The gala was at its peak. A thousand voices joined in a toast to the King when the music didn't just stop—it shattered.
A low, resonant chime echoed through the Citadel, a sound that bypassed the ears and vibrated directly into the marrow of the bone. It was the Abyssal Bell, an artifact that had not rung since the Great War.
The Great Hall fell into a terrifying silence. Then, the screaming began.
The massive stained-glass windows at the North end of the hall exploded inward. Instead of shards of glass, a wave of thick, oily black smoke poured in. This wasn't ordinary smoke; it was the Miasma, the same substance that had heralded the destruction of Oakhaven.
"To arms!" Master Alicia's voice roared over the panic. She had discarded her formal gown in a heartbeat, her red armor appearing in a flash of summoning magic.
But as the mages in the room raised their hands to cast, something went wrong. The floating candles fell to the floor, their light extinguished. The glowing runes on the walls flickered and died. A wave of profound weakness washed over the Elites.
"The mana..." Andrew gasped, falling to one knee. "It's... it's being drained. I can't feel my core!"
It was the Great Ebb. A localized mana-drought caused by the opening of a high-tier rift. To a mage, it was like suddenly trying to breathe in a vacuum.
Matthew, however, felt the opposite.
As the mana was sucked out of the room, his Null Core began to roar. The hunger in his chest was finally being fed by the chaotic energy of the rift. He stood tall while the Rank 4 and 5 mages around him collapsed.
"Matthew!" the Dean's voice appeared in his head, a telepathic link straining against the interference. "The North Gate has been breached. The 'S-Class' entity is here. The mages are useless in this drought. You... you are the only one who can move."
Matthew looked at his friends. Andre was frantically checking his mechanical gadgets, which were failing as their power cells drained. Lyra was leaning against a pillar, her white flame reduced to a pathetic, flickering spark.
"Andre, get to the armory. Use the manual-cranked artifacts I helped you build," Matthew commanded. The authority in his voice was no longer that of a student—it was the echo of the Brave One standing at the Iron Gate. "Andrew, rally the F-Class. They have the least mana, so they'll recover the fastest. Use physical weapons!"
He turned to Lyra. She looked pale, her power being stripped away by the Ebb.
"I... I can't fight like this," she whispered, her pride breaking.
"Yes, you can," Matthew said. He grabbed her hand.
Using the forbidden technique from the black book, Matthew didn't consume. He reversed the flow of his Void-Well. He took the chaotic, raw mana he had just 'eaten' from the air and filtered it through his Aegis Dampers, pushing it into Lyra.
It was like pouring lightning into a silk bag. Lyra's eyes snapped open, turning a brilliant, terrifying violet-white. Her sword erupted in a flame that didn't just burn; it tore through the Miasma, fueled by the energy of the Void itself.
"The North Gate?" she asked, her voice crackling with power.
"The North Gate," Matthew confirmed, drawing his iron dagger and the heavy whetstone Silas had given him.
As they ran out of the ballroom and into the chaos of the night, Matthew realized the "peace" was a memory. The training was over. The Academy was no longer a school; it was a fortress under siege. And he was no longer a Zero.
He was the vanguard of the end.