A Background Character’s Path to Power

"...He not only played a big role in defending the town, but also protected his fellow students from the monsters. He even saved the teachers and the academy staff. He was a true Resonator. A true warrior. He-!"

"Wait." Nusayel's cold voice stopped the professor.

"Can you repeat what you said?"

"No, did you say my son is a resonator?"

Harken nodded subtly. "Yes, from what the witnesses reported, he was a Resonator—likely a Tier 3 Warrior."

Nusayel's frown deepened, his storm-gray eyes flashing with disbelief. "That's... impossible. He wasn't even Awakened when he left. Even if he had Awakened later, reaching Tier 3 in such a short time is—"

"This..." Harken muttered awkwardly, adjusting his glasses. "We don't know how that happened either."

Before Nusayel could press further, Selvienne cut in, her voice trembling. "W-what happened to him?"

Harken hesitated, his gaze flickering to her pale face, her shaking hands. The words lodged in his throat. But duty compelled him forward. With a deep sigh, he continued, "However... in the final moments, when the spatial tear began collapsing... someone was still trapped beside the rift." A pause. "Your son... he pushed them out of the way."

Silence descended upon the hall, thick and suffocating.

Then—

"...And?" Nusayel's voice was dangerously quiet.

Harken swallowed.

"The explosion... it consumed him before he could escape."

A choked sound escaped Selvienne. Her hands flew to her mouth, her entire body shuddering as if struck by lightning.

Nusayel didn't move. Didn't blink.

But the air around him warped—his aura thickening like a gathering storm, the temperature plummeting.

The torches lining the walls flickered violently, their flames bending toward him as if in reverence... or fear.

"Your son..." Harken finished with great difficulty, "sacrificed himself to save someone."

The moment the words left Harken's lips, Selvienne swayed on her feet.

"Aman…" His name tore from her throat, raw and broken, as if the syllables themselves were shards of glass. Her knees buckled.

Nusayel's eyes—wide, unblinking, the storm in them frozen—snapped to her just as the golden-eyed youth shouted:

"No—!"

The baron moved.

But the silver-haired young man was already there, a blur of motion, his hand outstretched to catch Selvienne's collapsing form—only to freeze mid-reach as Nusayel's arm shot out like a viper, intercepting her. The youth recoiled, stepping back with unnatural speed, his pale eyes flickering with something unreadable.

Nusayel barely registered it. His wife's weight settled against him, her breath ragged, her fingers clutching his sleeve like a drowning woman to driftwood. He cradled her head against his chest, his voice cutting through the hall like a blade:

"Veylan!"

The doors burst open instantly. The aged butler stood poised, his expression grim.

"Call the healer," Nusayel ordered, his tone clipped. "Now."

The butler bowed and turned—

"Sir."

The silver-haired youth's voice halted him. All eyes turned to the young man, who stood unnervingly still, his gaze fixed on Nusayel. "We have a healer with us."

Nusayel's grip tightened around Selvienne. His eyes narrowed, then followed his gaze—landed on the fourth visitor.

It was a young man with blue hair, probably early twenties, wearing a silver monocle over one eye. He had been so silent, so still, that Nusayel had almost missed his presence entirely. Now, the man straightened under the baron's scrutiny, his fingers twitching at his sides as if resisting the urge to fidget.

Nusayel didn't hesitate. "Can you tend to her?" The question was curt, stripped of any courtesy, any noble pretense. Only necessity remained.

The blue-haired healer nodded once, stepping forward. "Of course, Lord Luthaire." His voice was softer than expected, almost melodic. "With your permission."

"Do it."

The healer nodded, approaching with measured steps.

As he came closer, Nusayel's gaze never left him, weighing, assessing.

He forced the storm inside him into temporary stillness. There would be time for rage. For grief. For questions that clawed at his throat like starving beasts.

But not now.

Now, he would hold his wife.

Now, he would endure.

"Excuse me,"

The young man knelt beside them, his monocle glinting as he reached toward Selvienne's wrist—

—then paused.

After a few seconds, he withdrew his hand slowly, standing with deliberate grace. His monocle caught the candlelight as he turned to Nusayel.

"Lady Luthaire is suffering from Anima Lacera—what we healers call 'Mind Fracture Shock.'" He explained, his voice low but clear. " It's a severe mental and spiritual strain caused by overwhelming grief and denial. Her mental defenses must have been already weakened—likely from prolonged stress or illness. The news has pushed her past her limits."

Nusayel's jaw tightened. His wife had indeed been restless for weeks, complaining of nightmares she couldn't even remember.

"What should we do?" he asked, the words clipped.

The young healer met his gaze steadily. "Don't worry. I can stabilize her—at least ease the worst of the distress. But..." He glanced around the austere hall, its cold stone walls amplifying every echo. "It would be better if we moved to a private room where she can rest properly."

Without hesitation, Nusayel scooped Selvienne into his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder. "Follow me."

As they strode toward the family quarters, the healer turned briefly to his companions. "Wait here. We'll return after treating her."

...

Minutes later, in the dim warmth of Selvienne's bedchamber, Nusayel stood rigid by the door. "Come in," he commanded.

The healer entered, his footsteps soundless on the plush rug. He settled into the chair beside the bed, took a deep breath, then pressed two fingers to Selvienne's forehead. His eyelids fluttered shut.

Nusayel watched like a hawk.

A faint, cerulean glow emanated from the healer's fingertips—so subtle it might have been a trick of the light. But the baron felt it: a whisper of Aura, precise as a surgeon's scalpel, weaving through his wife's mind.

His instincts flared—Should I trust this stranger?—but the sight of Selvienne's strained brow smoothing over quelled his doubts.

The healer's heritage was unmistakable now that Nusayel studied him: the tapered ears, the unnatural stillness of his posture.

Half-elf, huh.

Nusayel muttered inwardly, recalling the rumors about the wandering healer. Although he was reassured, he was still on guard.

If this boy dares to harm her, no Hollowlands horror will spare him from what comes next.