The Insane Regressor: Throne of Pride

Shmichael released a restrained breath and turned to look through the opposite window, apparently deciding that silence was preferable to continuing a conversation in which every warning only made Ravian more interested.

The carriage continued deeper into the center of the capital.

The closer they drew to its heart, the broader the roads became, while the surrounding buildings grew older, grander, and more meticulously maintained. The newer districts they had passed earlier had displayed their wealth openly through polished facades and bright decorations, but this part of the city possessed the quieter confidence of a place that no longer needed to prove its importance. Statues of Awakened who had died long ago stood within public squares, their stone figures gazing over generations that had never known them, while banners bearing the emblems of noble houses, guilds, and scholarly institutions hung from towering stone structures.

Then the Academy appeared before them.

’Holy cow...’

Ravian drew in a breath at the immense sight.

The Supreme Soul Academy did not resemble a single educational building. It was an enclosed district unto itself, containing halls, towers, training grounds, and elevated bridges connecting pale stone buildings constructed at different heights. Some structures were broad and solemn, while others rose in slender towers overlooking the courtyards below. From the road, Ravian could see only fragments of the complex at a time, yet even those fragments revealed how many generations must have contributed to its expansion.

A high wall surrounded the entire complex, though it seemed designed more to isolate the institution from the noise of the capital than to withstand a siege. It lacked the oppressive thickness and brutal practicality of the border fortress, instead drawing a clear line between the city outside and the world of learning within.

At its center stood an enormous structure crowned by a black-iron dome, rising far above every surrounding hall. The dark metal caught little of the daylight, making the dome resemble a vast shadow resting over the pale archive beneath it, while the Academy’s entire arrangement inevitably guided the eye back toward that central building.

Ravian’s gaze settled upon it in amazement. The entire place possessed a spirit that was simultaneously majestic and ancient, as though the Academy’s prestige had not been manufactured through wealth alone but accumulated across generations. Grandeur did not guarantee useful knowledge, but if even a fraction of the history suggested by those walls had been preserved within the archive, spending one of Patrick’s requests had been the correct choice.

”Is that the archive Earl Patrick mentioned?” Ravian asked, turning toward Shmichael, who sat opposite him.

”The Grand Archive,” Shmichael corrected calmly. ”The Academy expanded around it over the generations. Some claim that the oldest foundations beneath that building predate the Viera Empire itself.”

”Bullshit,” Ravian said immediately, rolling his eyes.

”Perhaps,” Shmichael replied without even turning to observe Ravian’s reaction. ”But it truly isn’t some ordinary library, Mr. Rayan.”

Ravian studied him for several seconds, considering whether that final warning concealed more than Shmichael wished to explain, before returning his gaze to the massive structure. Whether the oldest stones truly predated the Empire meant little to him; the contents preserved above them mattered far more.

”We’ll see, I suppose.”

The carriage slowed before the Academy’s main gate.

Two guards dressed in dark formal uniforms approached, but their posture changed the moment they recognized the crest of House Viola displayed upon the roof and sides of the carriage. Their shoulders straightened, and the inspection that might have delayed an unknown visitor became a matter to be handled with respectful efficiency. One of them exchanged a few brief words with the driver before looking toward the enclosed compartment.

Shmichael opened the door and stepped out, then presented the guard with a small identification badge without revealing Patrick’s sealed letter, which remained safely tucked inside his coat. The House Viola crest and Shmichael’s badge were sufficient for the outer gate; the Earl’s written authority had been reserved for the official capable of granting what they had actually come to obtain.

”We have an appointment at the archive’s administrative entrance,” Shmichael told the guard.

The guard examined the badge before bowing respectfully toward whoever sat within the carriage, despite having no idea who that person was. His curiosity showed only in the brief glance he directed past Shmichael, and he suppressed even that before signaling to the guards stationed on the other side to open the gate.

The carriage proceeded onto the Academy grounds.

Groups of students crossed the stone pathways carrying books or training weapons. Some wore expensive clothing beneath their Academy coats, while others appeared far less wealthy, yet nearly every one of them moved with the confidence of someone whose excellence had already been acknowledged elsewhere. They spoke in small groups, hurried toward distant halls, or reviewed open pages as they walked.

All of them were undoubtedly much wealthier than Ravian had once been—considerably wealthier, in fact. At least, that had been true before he secured his agreement with House Viola. The comparison amused him more than it impressed him; a percentage written into one contract had altered his future standing more thoroughly than years of ordinary work could have done.

Several students glanced toward the Viola carriage as it passed, though no one approached it. For some, the crest was important enough to invite speculation, while others were evidently wealthy or influential enough that the carriage of an Earl’s house was not sufficient to hold their attention for more than a fleeting moment.

Ravian observed them with equally little interest.

Although he was younger than many of those students, he felt certain that he could crush most of them with nothing more than his raw physical strength. The thought carried no particular hostility; it was simply the conclusion his senses reached while measuring their movements and the physical discipline visible in how they carried themselves.

Perhaps everyone there had overcome thousands of competitors to earn the right to enter the Academy, while others had merely been born into families whose positions and histories were sufficient to secure their admission. Either way, none of it mattered to Ravian.

He had not come to compete with the students, impress the professors, or concern himself with whoever else might be present within the Academy, even if the Emperor himself happened to be among them. His authorization demanded none of that.

He had come for what awaited him inside the building at its center.

Knowledge.

The carriage stopped near a quieter entrance connected to the northeastern side of the Grand Archive. Unlike the imposing main approaches visible from the central paths, this one seemed intended for officials and researchers rather than ceremony. Fewer students crossed the area, and its doors bore no ornament grand enough to distract from the building rising above them.

Shmichael descended first, then opened the door with the practiced precision expected of a professional servant, allowing Ravian to step out after him. From this close, the Grand Archive seemed even larger than it had from beyond the Academy walls, and the knowledge that countless shelves waited somewhere inside sharpened the anticipation he had restrained throughout the journey.

A middle-aged man wearing a dark-gray robe waited for them beyond the entrance. A thin silver chain hung from his neck, bearing a small emblem shaped like a key and marked with three stars. It was a precisely rendered variation of the Empire’s distinctive insignia, closely resembling the symbol Ravian had previously seen upon the central building at the border while he had been with Karius.

The man’s expression remained professional and neutral until Shmichael handed him Patrick’s sealed letter.

The administrator inspected the seal first, confirming the identity behind it before breaking the dark-red wax. He unfolded the heavy paper and read the contents once, his eyes moving steadily down the page until they abruptly slowed near the middle.

His eyes gradually widened. His gaze landed upon Ravian before shifting toward Shmichael, who remained perfectly calm, having clearly expected this exact reaction. Shern looked down at the letter again, but Patrick’s meaning had evidently been written with too much precision to permit a more convenient interpretation.

”Unrestricted access to every floor?” the middle-aged man asked, seeking confirmation that he had understood the letter correctly.

”That is Earl Patrick’s personal request, Shern,” Shmichael replied.

”B-but the upper archive isn’t open to outside visitors!” the man protested, trying to convince Shmichael that what the letter demanded was nearly impossible. His fingers tightened slightly around the paper despite the care he took not to damage it.

However, it was only nearly impossible, which was precisely why Earl Patrick had sent Ravian there with such confidence. If the request had violated an absolute law of the Academy, Patrick would have known better than to waste one of the favors he owed Ravian on a letter destined to fail.

”This is the Earl’s request, Shern,” Shmichael repeated, staring directly at him.

The man faltered for a moment before continuing.

”Some of those sections aren’t accessible even to most students.”

Shmichael did not repeat himself a third time. He merely regarded Shern with a cold stare that made it perfectly clear that neither the Academy’s ordinary rules nor the administrator’s discomfort would alter the contents of Patrick’s letter. The Earl had not asked Shern to decide whether Ravian deserved access.

”Argh, fuck it! Fine!” Shern exclaimed, scratching his head in irritation.

The administrator then looked toward Ravian, only to find him completely unconcerned by the dispute unfolding over his access. Ravian was staring past him toward the archive with undisguised interest, studying the interior corridor visible beyond the entrance as though the argument had already ended the moment Patrick’s seal appeared.

”And who exactly is he?” Shern asked Shmichael.

”Rayan Veyr,” Shmichael replied, gesturing toward Ravian with both hands as though he were presenting a priceless work of art. ”The originator and technical partner behind House Viola’s new infrastructure project.”

Ravian’s eyes froze as he turned toward Shmichael in shock.

Patrick had never told him that he intended to reveal Ravian as the originator of the project to the public, and certainly not this quickly. He had expected the investors to learn who had designed the system, but Shmichael’s introduction made it clear that the knowledge had already escaped the narrow circle directly involved.

Recognition appeared within Shern’s eyes, accompanied by undisguised admiration for what he apparently regarded as Ravian’s golden mind. To have conceived of something so ambitious at such a young age was clearly impressive even by the Academy’s standards, and the administrator’s earlier resistance weakened as curiosity took its place.

Ravian’s reconstructed body also caused him to appear older than he truly was. With his developed physique, composed bearing, and noble features, he resembled a young man in his early twenties rather than a teenager who had only recently entered adulthood and was barely eighteen years old. Nothing in his posture suggested a dependent youth merely borrowing an Earl’s influence, making Patrick’s extraordinary authorization seem slightly less inexplicable.

Ravian had expected news of the project to spread through political circles eventually, but it appeared Patrick had already allowed word of it to travel much farther than he had realized. He would have preferred to be informed first, but this was neither the time nor the place to question Shmichael about his master’s decision.

Shern—whom Ravian had correctly assumed to be one of the archive’s administrators—lowered his gaze to the letter once again.

”The Earl is requesting that the Academy treat him as an authorized private researcher,” Shern said, voicing the statement more as a declaration he wanted confirmed than as an actual question.

”Correct,” Shmichael replied.

The elderly servant looked as though he wanted to finish this matter and return to the responsibilities awaiting him at the manor, but Shern proved to be an exceedingly talkative man—an assessment with which Ravian fully agreed.

”For how long?” Shern asked.

”Until he wishes to leave,” Shmichael answered without hesitation.

The administrator’s mouth tightened slightly as he looked from Shmichael to Ravian and then back to the letter.

”Earl Patrick always writes his requests as though he’s drafting contracts, doesn’t he?”

”He merely considers clarity in his requests a form of courtesy,” Shmichael replied, defending his master.