The Strongest Student of the Weakest Academy - Chapter 246

Chapter 246: Aestrea Against The World (XXIII)

The smoke continued to pour slowly from Aestrea’s eyes, thin and pale like it was drawn straight from the moon itself, swirling gently in the air around his face.

He leaned to the side, his cheek resting against his knuckles, looking down at the two figures below with a blank expression.

His voice had no malice, but that somehow made it worse.

“Shall we talk now?” he repeated, his tone almost bored, like the entire display had been nothing more than a brief inconvenience.

The throne creaked slightly beneath him as he crossed one leg over the other, his body completely relaxed.

A king without a crown. A moon without a sky. And still, somehow, everything revolved around him.

The Elven Emperor didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

His hands were glowing, trembling slightly as he tried again and again to channel mana into his wife.

But each time, the healing light would flicker and die before it reached her chest. She was breathing heavily, her skin pale and clammy, pupils unfocused.

Her mouth opened every now and then, but no words came out, just a soft, broken sound… like something had been ripped out of her.

Because it had as her soul had been damaged.

“She can’t hear you, you know,” Aestrea said casually, waving two fingers in the air like he was batting away a fly.

“Or at least, not fully. The pressure I used was… internal. Quite gentle even. You asked me to stop, didn’t you?”

He let out a small sigh, turning his head slightly to crack his neck.

“I did stop.”

The Emperor finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot. His voice came out hoarse.

“You… didn’t have to…”

But Aestrea raised one hand again, slowly, and the Emperor’s words stopped in his throat.

His entire body froze for a moment, his breath catching, like some animal suddenly sensing the predator still hadn’t finished playing.

“I didn’t have to,” Aestrea repeated, his voice still soft.

“But I wanted to.”

His fingers slowly curled into a loose fist and then opened again, as if playing with invisible strings.

“You know… It’s strange. I was always told I was the Vessel of the Moon, but I never had the lunar attribute…”

He turned his gaze toward the Empress.

“But she had it,” he whispered.

“She had my light.”

The Empress flinched, just slightly, even though her body was barely responsive.

Aestrea’s voice had reached her somehow, like it slipped through the cracks in her soul and found the part of her still conscious.

“That light didn’t belong to her,” he said slowly, his tone growing quieter, colder, the smoke from his eyes curling tighter around his face like ghostly fingers.

“That mark… it should’ve been mine. I don’t know how she got it. Maybe you used her. Maybe she took it herself.”

He leaned forward slightly, his elbows now resting on his knees, fingers laced together like he was a teacher giving a final lesson.

“But when something’s stolen… You don’t just ask for it back.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“You take it.”

A long silence followed.

Not even the wind dared stir.

The Emperor finally opened his mouth again, his voice barely audible.

“…What do you want?”

Aestrea’s expression didn’t change.

He sat back again, tapping the armrest of the throne with one finger in a steady rhythm.

Tap, tap…

“What do I want…?” he echoed, pretending to think.

“Hmm. Good question.”

The smoke was getting thicker now, swirling slowly downward from his face, creeping along the steps below the throne like silver fog.

“I could say I want answers. I could say I want control. Or maybe revenge, right? That’s what you’re expecting.”

Tap, tap, tap…..

He stopped tapping.

His eyes locked onto the Emperor’s with a sudden sharpness.

“But honestly?”

He tilted his head.

“I just want you to understand something very simple.”

The throne creaked as he stood up again, slowly, smoothly. The smoke followed him like a loyal pet, circling his feet.

“I am not your weapon. I am not your prophecy. And I am not your moon.”

He took one step forward.

Thud!

The sound echoed loudly against the cold floor.

“I am something else.”

Another step.

THUD.

The pressure in the room began to rise again, faintly.

Like the walls were leaning in.

“And if you want to survive me…”

THUD.

He was halfway down the steps of the throne now, the moonlight from his eyes illuminating the frost-cracked tiles below.

“Then you will kneel again.”

His voice grew quieter with each word.

“Not for your wife. Not for your people. Not even for peace.”

He stopped in front of the Emperor.

He looked down on him, cold and unmoved.

“You’ll kneel… for me.”

And then, after a moment, he whispered…

“Or next time…”

He glanced at the Empress, still barely breathing.

“I’ll take the rest of her soul.”

The moment the Elven Emperor’s eyes met Aestrea’s, a sharp chill ran down his spine, so sudden and deep it made his breath catch in his throat.

Instinctively, his head lowered, and he averted his gaze without a word.

Aestrea let the silence linger for a moment before finally speaking, his tone cold and direct, cutting straight through the tension like a blade.

“That aside… where is Yggdrasil?”

The Emperor flinched slightly. His shoulders tensed, his brows drew into a tight line, and his lips pressed together as if the very name had left a bad taste in his mouth. For a moment, he hesitated.

But there was no other choice.

“…It’s beneath the Golden Tree,” he said at last, his voice low and reluctant.

Aestrea turned slightly, his gaze drifting toward the tall window at the side of the chamber.

Beyond the glass, in the distance, a radiant tree of gold stood tall against the sky, its massive roots twisting into the earth like they were holding something down.

“That one?” Aestrea asked casually, raising a finger toward it.

“That big glowing thing?”

The Emperor gave a small nod.

“Yes…”

“Mhm,” Aestrea murmured, still watching the golden tree with faint disinterest. Then, suddenly, he turned back toward the Emperor, his tone shifting slightly.

“Do you know what this means?”

He tilted his head as he spoke, like he was recalling an old riddle.

“North of the Abyss.

Where light never reaches.

Where even gods forgot to look.”

As soon as the words left his lips, the Elven Emperor visibly stiffened.

His eyes widened, not just with surprise, but with fear.

Raw, undeniable fear.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of Aestrea’s mouth the moment he saw the change in the man’s face.

Ah… so he knows.

That reaction told him everything he needed to know.

“…So you do know…”

Aestrea’s voice lingered like a quiet warning.

Then he leaned forward just a little, resting his elbow on the throne’s arm and his chin in his palm, eyes still glowing faintly like twin moons behind a veil of smoke.

“Then… tell me.”

His voice dropped lower, almost teasing.

“What does it mean?”

The Elven Emperor looked as if something cold had been poured down his back. He didn’t speak right away. His lips parted… then closed. His jaw tightened, and his fingers curled at his sides.

Finally, his voice came out.

“…It’s the beginning line.”

“To what?” Aestrea asked softly, though the sharpness in his tone was like a dagger.

The Emperor’s shoulders sagged.

“To a curse,” he admitted.

“A 9th-level one.”

That made Aestrea raise an eyebrow slighly, but deep inside, he was already fueled by rage.

“…Go on.”

The Emperor slowly met his eyes again, though his own were trembling.

“It’s a curse that… only activates when two people willingly make a deal. A sacred vow, sealed by intention. And the one who remembers the phrase after the deal is done…”

He paused.

“…becomes cursed.”

Aestrea’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

He let him continue.

“The curse brings bad luck. Misfortune. Misalignment of fate. Accidents… war… betrayal. One after the other. Tiny things at first—losing your balance, breaking objects, getting injured by chance…”

His voice grew softer.

“Then bigger things. Being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Watching people you love die from the consequences of your actions. Watching everything fall apart, knowing it started with you.”

He swallowed, his eyes full of some bitter memory.

“It’s old magic. Long before elves began recording spells in language. It was passed through blood… through instinct. No one uses it anymore. It’s forgotten for a reason.”

Aestrea was quiet for a moment.

Just a flick of his fingers, as if brushing dust off the side of his leg.

Then he chuckled.

“…How dramatic.”

The Emperor stared at him.

But Aestrea was no longer looking at him.

Instead, his eyes had turned back toward the window… toward the golden tree standing tall in the distance.

Still smiling faintly, his voice dropped into a whisper.

“…Those bastards really tried to manipulate me, huh?”

Aestrea’s lips curled up slighly.

“You want to play? Let’s fucking play then.”