Chapter 70: Preparations Of A Lifetime
[The Child of Consumption’s Favorability: -5/100 Favorability]
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The moment the status notification appeared, Akasha froze, one brow arched in disbelief.
"Negative five?" he muttered, baffled. He could understand if someone had a low favorability score, or even none at all, but this... this person had somehow plummeted below the lowest possible number.
"Death... you must die," Akasha continued, his voice carrying a strange mix of certainty and disbelief.
Tyron’s existence up until now had been different—his favorability had never been at rock bottom.
But this Child of Consumption... to have a negative favorability score was downright insane.
Akasha let out a long, tired sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose as the last remnants of battle‑pressure faded from the cavern.
The chains crumbled away, and the shattered space knit itself whole once more.
The oppressive weight of the Horror’s presence faded, retreating into the dark emptiness from which it came.
Only then did he finally turn, scanning the surroundings in search of Melvin.
He found him descending slowly from the air, his body trembling, his face pale, his breath uneven.
The Dreamers Mask softened reality, but even through its haze, Melvin’s condition was unmistakable.
The void backlash had hit him hard.
Akasha rubbed the back of his head, a faint grimace tugging at his mouth.
"I guess... I shouldn’t be so careless next time," he muttered under his breath, watching Melvin struggle to steady himself.
"That was too much for him."
Even though he knew Melvin was still in the Cavern—caught up in battle and plotting moves—it was hard not to let him slip from his mind when Akasha was fixated on figuring out how to one-shot the Ancestor.
Melvin touched down unsteadily, his boots meeting the blood‑streaked stone with a faint tap.
His eyes were wide—not in fear, but with a muddle of emotions: awe, horror, gratitude, and confusion, all woven together in a way that made his expression nearly impossible to read.
He looked at Akasha the way someone looks at a storm they survived only because the storm allowed it.
Akasha stepped toward him, voice low, steady.
"Now that your lesson’s over... it’s time we start building our strength," he said, his voice steady, each word measured, each syllable landing with intent.
"Because the next time the world lays eyes on us..."
He let the words hang in the air, the quiet between them growing heavier by the second. "
...it won’t just be a handful of factions."
Akasha had no intention of peering into Melvin’s mind just yet, unsure whether he had genuinely understood the lesson or was simply mesmerized by the spectacle of the battle and the show of strength.
This wasn’t, of course, about flaunting his own power—far from it.
As he had explained, the purpose was to demonstrate that a person could take care of their own problems with their own hands.
And just as importantly, it was a reminder not to toy with one’s targets, ensuring that every move was precise, efficient, and lethal.
Melvin swallowed hard, the sound faint in the cavern’s stillness.
His gaze flicked to the fallen Ancestor, then back to Akasha.
The conflict in his eyes deepened—fear of what he’d witnessed, awe at Akasha’s strength, and a quiet, desperate hope that he could rise high enough to stand against his own problems.
’Loria... Prince Loria, you will die!’ he vowed inwardly, but outwardly, he remained silent.
He stayed silent, but there was no need for words—Akasha already understood.
Without another glance, Akasha turned away, making a single, fluid motion through the air with his hand.
Divine Rings lifted from the corpses scattered across the cavern— drifting toward him like metallic fireflies.
They gathered in a neat orbit around him before vanishing into his storage.
Only then did he place a hand on Melvin’s shoulder.
[Space Affinity]
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With their Master-disciple time behind them, Akasha and Melvin were already making their way back to Dreamer’s Peak.
The mountain rested in calm beneath the morning haze, its wide fields glimmering softly with lingering traces of Divinity.
The Academy of Veils members sat spread across the grass in perfect stillness, each one cross‑legged, eyes closed, bodies relaxed.
To any onlooker, it might seem like a coordinated retreat — calm, orderly, serene.
Yet in a world driven by power, it was strange, given that so few could truly gain anything from such cultivation.
But this... this was anything but ordinary.
Every single one of them was inside their Cultivation Room — a pocket‑space unlocked through the Members function.
Although they weren’t officially Members of the Peak, as mentioned, they could still enjoy minor benefits until they attained full membership.
Their bodies stayed here, motionless, while their consciousness was drawn into personalized trials designed uniquely for their Stars.
The field shimmered with faint, shifting colors — each hue tied to a different Star, a different path, a different trial.
A few members trembled as their challenges grew harder, while others took deep breaths, trying to steady themselves.
Some leaned forward without even realizing it, caught up in the battles raging within their own minds. The Peak seemed to hum with the quiet tension of struggle; each person lost in their own fight.
Luna and Yume, however, were nowhere to be found.
Instead, Number One stood at the center of the field, hands clasped behind his back, posture straight, expression sharp.
His presence alone kept the Peak in order — calm, structured, efficient. He watched the members with the same intensity one might use to inspect a battlefield.
Harlan Steele approached from the side, his steps quiet, his expression composed but thoughtful.
Number One didn’t bother to turn or offer a greeting... one speaking outward.
"Headmaster... You’re late."
Harlan let out a sigh.
"Well.... the Academy isn’t going to run itself you know?"
Only two days had passed since Akasha and Melvin had left and for the first day Harlan and all the Peak Master each cultivated in the cultivation rooms.
Though unlike the disciples and Peak Masters who could spend more time here, Harlan had to make sure nothing out of the ordinary happened to the Academy of Veils.
Number One clicked his tongue in mild annoyance.
"Naturally.... but shouldn’t you focus on power? To actually have some ability to defend your own Academy."
Harlan rubbed his temples. "You could phrase things more delicately."
"I could," Number One replied, "but then I wouldn’t be me."
Harlan exhaled slowly, deciding it wasn’t worth arguing.
His eyes wandered across the field, taking in the shimmering auras surrounding each member.
"They’re progressing quickly," he remarked.
"The Cultivation Rooms are... beyond anything we’ve ever seen."
Number One gave a single nod, though he kept silent; in his opinion, two days of cultivation was far too little, especially since none of the disciples had even managed to break through a major rank threshold.
Harlan studied him for a moment before looking away, deciding he didn’t want to press further.
"Do you think they’ll be ready?"
"For what?" Number One asked.
Harlan hesitated. "For whatever comes next."
Number One smiled faintly.
"Now that you’re all subordinates to Lord Dream... there’s no choice but to be ready."
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