FROST-Chapter 134: More Than a Grandmaster

Two sorcerers in pristine white cloaks shimmered into existence beside East, as if summoned by thought alone. Their presence was quiet but absolute, like moonlight slipping through fog.

Without needing to be told twice, they raised their staves, muttering incantations in low, synchronized tones. Threads of light snaked from the tips of their staves and spiraled into the air, swirling into a circular portal that pulsed and hummed like a heartbeat.

The portal stretched wide, revealing a swirling glimpse of the towering arches and crystalline spires of Moonstone Academy. The passage was stable—ready.

East, however, did not move. He remained stationed like an anchor, eyes fixed on Astra and Cyrus, both now on their feet and seemingly ready to move. The healing was complete.

But something was off.

As the black cloaks peeled away from the two, East’s gaze sharpened. For the first time, he saw their faces—no, Cyrus’s face. Clean, calm, youthful... unmistakably human.

Cyrus was manaless. Just like Astra. Just like that other cloaked man who had fled with the elf earlier.

His injuries, severe as they were moments ago, had vanished like smoke. Too fast. Even for magical regeneration.

East’s thoughts sharpened like a blade. Alchemical magic? Was it Astra? Did she forge them into this? Into something else?

A voice cut through his thoughts.

"East..."

He blinked, turning. "Huh?"

Ezekiel was watching him with a look East rarely saw on him—genuine concern. His brows were furrowed, and his voice came quietly.

"Will you be fine?"

East let out a sharp snort, flipping a strand of golden hair with all the arrogance of a proud peacock.

"How dare you look lowly at me," he said, puffing his chest. "I am your Grandmaster. And the Autumn Guardian. Not to brag and call me master."

Ezekiel rolled his eyes hard enough to sprain a socket. "Okay, duh. But how about West and the others? They’re facing two enemies and you’re just... loitering here. I’d rather go help them."

East shrugged nonchalantly. "Ah, he’s with Sebastian and the strong ones. They’ll be fine. But sure, if you’re itching to throw some punches and burn your hair again, go right ahead—"

"Me too, Grandmaster!!"

A voice shrieked from the side like a cat lunging into battle.

Elrond suddenly dove into the frame like a badly timed stage cue, nearly tripping over his own feet as he inserted himself dramatically between the two.

East blinked, face blank. "Did something just meow?"

"Meh." Ezekiel looked away with a straight face. "I didn’t hear anything."

"I think a squirrel ran past," East mused, examining his nails.

Elrond’s jaw dropped. "I am literally right here—!"

"Wind?" East offered with a casual shrug.

"Probably," Ezekiel nodded solemnly.

Elrond gave an exaggerated gasp, clutching his imaginary pearls. "You—you—traitors!"

"Was that the leaves rustling?" East turned to the white-cloaked sorcerers, ignoring Elrond entirely as if he hadn’t heard a thing.

The crisp edges of his autumn-colored hair fluttered slightly in the residual breeze, giving him an almost ethereal glow under the hovering portal light. "How’s the portal?" he asked, gaze locked on the swirling gate of pale blue that shimmered like moonlit water. One by one, the apprentices stepped inside with disciplined calm.

One of the sorcerers held back a grin, bowing slightly. "Stable, Your Highness."

"Good." East’s tone was clipped, proud. "Don’t let it fluctuate, not even for a blink—especially not with her," he nodded faintly toward Astra, whose expression remained unreadable. "If she bolts, I’m so done with my brothers."

Behind him, Elrond flailed dramatically. "Hello? Grandmaster Your Highness sir?" He waved a hand in front of East’s face. No reaction.

Elrond’s eye twitched. "Okay then."

And with the exaggerated expression of a betrayed child, he smirked with villainous intent, whispered, "You asked for it," then summoned the one thing no self-respecting dignified apprentice should ever face without a thousand-mile head start: insect magic.

A soft buzzing crescendoed.

In an instant, a cloud of tiny translucent beetles, glittering like gemstones, burst from Elrond’s sleeves and swarmed toward East’s cloak.

East blinked.

His smile fell.

"You wouldn’t—"

"Oh, but I did."

"STAAWWPPP!" East shrieked like a banshee, cloak flying, dignity forgotten. A sharp flash of light cracked through the air as he vanished in a teleportation spell so violent it echoed like thunder.

Miles away, his echo still rang:

"I TOLD YOU NOT THE BUGS—!"

The two white-cloaked sorcerers stared in stunned silence. One finally muttered, "Did the prince just... scream?"

Ezekiel facepalmed. "Every time. Very dramatic."

Elrond looked smug, arms crossed, surrounded by twinkling bugs like a self-proclaimed war hero in glittery armor. "Respectfully asserting my presence."

A distant scream echoed again—clear, furious, and unmistakably East.

"FINE! GO WITH EZEKIEL AND YOU ALSO HAVE THE OPTION NOT TO COME BACK ALIVE!!"

The sound bounced off the trees, scattering birds from the treetops. Even the portal flickered in brief concern.

Astra and Cyrus, still seated at the base of a crooked pillar, blinked at the direction of the voice.

In their defense, they were still internally healing.

East’s earlier attack hadn’t just sent them both flying like ragdolls in a wind tunnel—it had snapped through the hidden veins of alchemical magic embedded in their muscles. It was as if every inch of them had been rewired incorrectly and was now slowly, painfully reverting to default.

Cyrus let out a grunt, twisting his upper body as a wet crunch snapped his misaligned shoulder blades back into place. "He’s really that sharp, ah..."

Astra winced, her fingers twitching slightly as she rotated her wrist. A faint pulse of alchemical light fizzed out from her palm, the last remnants of a fractured magic line desperately trying to reconnect. Her wrist popped back into place with a dull crack. She exhaled sharply.

"No doubt," she murmured, her voice low, threaded with something closer to reverence than fear. "That’s the former vessel of the demon king... Asmaros."

Cyrus shifted beside her, still adjusting his shoulder with a grimace. His breathing had steadied, but his hands trembled slightly from the aftershock of East’s blow. "So," he said carefully, eyeing the retreating portal and the disappearing apprentices, "we’re just letting them escape?"

Astra gave a short, dry laugh—not one born of amusement, but resignation. Her lips curled into a thin, bitter smile. "No, Cyrus. We’re not letting them escape."

She turned her eyes to the treeline where East had vanished in front of Elrond, where that storm of ancient power still seemed to shimmer in the air like a crackling echo. Her gaze sharpened.

"He’s letting us live."

Cyrus frowned, his brows drawing together. "But the intel—"

"Was wrong obviously," Astra snapped quietly, not in anger, but in frustration. "Our informants said they usually send the apprentices who are tied to link magic but look at what we have now. We’re lucky those apprentices aren’t trained much for something like this yet."

She shook her head slowly, her gaze fixed on the portal where its edge shimmered—tight, controlled, barely suppressing the energy needed to tear space open. "They didn’t even say a Guardian himself would step into something like this," she murmured, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Not a word. As if the mere idea was impossible."

Astra and Cyrus fell into silence as they watched the final apprentices vanish into the swirling light, followed by the two white-cloaked sorcerers. The portal pulsed one last time as it thinned, signaling its stability and near-completion. Only three figures now remained at the far side of the glade—still distant, but visible.

Ezekiel.

Elrond.

And East.

"Are you really sure about this, Master?" Ezekiel called out, eyeing East from across the clearing. His voice had that distinct I-will-regret-this edge to it. One hand hovered behind Elrond’s back, not quite pushing—but definitely thinking about it.

Elrond stood proudly like a war general after winning a staring contest with a mirror. Arms crossed, chin up, expression smug enough to make statues blink in secondhand embarrassment. A soft halo of glittering insect familiars buzzed around him like an entourage that couldn’t be fired. His cloak was slightly scorched, his boots mud-stained, but not even divine intervention could wipe the grin off his face.

East, still yards away, didn’t turn. His autumn-colored hair fluttered dramatically in the wind like it had its own stage presence. He raised a hand half-heartedly, the universal gesture for "I’m five seconds from losing patience."

"You can trace Sebastian and West, can’t you?" East called, his tone the perfect blend of boredom and authority. "Then teleport directly to them."

He jabbed a finger vaguely in Elrond’s direction without so much as a glance. "And take that thing with you."

Elrond gasped as if personally betrayed by fate. "That thing?! Excuse you, I am a highly valued—"

"Exactly," East muttered. "That’s why I’m standing over here."

Ezekiel pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering like a tired babysitter. "This is exactly why he screams when you let the bugs out."

Elrond grinned with all the menace of a raccoon in a pantry. "Which is exactly why I do it."

One of his glitterbugs did a loop-de-loop around Ezekiel’s face. Ezekiel responded by finally shoving Elrond toward the portal—not gently.

"Move it, Lord of the Glitter Flies." frёeweɓηovel_coɱ

"I prefer ’Bug Monarch!’" Elrond declared, straightening his cloak mid-trip.

The portal shimmered ominously.

"I prefer silence!" East yelled after them, massaging his temple. "But look where that’s gotten me."

Still, as the chaos faded and the last two disappeared into the light, East’s smirk melted, his shoulders squaring. The laughter left with them.

Still, as the chaos faded and the last two disappeared into the light, East’s smirk melted. His frame shifted subtly—shoulders squared, head lowering a fraction, like a blade easing from its sheath. The laughter that had once carried on the wind evaporated, leaving behind only the slow, suffocating stillness of pressure building in the air.

Across the field, Astra and Cyrus both froze as East slowly turned his shoulders toward them. The autumn glow in his hair deepened, flaring with ethereal light like leaves burning from the inside out. His amber eyes caught the fading gleam of the portal, then shifted—directly, unflinchingly—toward them.

They glowed.

Faintly at first, then brighter. Burning. Like something ancient had just woken inside him.

A chill crawled down Astra’s spine, her mouth parting slightly. "Cyrus, watch out—"

But her warning was swallowed by the thundercrack of impact.

Cyrus vanished from beside her in an instant. His body hurled backward—not by hand, not by spell, but by pure force. His breath left him in a grunt as he slammed into a wide stone boulder behind them. The rock groaned, splintered, and spiderwebbed beneath the crushing pressure that now pinned him against it.

But East had only appeared to where Cyrus had stood before he plummeted. He didn’t even have to do anything.

Whatever force had launched Cyrus hadn’t come from a spell, a gesture, or an incantation. It radiated from East himself—like magic bent in his favor out of fear or reverence.

Cyrus strained, arms trembling as he tried to push himself off the boulder. But his limbs twitched against an invisible weight. The pressure was constant, coiling around his ribs like bands of iron. He couldn’t even speak.

Astra’s breath hitched in her throat. Her legs stumbled a step back, her hand twitching instinctively toward her belt, where her alchemy vials were tucked—But her fingers wouldn’t move.

Her pupils quivered.

She was staring directly into those burning amber eyes, and her thoughts were coming apart at the seams. Her legs wanted to run, her arms wanted to cast, her instincts screamed to react—but none of her training could override the overwhelming, soul-chilling pressure of standing in the gaze of a Guardian who had decided to take them seriously.

This wasn’t just power.

This was sovereignty.

It was the realization that East—charming, dramatic, infuriating East—had been holding himself back the entire time.

Astra’s throat tightened. Her mind rushed for formulas, for counter-measures, for anything—but the threads of alchemical logic unraveled in her brain like torn lace. She had nothing. She could do nothing.

East finally looked at her.

Not a scowl. Not a frown.

Just an innocent smile.

"Now," he said, voice smooth as butter, "how will you keep a Season Guardian entertained?"

The breeze carried no warmth. Only falling leaves—sharp, silent, spinning like the edge of a blade.

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