FROST
Chapter 123: Professors in the Human Realm

Chapter 123: Professors in the Human Realm

Murmurs rolled like low thunder across the cold stone walls of the auditorium, growing louder with each breath and echoing footsteps. Shadows flickered from the high sconces lining the curved walls, casting long silhouettes over the rows of students who slowly filled their designated seats. The air was tense, thick with a silence barely held together by apprehension.

At the very back of the room, near the arched entryway framed by obsidian pillars, West stood motionless. Beside him, Sebastian leaned against the stone wall with his arms folded across his chest, while Ezekiel stood just a step ahead, scanning the room with calculating eyes.

They watched the apprentices file in—some wide-eyed, others visibly exhausted, most clearly trying to suppress nerves they couldn’t name. They moved as if this were any other assembly, but something in the way their feet dragged, the way they whispered to one another under breath, betrayed the truth: no one knew why they’d been summoned so urgently.

In the front rows of the Serpentine section, Amethyst and Gail— who by the way refuse to sit with the Sphene section— had already taken her seat beside Amethyst. Gail glanced over her shoulder, eyes darting toward the trio at the back, then flicked to the other side of the room where Cullen and Levi settled quietly into their seats with the Azure section apprentices.

There was no camaraderie, no casual exchange—just lingering glances that spoke volumes. Questions hung unsaid between them, weighty and unspoken.

Ezekiel narrowed his eyes, his gaze sweeping across the auditorium, reading mana signatures like open books.

"None of them are ready yet," he muttered under his breath. "I can see it. Their mana has stabilized since the simulation, sure—but there’s barely any growth. If East unveils the truth now, if he pushes them too far too soon with the truth, they’ll only collapse under the pressure."

Sebastian scoffed, his voice low but bitter. "Frost is missing. Silvermist is still locked in an internal war, and the professors are all but unraveling. Professor Cedric and Professor Bramble haven’t returned. They weren’t even seen on campus today. It’s chaos—and we’re the only ones trying to hold the line."

West’s jaw flexed, his eyes fixed on the center of the room where the apprentices sat unsuspectingly. "I told you both before," he said coldly. "Those two might’ve already crossed into the human realm. I don’t think they plan on coming back if they found out the truth about Frost."

Sebastian and Ezekiel turned to him, frowning in tandem. The silence between them stretched before collapsing into a mutual sigh.

"What the hell is East thinking?" Ezekiel hissed, frustration mounting in his voice. "He let them go—without consequence, without restraint. And for what? So they could return when it’s already too late? We’re being splintered while the world around us is unraveling too fast. Even the King didn’t see anything coming."

West didn’t respond right away. He stared down at the gathering apprentices, their voices now a distant hum. His expression was unreadable—caught somewhere between contemplation and resignation.

"East might, but wants them to choose," West said at last. "Not because he believes they’re prepared. But because he refuses to rule by fear. East... he’s like the Lunar King. He carries immense power, but he would rather be questioned than obeyed out of terror."

Ezekiel scoffed. "So instead, we play diplomats while everything burns around us?"

"No," West murmured, eyes narrowing. "We’re the vanguard. The ones who keep the balance while he bets on hope."

Sebastian exhaled slowly, glancing once more at the sea of unknowing apprentices. "Then we’d better pray that hope is worth the cost."

On the other side of the realm—beyond the veils that separate magic from mortal understanding—a city groaned under a weight it could not explain.

It was still October. Autumn leaves should have scattered across sidewalks in hues of gold and fire, and the air should have danced with warmth fading gently into the cold. But instead, the sky hung low and silver, pregnant with frost, and the earth trembled beneath a bitter wind that refused to cease.

The temperature had plummeted with alarming speed—an unnatural descent from a blistering 45°C to a bone-deep -3°C in less than a week. What began as a heatwave had twisted into a deep freeze, leaving meteorologists baffled and citizens scrambling.

Pedestrians trudged through thin layers of frost already creeping over streets and sidewalks. Breath fogged in the air, visible even indoors in places where heating systems had yet to be adjusted. Storefronts that once displayed autumn sales now stocked winter gear out of desperation. Wool coats, thermal leggings, padded gloves, even electric hand warmers were stripped from shelves as panic began to take root.

In one street corner, an elderly woman sat huddled beneath three layers of blankets, her eyes wide and trembling, lips murmuring that she remembered nothing like this—not even in the harshest winters of her youth. Beside her, a young mother frantically rubbed her toddler’s palms together while waiting for a bus that had broken down hours ago in the sudden frost.

All around, screens mounted on the sides of buildings flickered with urgent news bulletins. A shaky live feed showed reporters standing in front of frost-covered parks and half-frozen fountains. Their breaths billowed visibly as they shouted into microphones barely functioning in the freeze.

"Just days ago, this plaza reached a record high of forty-five degrees Celsius," one reporter announced as the camera panned to show the ice now forming on the marble steps behind her. "Now, as of this morning, temperatures have dipped to negative three and continue to fall. Scientists are at a loss—there are no weather systems to explain this anomaly."

Another broadcast cut in, showing a satellite feed. A swirling mass of unnatural storm clouds loomed over the northern hemisphere, but curiously, they did not move—just pulsed faintly, almost as if alive.

"What we’re seeing isn’t just atmospheric collapse," said a man in a white lab coat, a prominent climate researcher. His voice shook, not from cold, but from unease. "It’s as though something—someone—is rewriting the rules of our seasons."

In the shadows between alleyways and atop rooftops, stray animals curled tighter into themselves, noses buried beneath tails. Birds no longer sang. Even the trees had begun to creak—not sway—as though groaning from something older than wind.

And still, the cold deepened.

What the humans couldn’t see was the faint shimmer that coated the edges of their reality—a layer of magic bleeding through from another realm. A battle was being fought, somewhere far from mortal eyes, but its consequences had begun to spill through the seams.

The weather was only the first sign. And it was far from the last.

Perched atop one of the highest signal towers in the city—where the wind howled like a living creature and frost gnawed at steel—two figures stood draped in long, midnight-colored cloaks. Professor Cedric and Professor Bramble, silent as statues, overlooked the city below as it succumbed to an early, unnatural winter.

Their cloaks whipped in the air, edges fraying with frost, as though the weather sought to unravel them. Beneath their feet, the metal beams creaked with a sound not unlike groaning bones, the tower struggling to endure the sudden shift in atmosphere.

Below them, the city was on its knees.

Vehicles sputtered and died in the streets. Lights flickered and failed in tall buildings. Crowds huddled around emergency shelters with thin coats and thinner hope. The humans had no idea they were walking through the aftermath of something far beyond their comprehension.

Bramble’s breath fogged the air as he watched a group of people push a stalled bus, slipping on ice, their cries muffled by the rising wind. "They won’t last long," he muttered. "This place was never meant to handle the cold. You’re right all along. The Winter Guardian has been missing for quite a while."

Cedric didn’t answer. His eyes were closed, lashes coated with delicate frost, as he reached out—not physically, but magically. He tuned out the noise, the bitter wind, the moaning metal beneath them, and instead reached inward, searching the air like a harpist plucking invisible strings.

Mana left traces—threads, residues, frequencies. Mere humans wouldn’t notice it, but to an arcane mage, mana had a flavor, a temperature, a hum.

And then—there it was.

His eyes snapped open, pupils narrowing. A single, pulsing thread. Not cold, not warm. Strange. Unanchored. Not Frost’s, not East’s, nor any familiar presence. It was faint and delicate. Like a whisper trying not to be heard.

"There," he murmured.

Bramble turned, following Cedric’s gaze across the rooftops and broken skyline. At first, there was nothing but drifting snow and dim neon reflections.

But then, through the wavering curtain of sleet, a figure emerged—standing atop a half-collapsed apartment complex. Tall, unmoving, almost ghostlike. The man’s coat fluttered in time with the professors’, his face obscured by a shadow cast not by light, but by something else. Something older.

He was just... watching.

Cedric narrowed his eyes. "That isn’t one of ours."

"No," Bramble agreed, his voice low with dawning unease as he cocked his head and lifted two gloved fingers, as if to measure the distance between them and the distant figure. "But he’s aware of us. Humans can’t look a professor in the eye from four buildings away."

Cedric’s gaze hardened, the corners of his lips tightening. He exhaled slowly, almost resigned. "That’s an elf, Bramble."

"Oh?" Bramble blinked. "Ohh fu—"

The curse barely left his lips before the sharp whistling of air cut through the wind like a warning siren. Crystal arrows—three of them—sliced through the sleet, glittering like shards of starlight as they tore through the space they had occupied just a second earlier.

Instinct screamed. Both professors leapt backward off the tower, cloaks billowing like torn banners in the gale. The arrows struck the spot where they had stood—exploding in sharp, brittle bursts of ice and light that sent cracks spidering across the metal scaffolding.

They landed soundlessly on the rooftop of the building just beneath the tower, boots crunching lightly against a thin sheet of ice that had formed during their descent. Cedric’s hands were already moving, swift and precise.

Above them, a metal debris panel—ripped loose from the top of the tower by the explosion—spiraled downward toward a crowd gathering near a stalled bus.

Without hesitation, Cedric raised one arm, palm outward. A soft, spherical shimmer pulsed into existence mid-air—a bubble spell. The debris hit the edge of the bubble with a soft clang, slowing instantly as if caught in honey. The sound of the impact muted completely, as though silenced by a curtain of calm.

The people below hadn’t even noticed.

Cedric closed his hand into a fist. The bubble popped with a quiet blink of light—and the debris vanished with it, disintegrated into particles before it could ever reach the ground.

Beside him, Bramble stood wide-eyed for a breath, then scoffed under his breath, brushing frost from his sleeves. "I guess he’s not aware about us, ah?"

Cedric didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the figure still standing across the skyline—unmoved, unshaken, a silent shadow with a bow of carved ice in hand and a presence that bent the wind around him.

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