’s akin to conspicuously advertising one’s vulnerability!”

“No, it is verifiably true,” another asserted, vehemently shaking her head. “I overheard it directly. While I did not witness it myself, even a fleeting moment of its presence was sufficient. There was indeed a practitioner orchestrating a substantial Formation directly amidst the masquerade’s revelry. They are surely destined for severe repercussions.”

“Will they be? Transgressing against the rules by merely being a disruption is not explicitly forbidden. If anything… that might constitute the very objective,” a male cultivator mused aloud. “Perhaps I shall adopt a similar tactic. Does anyone wish to engage in a minor skirmish with me?”

No one offered a response.

The man emitted a sigh of displeasure. “Uninspired. I anticipate your utter defeat before our paths cross in the arena. Not a single spark of vitality resides within any of you. You merely congregate, chattering about unsubstantiated rumors. It seems the individual associated with the violin was at least prepared to step forward and exhibit their abilities. The fundamental purpose of our presence here is recruitment. No one seeks a timid, withdrawn individual. And should they desire one… it is only to serve as sustenance for a predator.”

He pivoted sharply and strode away. However, after merely a few paces, he halted his progress. He turned back towards the remaining group and deliberately cleared his throat.

“Uh… by any chance, what was the name you mentioned for that individual?”

It was only at this juncture that the mage adorned with the owl mask exhibited any discernible movement.

“Spider,” she declared, her voice undeniably feminine, carrying an unusual inflection that the others in the group failed to pinpoint. Had they been pressed, they might have described it as a blend of relief, yearning, and faintly disbelieving mirth. “That is his name. Spider.”

With that, she vanished, melting into the throng before any of the assembled mages could even register her departure.