May 20th, 2019, a Monday. Spring was yielding to summer, and the temperature swings in the

coastal city of Aethelburg were extreme. Days sweltered under a blazing sun, while nights

descended into a chill that sent shivers through even the hardiest souls.

Within the sprawling campus of Aethelburg University, at precisely 2:13 PM, most students were

deep in their lectures. Yet, Liam Stone, an unassuming sophomore, found himself alone in his

dorm room. His desk, laden with a laptop, had been awkwardly pulled closer to his bed, allowing

him to recline in various comfortable positions as he half-watched a movie.

Liam wasn’t one to skip classes. The previous night's heat had led him to kick off his blanket in

a fit of restless sleep. When the temperatures plummeted after midnight, he was left shivering,

clad only in shorts, desperately scrambling for warmth. By dawn, he'd joined the legions of

students felled by seasonal colds. His roommate had kindly arranged his absence from classes

for the day, and after downing some cold medicine, Liam had slept until now. Though the fever

had receded, a lingering weakness kept him confined, watching a film he barely registered.

"Still drowsy from the medicine," he mumbled, stifling a yawn as his eyelids grew heavy.

Ding! Dong!

A notification chimed from his laptop's lower right corner. A new friend request, or perhaps an

invitation to a group chat.

"Who's adding me?" Liam mused, a thumb idly tapping the screen. A pop-up materialized.

[Lord Obsidian (******) requests to add you as a friend.] Attached message: None.

Lord Obsidian? What a peculiar username. Was it one of his classmates, still caught in the

throes of a fantasy phase despite being in college? Such a dramatic handle would certainly fit

some of the more eccentric individuals he knew. Thinking this, he clicked "Accept."

Immediately, another system message appeared.

[Lord Obsidian invites you to join the group 'Conclave of Arcane Lore'. Do you accept?]

Liam clicked "Accept" again, barely registering the prompt.

'Scholar's Burden' has joined the 'Conclave of Arcane Lore'.

[You have joined the group. Say hello to your new companions!] A cheerful system emoticon

accompanied the text.

Liam, his mind already drifting back towards slumber, simply closed the notifications and the

chat window. He was too tired to care which new group he’d stumbled into. His chat settings

were always on silent, displaying only the unread message count. He’d review the chat history

once he was fully awake, and nothing would be missed. His eyelids grew heavier still, and the

movie played on as his consciousness faded.

Within the Conclave of Arcane Lore, Liam's arrival stirred a few dormant members.

River North Wanderer: "Lord Obsidian added a new initiate? It's been over a year since we had

a new face!"

A rapid reply flashed from Seven of the Serpent Clan: "A new initiate? From which region of the

Dominion? What hallowed sanctuary do they cultivate within? What is their mystical appellation?

And to what tier of power have they ascended?"

The questions, delivered in quick succession, struck Liam's subconscious as oddly intense.

Almost simultaneously, Blade of the Madman chimed in: "Gender of the new initiate? A Fae

enchantress, perhaps? If so, kindly provide measurements and a portrait!"

A collective groan, audible even in text, seemed to ripple through the group as several members

reacted to Seven of the Serpent Clan and Blade of the Madman's messages.

River North Wanderer: "Madman, are you truly a goldfish? Cease your audaciouspronouncements! What if Lord Obsidian has introduced another Elder of immense power?"

Madman was generally well-liked—loyal, honorable, always ready to lend a hand. But his

tongue, alas, was a loose cannon, often leading him to inadvertently offend powerful figures.

And with an uncanny knack for terrible luck, his unintended provocations always landed him in

trouble with Elders who, seemingly bored, found great amusement in tormenting him.

Blade of the Madman: "I implore thee, utter not the word 'Elder'! My very soul carries scars from

such encounters." A string of "crying face" emoticons followed. Four years prior, his reckless

words had offended a truly magnificent Elder, who proceeded to torment him for a full year and

four months. The memory of that arduous, inhuman period still brought tears to his eyes.

No sooner had Madman finished lamenting than a flurry of grinning emoticons erupted in the

chat—undisguised schadenfreude. Six of the eight online members simultaneously flooded the

screen with mocking laughter.

Blade of the Madman: "You malicious wretches! I shall remember each and every one of you!

Should our paths cross, prepare to face the fury of my Seventy-Two Swift Blades!" He fumed,

supremely confident in his mastery of the blade. Individually, none of the six tormentors were a

match for him.

Yet, as soon as he declared this, another mischievous grin appeared, this time from Seven of

the Serpent Clan.

Seven of the Serpent Clan: "When shall we duel?"

Madman's bluster instantly wilted. He couldn't defeat Seven. Despite his profound cultivation,

having reached the late Fifth Tier of the Spirit Lord realm—just two steps from the Sixth Tier of

the Spirit King—he was no match for Seven. His Seventy-Two Swift Blades, quick and brutal,

combined with his lightning-fast movements, still failed against Seven. Though he styled himself

"the Mad Blade," a force to be feared even by himself, Seven remained his insurmountable wall.

The group, witnessing Madman's swift retreat, again unleashed a torrent of unbridled laughter.

Blade of the Madman: "..." This time, Madman could only respond with a string of ellipses, a

sign of his utter vexation.

After a prolonged period of chatter, the group grew restless, noticing the newcomer's silence.

River North Wanderer: "The new initiate remains silent?"

Alas, Liam, still under the lingering effects of his cold medicine, had drifted back into a deeper

state of semi-consciousness.

Then, Seven of the Serpent Clan, ever enthusiastic, sent another message: "I've checked, the

new initiate is named 'Scholar's Burden'. Have any of you heard of a master with such a

mystical appellation? It sounds somewhat akin to a Wayfarer of the Order of Sages! How

exciting! For centuries, the Wayfarers of the Sages have remained deeply reclusive, nigh

impossible to locate. I haven't sparred with one in nearly a century! They prove more satisfying

opponents than even the Ascetics, not only for their sharp wit but also for their formidable fists.

And when the bout reaches its crescendo, they'll even recite grand verses to inspire themselves

– truly exhilarating! They are my favorite opponents."

Blade of the Madman: "Seven, are your expectations for new initiates always limited to how

easily they can be defeated and how 'exhilarating' the fight will be?" Madman responded with

another "crying face" emoticon. "This is practically bullying, isn't it?!"

Seven of the Serpent Clan: "Er." Seven seemed a tad abashed.

River North Wanderer: "Might it be another 'Elder' who is unaccustomed to these modern

communication tools?" A mischievous grin accompanied his words.

At this, a wave of déjà vu seemed to sweep through the group. Indeed, roughly four years ago,

an Elder who had emerged from centuries of solitary meditation had likewise been added by

Lord Obsidian. Unfamiliar with typing, they had remained silent. And a certain individual namedBlade of the Madman had, in his usual audacious manner, flirted shamelessly with this Elder,

demanding measurements, photos, and even voice chats. Days later, Madman encountered this

Elder in person—a magnificent presence, radiant as the moonlight. And for the next year and

four months, this beautiful Elder had thoroughly tormented Blade of the Madman before finally

departing, satisfied.

Madman instantly felt a chill run down his spine.

Apothecary: "Obsidian?" A cryptic, abrupt message, devoid of context.

Fortunately, the group was accustomed to Apothecary's laconic communication style—he was

asking about the whereabouts of Lord Obsidian, the group's founder. Apothecary's brevity

wasn't a mark of aloofness, but rather a consequence of his agonizingly slow, two-fingered,

handwritten typing method. Longer messages were fraught with errors, requiring tedious

corrections. Thus, he adopted a habit of extreme conciseness, leading to his current, almost

poetic parsimony.

River North Wanderer: "He logged off immediately after adding someone. I hear his precious

Greater Hound has run away from home again. Lord Obsidian is in pursuit. Dealing with that

troublesome beast is no easy feat. The Lord must be utterly preoccupied, having only managed

to log on briefly to add the new initiate."

Apothecary: "..."

Seven of the Serpent Clan: "Then we shall simply await the new initiate's mastery of these

communication tools before engaging further." Seven sighed. They all assumed the newcomer

was one of their own.

Seeing no further response from the new initiate, the online members, finding no more

amusement, quietly returned to their dormant states.

May 20th, 2019, a Monday. Spring was yielding to summer, and the temperature swings in the

coastal city of Aethelburg were extreme. Days sweltered under a blazing sun, while nights

descended into a chill that sent shivers through even the hardiest souls.

Within the sprawling campus of Aethelburg University, at precisely 2:13 PM, most students were

deep in their lectures. Yet, Liam Stone, an unassuming sophomore, found himself alone in his

dorm room. His desk, laden with a laptop, had been awkwardly pulled closer to his bed, allowing

him to recline in various comfortable positions as he half-watched a movie.

Liam wasn’t one to skip classes. The previous night's heat had led him to kick off his blanket in

a fit of restless sleep. When the temperatures plummeted after midnight, he was left shivering,

clad only in shorts, desperately scrambling for warmth. By dawn, he'd joined the legions of

students felled by seasonal colds. His roommate had kindly arranged his absence from classes

for the day, and after downing some cold medicine, Liam had slept until now. Though the fever

had receded, a lingering weakness kept him confined, watching a film he barely registered.

"Still drowsy from the medicine," he mumbled, stifling a yawn as his eyelids grew heavy.

Ding! Dong!

A notification chimed from his laptop's lower right corner. A new friend request, or perhaps an

invitation to a group chat.

"Who's adding me?" Liam mused, a thumb idly tapping the screen. A pop-up materialized.

[Lord Obsidian (******) requests to add you as a friend.] Attached message: None.

Lord Obsidian? What a peculiar username. Was it one of his classmates, still caught in the

throes of a fantasy phase despite being in college? Such a dramatic handle would certainly fit

some of the more eccentric individuals he knew. Thinking this, he clicked "Accept."

Immediately, another system message appeared.

[Lord Obsidian invites you to join the group 'Conclave of Arcane Lore'. Do you accept?]

Liam clicked "Accept" again, barely registering the prompt.

'Scholar's Burden' has joined the 'Conclave of Arcane Lore'.

[You have joined the group. Say hello to your new companions!] A cheerful system emoticon

accompanied the text.

Liam, his mind already drifting back towards slumber, simply closed the notifications and the

chat window. He was too tired to care which new group he’d stumbled into. His chat settings

were always on silent, displaying only the unread message count. He’d review the chat history

once he was fully awake, and nothing would be missed. His eyelids grew heavier still, and the

movie played on as his consciousness faded.

Within the Conclave of Arcane Lore, Liam's arrival stirred a few dormant members.

River North Wanderer: "Lord Obsidian added a new initiate? It's been over a year since we had

a new face!"

A rapid reply flashed from Seven of the Serpent Clan: "A new initiate? From which region of the

Dominion? What hallowed sanctuary do they cultivate within? What is their mystical appellation?

And to what tier of power have they ascended?"

The questions, delivered in quick succession, struck Liam's subconscious as oddly intense.

Almost simultaneously, Blade of the Madman chimed in: "Gender of the new initiate? A Fae

enchantress, perhaps? If so, kindly provide measurements and a portrait!"

A collective groan, audible even in text, seemed to ripple through the group as several members

reacted to Seven of the Serpent Clan and Blade of the Madman's messages.

River North Wanderer: "Madman, are you truly a goldfish? Cease your audaciouspronouncements! What if Lord Obsidian has introduced another Elder of immense power?"

Madman was generally well-liked—loyal, honorable, always ready to lend a hand. But his

tongue, alas, was a loose cannon, often leading him to inadvertently offend powerful figures.

And with an uncanny knack for terrible luck, his unintended provocations always landed him in

trouble with Elders who, seemingly bored, found great amusement in tormenting him.

Blade of the Madman: "I implore thee, utter not the word 'Elder'! My very soul carries scars from

such encounters." A string of "crying face" emoticons followed. Four years prior, his reckless

words had offended a truly magnificent Elder, who proceeded to torment him for a full year and

four months. The memory of that arduous, inhuman period still brought tears to his eyes.

No sooner had Madman finished lamenting than a flurry of grinning emoticons erupted in the

chat—undisguised schadenfreude. Six of the eight online members simultaneously flooded the

screen with mocking laughter.

Blade of the Madman: "You malicious wretches! I shall remember each and every one of you!

Should our paths cross, prepare to face the fury of my Seventy-Two Swift Blades!" He fumed,

supremely confident in his mastery of the blade. Individually, none of the six tormentors were a

match for him.

Yet, as soon as he declared this, another mischievous grin appeared, this time from Seven of

the Serpent Clan.

Seven of the Serpent Clan: "When shall we duel?"

Madman's bluster instantly wilted. He couldn't defeat Seven. Despite his profound cultivation,

having reached the late Fifth Tier of the Spirit Lord realm—just two steps from the Sixth Tier of

the Spirit King—he was no match for Seven. His Seventy-Two Swift Blades, quick and brutal,

combined with his lightning-fast movements, still failed against Seven. Though he styled himself

"the Mad Blade," a force to be feared even by himself, Seven remained his insurmountable wall.

The group, witnessing Madman's swift retreat, again unleashed a torrent of unbridled laughter.

Blade of the Madman: "..." This time, Madman could only respond with a string of ellipses, a

sign of his utter vexation.

After a prolonged period of chatter, the group grew restless, noticing the newcomer's silence.

River North Wanderer: "The new initiate remains silent?"

Alas, Liam, still under the lingering effects of his cold medicine, had drifted back into a deeper

state of semi-consciousness.

Then, Seven of the Serpent Clan, ever enthusiastic, sent another message: "I've checked, the

new initiate is named 'Scholar's Burden'. Have any of you heard of a master with such a

mystical appellation? It sounds somewhat akin to a Wayfarer of the Order of Sages! How

exciting! For centuries, the Wayfarers of the Sages have remained deeply reclusive, nigh

impossible to locate. I haven't sparred with one in nearly a century! They prove more satisfying

opponents than even the Ascetics, not only for their sharp wit but also for their formidable fists.

And when the bout reaches its crescendo, they'll even recite grand verses to inspire themselves

– truly exhilarating! They are my favorite opponents."

Blade of the Madman: "Seven, are your expectations for new initiates always limited to how

easily they can be defeated and how 'exhilarating' the fight will be?" Madman responded with

another "crying face" emoticon. "This is practically bullying, isn't it?!"

Seven of the Serpent Clan: "Er." Seven seemed a tad abashed.

River North Wanderer: "Might it be another 'Elder' who is unaccustomed to these modern

communication tools?" A mischievous grin accompanied his words.

At this, a wave of déjà vu seemed to sweep through the group. Indeed, roughly four years ago,

an Elder who had emerged from centuries of solitary meditation had likewise been added by

Lord Obsidian. Unfamiliar with typing, they had remained silent. And a certain individual namedBlade of the Madman had, in his usual audacious manner, flirted shamelessly with this Elder,

demanding measurements, photos, and even voice chats. Days later, Madman encountered this

Elder in person—a magnificent presence, radiant as the moonlight. And for the next year and

four months, this beautiful Elder had thoroughly tormented Blade of the Madman before finally

departing, satisfied.

Madman instantly felt a chill run down his spine.

Apothecary: "Obsidian?" A cryptic, abrupt message, devoid of context.

Fortunately, the group was accustomed to Apothecary's laconic communication style—he was

asking about the whereabouts of Lord Obsidian, the group's founder. Apothecary's brevity

wasn't a mark of aloofness, but rather a consequence of his agonizingly slow, two-fingered,

handwritten typing method. Longer messages were fraught with errors, requiring tedious

corrections. Thus, he adopted a habit of extreme conciseness, leading to his current, almost

poetic parsimony.

River North Wanderer: "He logged off immediately after adding someone. I hear his precious

Greater Hound has run away from home again. Lord Obsidian is in pursuit. Dealing with that

troublesome beast is no easy feat. The Lord must be utterly preoccupied, having only managed

to log on briefly to add the new initiate."

Apothecary: "..."

Seven of the Serpent Clan: "Then we shall simply await the new initiate's mastery of these

communication tools before engaging further." Seven sighed. They all assumed the newcomer

was one of their own.

Seeing no further response from the new initiate, the online members, finding no more

amusement, quietly returned to their dormant states.

May 20th, 2019, a Monday. Spring was yielding to summer, and the temperature swings in the

coastal city of Aethelburg were extreme. Days sweltered under a blazing sun, while nights

descended into a chill that sent shivers through even the hardiest souls.

Within the sprawling campus of Aethelburg University, at precisely 2:13 PM, most students were

deep in their lectures. Yet, Liam Stone, an unassuming sophomore, found himself alone in his

dorm room. His desk, laden with a laptop, had been awkwardly pulled closer to his bed, allowing

him to recline in various comfortable positions as he half-watched a movie.

Liam wasn’t one to skip classes. The previous night's heat had led him to kick off his blanket in

a fit of restless sleep. When the temperatures plummeted after midnight, he was left shivering,

clad only in shorts, desperately scrambling for warmth. By dawn, he'd joined the legions of

students felled by seasonal colds. His roommate had kindly arranged his absence from classes

for the day, and after downing some cold medicine, Liam had slept until now. Though the fever

had receded, a lingering weakness kept him confined, watching a film he barely registered.

"Still drowsy from the medicine," he mumbled, stifling a yawn as his eyelids grew heavy.

Ding! Dong!

A notification chimed from his laptop's lower right corner. A new friend request, or perhaps an

invitation to a group chat.

"Who's adding me?" Liam mused, a thumb idly tapping the screen. A pop-up materialized.

[Lord Obsidian (******) requests to add you as a friend.] Attached message: None.

Lord Obsidian? What a peculiar username. Was it one of his classmates, still caught in the

throes of a fantasy phase despite being in college? Such a dramatic handle would certainly fit

some of the more eccentric individuals he knew. Thinking this, he clicked "Accept."

Immediately, another system message appeared.

[Lord Obsidian invites you to join the group 'Conclave of Arcane Lore'. Do you accept?]

Liam clicked "Accept" again, barely registering the prompt.

'Scholar's Burden' has joined the 'Conclave of Arcane Lore'.

[You have joined the group. Say hello to your new companions!] A cheerful system emoticon

accompanied the text.

Liam, his mind already drifting back towards slumber, simply closed the notifications and the

chat window. He was too tired to care which new group he’d stumbled into. His chat settings

were always on silent, displaying only the unread message count. He’d review the chat history

once he was fully awake, and nothing would be missed. His eyelids grew heavier still, and the

movie played on as his consciousness faded.

Within the Conclave of Arcane Lore, Liam's arrival stirred a few dormant members.

River North Wanderer: "Lord Obsidian added a new initiate? It's been over a year since we had

a new face!"

A rapid reply flashed from Seven of the Serpent Clan: "A new initiate? From which region of the

Dominion? What hallowed sanctuary do they cultivate within? What is their mystical appellation?

And to what tier of power have they ascended?"

The questions, delivered in quick succession, struck Liam's subconscious as oddly intense.

Almost simultaneously, Blade of the Madman chimed in: "Gender of the new initiate? A Fae

enchantress, perhaps? If so, kindly provide measurements and a portrait!"

A collective groan, audible even in text, seemed to ripple through the group as several members

reacted to Seven of the Serpent Clan and Blade of the Madman's messages.

River North Wanderer: "Madman, are you truly a goldfish? Cease your audaciouspronouncements! What if Lord Obsidian has introduced another Elder of immense power?"

Madman was generally well-liked—loyal, honorable, always ready to lend a hand. But his

tongue, alas, was a loose cannon, often leading him to inadvertently offend powerful figures.

And with an uncanny knack for terrible luck, his unintended provocations always landed him in

trouble with Elders who, seemingly bored, found great amusement in tormenting him.

Blade of the Madman: "I implore thee, utter not the word 'Elder'! My very soul carries scars from

such encounters." A string of "crying face" emoticons followed. Four years prior, his reckless

words had offended a truly magnificent Elder, who proceeded to torment him for a full year and

four months. The memory of that arduous, inhuman period still brought tears to his eyes.

No sooner had Madman finished lamenting than a flurry of grinning emoticons erupted in the

chat—undisguised schadenfreude. Six of the eight online members simultaneously flooded the

screen with mocking laughter.

Blade of the Madman: "You malicious wretches! I shall remember each and every one of you!

Should our paths cross, prepare to face the fury of my Seventy-Two Swift Blades!" He fumed,

supremely confident in his mastery of the blade. Individually, none of the six tormentors were a

match for him.

Yet, as soon as he declared this, another mischievous grin appeared, this time from Seven of

the Serpent Clan.

Seven of the Serpent Clan: "When shall we duel?"

Madman's bluster instantly wilted. He couldn't defeat Seven. Despite his profound cultivation,

having reached the late Fifth Tier of the Spirit Lord realm—just two steps from the Sixth Tier of

the Spirit King—he was no match for Seven. His Seventy-Two Swift Blades, quick and brutal,

combined with his lightning-fast movements, still failed against Seven. Though he styled himself

"the Mad Blade," a force to be feared even by himself, Seven remained his insurmountable wall.

The group, witnessing Madman's swift retreat, again unleashed a torrent of unbridled laughter.

Blade of the Madman: "..." This time, Madman could only respond with a string of ellipses, a

sign of his utter vexation.

After a prolonged period of chatter, the group grew restless, noticing the newcomer's silence.

River North Wanderer: "The new initiate remains silent?"

Alas, Liam, still under the lingering effects of his cold medicine, had drifted back into a deeper

state of semi-consciousness.

Then, Seven of the Serpent Clan, ever enthusiastic, sent another message: "I've checked, the

new initiate is named 'Scholar's Burden'. Have any of you heard of a master with such a

mystical appellation? It sounds somewhat akin to a Wayfarer of the Order of Sages! How

exciting! For centuries, the Wayfarers of the Sages have remained deeply reclusive, nigh

impossible to locate. I haven't sparred with one in nearly a century! They prove more satisfying

opponents than even the Ascetics, not only for their sharp wit but also for their formidable fists.

And when the bout reaches its crescendo, they'll even recite grand verses to inspire themselves

– truly exhilarating! They are my favorite opponents."

Blade of the Madman: "Seven, are your expectations for new initiates always limited to how

easily they can be defeated and how 'exhilarating' the fight will be?" Madman responded with

another "crying face" emoticon. "This is practically bullying, isn't it?!"

Seven of the Serpent Clan: "Er." Seven seemed a tad abashed.

River North Wanderer: "Might it be another 'Elder' who is unaccustomed to these modern

communication tools?" A mischievous grin accompanied his words.

At this, a wave of déjà vu seemed to sweep through the group. Indeed, roughly four years ago,

an Elder who had emerged from centuries of solitary meditation had likewise been added by

Lord Obsidian. Unfamiliar with typing, they had remained silent. And a certain individual namedBlade of the Madman had, in his usual audacious manner, flirted shamelessly with this Elder,

demanding measurements, photos, and even voice chats. Days later, Madman encountered this

Elder in person—a magnificent presence, radiant as the moonlight. And for the next year and

four months, this beautiful Elder had thoroughly tormented Blade of the Madman before finally

departing, satisfied.

Madman instantly felt a chill run down his spine.

Apothecary: "Obsidian?" A cryptic, abrupt message, devoid of context.

Fortunately, the group was accustomed to Apothecary's laconic communication style—he was

asking about the whereabouts of Lord Obsidian, the group's founder. Apothecary's brevity

wasn't a mark of aloofness, but rather a consequence of his agonizingly slow, two-fingered,

handwritten typing method. Longer messages were fraught with errors, requiring tedious

corrections. Thus, he adopted a habit of extreme conciseness, leading to his current, almost

poetic parsimony.

River North Wanderer: "He logged off immediately after adding someone. I hear his precious

Greater Hound has run away from home again. Lord Obsidian is in pursuit. Dealing with that

troublesome beast is no easy feat. The Lord must be utterly preoccupied, having only managed

to log on briefly to add the new initiate."

Apothecary: "..."

Seven of the Serpent Clan: "Then we shall simply await the new initiate's mastery of these

communication tools before engaging further." Seven sighed. They all assumed the newcomer

was one of their own.

Seeing no further response from the new initiate, the online members, finding no more

amusement, quietly returned to their dormant states.