The Extra's Rise-Chapter 153: Prelude to Tower of Magic Conference (1)

As the End of Year festival loomed closer, the atmosphere in Mythos Academy shifted. The air buzzed with anticipation, students scurrying about like particularly stressed-out ants preparing for winter. The curriculum lightened considerably, leaving us time to focus on three major things: the upcoming festival, the written exams, and our end-of-year projects.

For me, the latter was a matter already resolved.

The Lich.

The culmination of months of effort, planning, and a few near-death experiences—both figuratively and otherwise. It was done, complete, and, if I dared say, a masterpiece. There wasn’t much left but to hand it in, so I decided to get it out of the way.

Professor Gravemore’s office was tucked into a quiet corner of the necromancy wing. Gravemore himself was hunched over his desk, pen in hand, writing notes on what appeared to be a disturbingly animated diagram of a corpse.

"Arthur," he greeted me without looking up, his deep voice carrying the sort of warmth one might reserve for an exceptionally promising science experiment. "You’re here to submit, I assume?"

"Yes, Professor," I said, stepping forward and holding out the neatly bound file. It contained every detail about the Lich’s creation process—well, almost every detail. Some secrets, especially the ones tied to the Basilisk Heart, were better kept buried.

Gravemore finally looked up, his dark eyes twinkling with something between pride and incredulity. "Alright then," he said with a chuckle, flipping through the file. "A+. Done."

I blinked. "You’re not even going to check it?"

Gravemore leaned back in his chair, waving a hand dismissively. "Arthur, please. Check what? That Lich of yours could qualify as a final project for a sixth-year student. A+ is a foregone conclusion."

I didn’t know whether to feel flattered or slightly concerned. I chose the former. "Thank you, Professor."

"Don’t thank me," he said, waving it off. "Thank yourself. And that unnatural knack you have for turning necromancy into an art form."

He closed the file with a decisive snap and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. His gaze sharpened, and I felt the shift in the room’s atmosphere.

"But," he said, "there’s something else I wanted to discuss with you."

I straightened up instinctively. "What is it, Professor?"

"The Tower of Magic Conference," he said, his voice carrying the weight of importance. "Have you heard of it?"

I frowned, the name ringing a faint bell. "I think so. Isn’t that the event where research papers are presented?"

"Exactly," Gravemore said, his expression lighting up. "It’s the largest academic symposium in the magical world. Students from every major institution are selected to submit papers. Research, innovation, groundbreaking theories—it all happens there."

I tilted my head, curiosity piqued. "Why are you bringing this up?"

"Because," Gravemore said, his tone turning conspiratorial, "I want you to participate. Specifically, I want you to submit a paper on your Lich creation process."

I stared at him. "You mean… reveal my methods?"

"Not all of them," he said quickly, leaning back again. "Obviously, there are parts of your work that are unreplicable—like the Basilisk Heart. But some elements, Arthur… Some elements are pure brilliance. The way you harmonized the Soul aspect with the Body and Mind. The subtle alterations you made to the mana programming. Those are innovations worth sharing."

I hesitated. The thought of putting my research out there, exposing it to the scrutiny of experts, was both thrilling and daunting. "What’s the benefit?"

Gravemore grinned. "Money, for one. You’d receive a stipend if your paper is accepted, and if it’s particularly well-received, grants could follow. Then there’s recognition—your name would be known in every major magical institution. And lastly, it’s a challenge. A chance to refine your work, to present it to the world and say, ’Look what I’ve done.’"

I rubbed the back of my neck. "I’d have to be careful about what I reveal."

"Of course," Gravemore said, nodding. "We’ll review the paper together before you submit it. But Arthur, you’ve achieved something extraordinary. It’s worth sharing—at least in part."

I exhaled, the weight of the decision settling on my shoulders. "Alright," I said finally. "I’ll do it."

Gravemore’s grin widened. "Excellent. I knew you’d say yes. Now, get to work. Write that paper and bring it to me for review before the deadline."

"Yes, Professor," I said, already planning how to approach the task.

As I turned to leave, Gravemore’s voice stopped me.

"Oh, and Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"Don’t hold back," he said, his tone serious. "The world doesn’t need another half-measure. Show them what you’re capable of."

I nodded, a slow grin spreading across my face. "I will."

The Tower of Magic, an institution nearly synonymous with excellence, sat comfortably in its position as number two in the world when it came to overall spellcasting and magical innovation, second only to the Creighton family. When it came to necromancy, they occupied a similar position of near-supremacy, shadowed only by the Ebony Tower of the Western Continent.

The Tower of Magic Conference wasn’t just an annual event—it was the event. Held every year in Avalon, the heart of the Slatemark Empire, it was where the most brilliant magical minds gathered to showcase their latest discoveries, theories, and groundbreaking innovations. For younger, less seasoned participants, the junior section offered an invaluable opportunity: a chance to present research, compete for grants, and gain a foothold in the wider world of magical academia. For someone like me, it was the perfect stage.

"So," Cecilia began, her lips curling into an all-too-familiar mischievous smile, "you’re going to present at the Tower of Magic?"

I glanced up from the notebook where I was jotting down preliminary ideas for my research paper. She was leaning against the doorframe of the lounge, her crimson eyes alight with curiosity and something else—a spark of amusement, perhaps?

"Yeah," I said with a nod, "though I still need to prepare a paper. Professor Gravemore has to approve it first before I can proceed."

"Interesting, interesting," Cecilia mused, her head tilting ever so slightly, that glint in her eyes growing brighter. "I look forward to it."

There was a certain inflection in her voice that put me on edge. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was planning something, though what, I couldn’t say. Cecilia Slatemark had a way of operating on her own wavelength, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to tune in.

I let it slide for now and focused on my work. The truth was, the money wasn’t a driving factor for me. I had plenty of that already, courtesy of my carefully orchestrated deals and investments. What mattered more was the opportunity—the chance to get noticed by the Tower of Magic itself.

If I managed to defeat Lucifer in the Sovereign’s Tournament, the ripples would spread far and wide. Speculation would bloom among the superpowers of the world, particularly those aware of the prophecy. They’d question whether I, not Lucifer, was the Second Hero foretold. It was a prospect that both excited and unnerved me. Victory would bring recognition, yes, but it would also paint a target on my back—one that the Five Cults would be all too eager to aim at.

The Tower of Magic was no simple ally to court, but even a tenuous connection to them could prove invaluable. For now, it would be a seed planted, one that might grow into something greater in the future.

And, if I were being honest, the whole thing just seemed... fun.

Research, writing a paper, presenting it—it scratched a part of my brain that enjoyed solving puzzles and unraveling mysteries. Yet even as I delved into the details of my Lich’s creation, a nagging thought pulled at me.

There was something missing.

I had the materials, the method, and the results, but the process itself was hazy. There was a moment, a pivotal moment, when everything had shifted. I knew I’d been enticed by the Basilisk Heart’s consciousness, lured into a dreamscape of absolute power. But after that? Nothing. A blank space in my memory, like a page torn from a book. Even Luna, with all her insight, had no answers.

The frustration simmered as I worked late into the night. Finally, unable to resist the urge any longer, I decided to go straight to the source.

Returning to my room, I summoned Erebus.

The air in front of me tore like fragile fabric, a small rift opening into a dark void. Erebus emerged from it, his skeletal frame both terrifying and awe-inspiring. Even in his suppressed state, the sheer weight of his presence—a manifestation of death itself—pressed against me, a reminder of the raw power he held.

He knelt before me, his hollow eyes glowing faintly. "You summoned me, Master?" His voice was a low, resonant hum, like a distant echo in a cavern.

I steadied myself, the sensation of his presence still something I was getting used to. "Erebus, I have a question. When I was assembling you—when I was enticed by the Basilisk Heart—do you remember what happened?"

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For a moment, Erebus was silent. Then, he spoke, his words slow and deliberate. "My memory of that time is blank."

I frowned, my frustration mounting. "Blank? You don’t remember anything at all?"

"Nothing clear," Erebus admitted. "But... there is one thing."

I leaned forward, my pulse quickening. "What is it?"

Erebus lifted his head, his glowing eyes narrowing. "All I remember... is seeing a skull split in two."

The words landed like a hammer blow, sending a shiver down my spine. A skull split in two. The image was vivid, visceral, and it left me with more questions than answers.

Luna’s voice echoed in my mind, uncharacteristically quiet. ’A skull split in two... What does it mean, Arthur?’

"I don’t know," I murmured, my thoughts racing. The memory—or whatever fragment of it Erebus retained—felt significant, but its meaning eluded me.