Chapter 451 - 453: Inis

Standing before the headmaster of Aether Academy put some pressure on Damon—but not much.

He had pressure resistance.

Normally, when those in a higher class unleashed their aura, it would suppress those weaker than them. But Damon had walked through the presence of beings far more terrifying—creatures from higher realms, eldritch horrors, and monsters too old to be named.

Compared to them, this was barely a breeze.

That said, resistance was not immunity. It still worked—it just needed more effort to actually affect him.

The headmaster wasn’t the only one in the room. Damon could sense unfamiliar presences. Important ones. People who didn’t often show their faces.

In fact... this was the first time Damon was even seeing the headmaster in person.

After he turned in his written report, he and Matia were summoned back—for an oral one.

Matia, however, wasn’t speaking.

At all.

That meant all eyes were on Damon. He had become the center of scrutiny.

He shared what he could about the death zones. As for the things he didn’t want to share... he brushed them off with the simple excuse: "I was too weak to check."

Naturally, that didn’t sit well with the research-obsessed scholars of Aether. One particularly eccentric professor had bashed his desk in fury. Another had nearly leapt out of his seat, practically foaming at the mouth, ready to throttle Damon for "withholding priceless historical data."

The headmaster nodded and turned toward a man seated beside him.

Damon kept his expression calm, but he knew.

That man... he’s from the Temple.

’So the report even reached the temple great.’

The man was old, bearded—his white goatee neatly combed. His face remained hidden beneath the shadow of his hood. Damon could feel the man’s gaze resting on the pale crown atop his head.

Then, he spoke.

"Your Ascendant Armor... Would you like to sell it?"

Damon almost laughed.

He’d barely returned—and already someone wanted a piece of him.

He didn’t need to ask who gave this man the authority to speak. The Temple never asked for anything. If they wanted something... they simply took it.

"I would be honored to contribute to the Temple," Damon said with a pained expression, voice soft and full of false humility.

"I would gladly give my Ascendant Armor for free—as a sign of my dedication to the faith..."

He paused.

"...Alas, I cannot. Unfortunately, the armor is bound to my very soul. It cannot be removed... or traded."

The Templar’s eyes narrowed.

Damon kept his face carefully solemn, as though mourning the inability to hand over a priceless relic. Deep down, though, he was irritated. The fact that the Temple even knew about the armor meant their intel ran deeper than he thought.

’Don’t tell me they’re going to try and kill me for it.’

He wouldn’t be surprised if they did.

The headmaster waved his hand.

"There’s no need to pursue that matter. The armor is soul-bound. It cannot be transferred. Let us return to the questions at hand..."

Damon nodded slowly, forcing his eyes away from the hooded man who hadn’t even introduced himself.

Such disdain... The urge to say something boiled at the back of his throat.

He held it in.

The headmaster’s questions took precedence.

"Tell me, Miss Faldren," the headmaster said, now turning toward Matia. "Why has your appearance changed so drastically? And why are you not in your academy uniform?"

Matia stood beside Damon like a silent shadow. She didn’t even blink. Her expression unreadable. Her eyes distant.

She gave no response.

Damon had to step in.

"She doesn’t talk much... not since she reached her third class."

His voice was strained—just enough to sound emotionally burdened.

"It started with her second class. Her hair changed... her eyes, too. Her third class came with a skill that had a side effect. A flaw. She can’t speak anymore. Not like before."

Damon placed a hand over his chest. A single tear threatened his eye.

"I was the party leader. I should have protected her... but I couldn’t fight against her own evolution."

A quiet murmur passed among the professors. They had read Damon’s report. Honestly... it had been difficult to believe. Even though he downplayed some things, the results were undeniable.

A student-led party had entered three death zones... and returned alive.

Mentally intact. Apparently.

Although the mental evaluation was still pending.

The headmaster coughed and softened his tone.

"It’s all right, boy. You’ve all been through a lot. Her condition is not... unusual. Between first and seventh class, four skills are awarded to us. One of the four may carry a... consequence."

Damon nodded slowly, his expression grave.

The Templar, however, wasn’t finished.

"One billion zeni," he said, voice flat. "The Temple will pay it. Up front."

Damon’s irritation boiled.

The Temple was as arrogant as always. Tyrannical. Unreasonable. When they wanted something, they didn’t take no for an answer. Most who refused them... didn’t live long.

The man clenched his fist.

"I am a cleric of the main branch of the Temple. Inis Kaka."

Damon glanced at him.

’A cleric? That’s it? Then why the hell is he acting like some high priest?’

Of course—he had backing. Someone higher up wanted the armor. This was just the dog sent to fetch it.

Inis Kaka glared at Damon.

"I’ll give you five billion."

Damon’s gaze drifted toward Matia. She was also wearing an Ascendant Armor.

They hadn’t asked for hers.

’So I’m an easier target. A commoner. They think I’m soft.’

"I already told you. The armor cannot be removed from my soul. Even if I wanted to sell it—"

"Seven billion," Inis interrupted, eyes glinting. "That’s more wealth than a lowborn mongrel like you could ever imagine."

The room fell silent.

The professors exchanged looks. This... was going too far.

The headmaster’s expression hardened. He didn’t speak yet—but the weight in the air grew denser.

Then came the final straw.

"I’ll give you one last offer," Inis said coldly. "Sell your Ascendant Armor to the Temple... for ten billion zeni.

Or else."

And before the headmaster could speak—

Damon’s voice rang out.

Icy.

Sharp.

Cold as the winters of Norrath.

"Or else what?"