Theodore Chrono

by Shanon Chong

  For

  My Friends, Gary Yao, Thomas Pugh, Chantelle Cottren and Theeraphat Sompawa, for you have kept me alive to this day. Thanks for reading the first manuscripts I wrote; I hold you all dear to my heart.

  To all my friends not mentioned, I hold you just as dear. However, the four I mentioned, have helped me significantly

  To My Tutor and Teachers, Amelia Patrick, Hanya Abbasszadeh, Ms Dominique Doquile, Ms Ahsley Farry and Mr Minhtu Nguyen, whom I have either talked to or gotten encouragement from. Thank you for supporting my writing.

  And to my Mother, who has always helped me when it came to my dreams and passion.

  Thank You.

  Theodore Chrono:

  The Sanctuary of Evil

  By Shanon Chong

  Copyright © 2020 by Shanon Chong

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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  Email publisher, subject “Attention: Permissions Coordinator”.

  Ordering Information

  Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the us at details below.

  Contact Details

  Email: ShanonChong.Author@gmail.com

  Website: www.shanonchong.com

  Cover design and artwork by Gary Yao

  Printed in Australia

  A catalogue record for this work is available from the National Library of Australia

  ISBN

  978-0-6488180-1-4

  Edition

  First Published 28 March 2020

  Prologue

  Bloodstains covered the walls of the enclosed stone dungeon as a single pale enemy stood before me. Six years of gruelling torture, arduous training, and exhausting travelling. I turned to look at the hellishly evil being staring me in the eyes. Its ominous voice brought forth the reckoning of a nation.

  “Our fated battle approaches, child of truth.”

  “How did I get here…” I muttered. How did I get here? I couldn’t sense any distortion in the nearby timestream…almost as though none of this had ever happened.

  I’ll explain my situation, the entire six years that led to me defending a nation. Let’s go back six years and one month.

  * * * * *

  My dark brown hair swayed before my eyes. I had not cut it in quite some time. I tried to brush it away. Most of it sprang back in front of my face. I stared into the river beside me. I’d been here for at least three hours now. I blinked several times before feeling a slight tugging at my shirt. I turned to face a shorter figure scowling slightly at me.

  “Why did you bring me here, Theo?” she asked, with slight scorn staining her voice.

  “Why?” I smiled at her. Her auburn hair lay untied and unrestricted. Her brown eyes stared at mine, questioning my intentions. “It's beautiful out here. I was hoping to let you have an experience outside the Capital!” I declared confidently.

  “Don’t talk like I’ve never left the Capital. Anyway, I came to tell you that you got an invitation from the Royal Academy of Arcana,” she stated unenthusiastically.

  “What?”

  “You want me to feed your already massive ego? I’ll see you in a month when school actually starts.”

  “Send me a letter with the details!” I shouted after her already-leaving figure.

  “I left it on your living room table!” she replied quickly.

  I turned back to the nature I considered a highlight of the rather bland town I lived in. Looking around, the trees seemed more alive than ever. Holding an arm out, I waited.

  A single dove floated to the finger I had left outstretched.

  A grin rose to my face as I tilted my head skyward.

  “I guess it’s time to leave.” Chapter 1: The Time to Leave

  As I entered the room, a misty purple haze obscured the miniature glass skylight embedded in the curved stone roof. The mist floated out of the pitifully small ventilation grate, placed far too close to the door. Piper’s energetic figure greeted me with a small wave, flitting from desk to desk and adjusting the amount of ingredients in whatever potion she was creating… Well, “potion” described it badly. “Vial of horror” gave a better description of the ink-like liquid crawling up the beaker’s edge.

  “Theo!” she shouted enthusiastically, her youthful face turning to regard me. “How’s packing going?” She was referring to my lucky acceptance into the Academy, the most prestigious school on the mainland. I knew the genius before me had attended the same school just over a decade earlier.

  “Swimmingly,” I replied, waving my hand in front of my nose, sending the scent elsewhere. Attempting to keep my dignity, I added, “My bags can’t fit the extra luggage you gave me.”

  “Shame. There was a love potion in that batch, too,” she muttered, not surprised or betrayed in any way by my response. She turned away from me and fiddled with the dial of the distillery’s flame, focusing her attention on the brewing stand’s customised extremities.

  “You know I don’t need the love potion, Piper. I’m already betrothed.” I remembered the farewell gift I had brought my second-best teacher, and I presented it with a casual comment. “Cake. I thought you’d want to make something fiendish with the baked goods of our village.”

  “How nice…” her voice had lost some of its spry, young hop as she grabbed a pitch-black boiling vial of what appeared to be death. “Clear the path, lover boy.” She made a beeline toward the cake.

  “Don’t ruin it.” I chuckled sarcastically, taking a step back to avoid receiving a faceful of possibly toxic green mist emanating from the now potion-soaked cake. As Piper examined the results of her experiment, the remainder of the liquid dripped, forming a pool of liquid death at her feet. “Want me to come back later? I depart in the afternoon.” I notice that she is clearly focused on the aftermath of her quick test, her expression now one of bewilderment.

  “Yes, I’d appreciate that,” she replied, focusing on me for a split second before realising I was going to leave. Her concentration returned to the cake, which was bubbling like magma on the stained, thick stone bench.

  Leaving the room, I watched her reach for the potion rack containing several vials of clear, untouched water. Outside the room, I heard a crash, and I reflexively turned to check on my friend: green mist floated out from the crack between the door and the floor.

  “I’m okay!” she shouted, urging me to forget about her until the evening.

  The private alchemy laboratory that had been created centuries ago by the founders of our village, and the name of the alchemist who had used the room every day for her elusive experiments was engraved in the wall, next to the door: Ashleigh Merases. The infamous name was one of the few prides our village would carry on its shoulders for the decades to come. The laboratory, built from a stone common to the village was similar to the school that it was housed within. Both stood like ancient ruins on top the hill. The building had gone through several refurbishments, and the interior now looked the part of a modern Arcanan school. The Capital of Arcana hadn’t provided much funding for the education of those who lived far away from the main cities in the centre of our territory.

  Teachers glared at me as I passed, many of them having tau
ght me before. Hoping to bid farewell to my teachers, my intentions remained pure. However, they regarded me as a traitor…a dirty defector who would leave the country suburbs for the Capital. Despite this, none of them held any actual personal grudges against me.

  Piper, being a former student under the Royal Academy’s banner, had initially been greeted with a slight tinge of disdain. However, shortly afterwards, she had been accepted as one of the few teachers at the country education institute. Being the honours student she was, Piper Merases knew what she was doing. Having graduated from the highest-scoring class in the entire Royal Academy, she taught her passion in the village school her ancestor had created. Of the many rumours that circulated about our friendly teacher, the one of most prominence was the offer for her to teach at the northern branch of the Royal Academy, named the Academy Northsoul. She had mentioned many times that she had declined the offer politely and professionally. However, this contradicted our anonymous source residing within our school’s staff room, who stated that she had kicked up a huge ruckus on her graduation day, begging the principal to not send her to Northsoul.

  The recently renovated classrooms approached as I maintained my already swift pace. The paper-thin walls did little to soften the unease I felt as I noticed my most recent classroom, the dragon class. Meant for the most elite of the students within our limited village, it garnered attention from the more seasoned mages of our village. However, none could complain about our teacher, Mr Defargo, the strongest and, arguably, the most talented mage in the village. The Capital’s ranking system would classify him as a tier ten, part of the smallest percentile of mages. Tier ten was the final step on the ten-step ladder that many referred to as standard for all of Arcana. The number above the tier six was already at a small ten per centile. It was probably because of this that it didn’t take him long to realise I was reminiscing in front of the familiar classroom door.

  The hinges shifted slightly, prompting me to leap backwards, against the wall that stopped me from plummeting three storeys. The door swung open aggressively, and Mr Defargo, getting on in his years, stood tall and proud, not letting those years affect him in the slightest.

  “Theodore, are you here to mock me?” he joked. His sullen stare hadn’t changed since the first day we had met him. As he leant on the doorframe, students of my age gathered to watch me get verbally executed in public.

  “Mr Defargo, I would never mock you,” I said, beginning my two-part defense. “You are the best teacher I’ve had so far.” I took a step forward defiantly, realising that I was safe within the fortress-like school.

  “Reminiscing on the great times you had in my class as you leave for the Royal Academy of Magic?” he mentioned sarcastically. He’d hit the nail on the head, and I replied with a light, uncomfortable cough. “I knew it!” he exclaimed with joy as if he were my age. His slight leap gave an indication that his old bones weren’t done yet.

  “What did you greet me for?” I asked bluntly, understanding the fact that my path of escape remained sealed.

  His aged blue eyes stared me down, and his back lost the slight hunch he showed to the world. “Do you know what it means to test your mettle?” he asked, taking an alternate path to the possible argument that could spark.

  “I do,” I murmured, hoping my reluctance to “test my mettle” would steer him in the opposite direction: into the classroom to continue to teach.

  “Class, we’re going to have our traitor demonstrate his magic,” he announced. Turning to look at me, he added quietly, “If you back out now, they’ll all remember you as a coward.” The sly grin stared me down. At that moment, I realised my verbal execution had been upgraded to a public execution.

  “So, we’re sparring?” I asked hesitantly, knowing my strength would improve with time if I didn’t get myself crippled at this moment.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he replied, noticing my apprehension. He looked out the stone arch window that revealed the location of our battle, the overgrown courtyard.

  The multiple flights of stairs called, and we descended to reach the impending doom that approached. Mr Defargo hadn’t attended any prestigious academies like the Royal Academy of Magic. However, all of the teachers had fed us tales of his absolute prowess in battle. Mr Defargo didn’t tell us his tales to induce fear; he spoke of them like fleeting memories of a better past. That point alone made the entire class fear him. He had earned the respect of a class of arrogant, cocky students. I didn’t fear Mr Defargo… Well, I did, but it was more respect than fear. Having not pinned a name to the feeling, it acted as a deterrence from offending the strongest mage in my village.

  “Behold! Our arena!” he declared in childlike fervour, his enjoyment expressed in a small grin. Wondering whether he enjoyed demolishing those significantly weaker than him, I lost focus on the surroundings. Eventually, Mr Defargo decided to end our awkward silence. “No matter what the outcome, I’ve got an item from your father. After the fight, of course.”

  “Huh?” I exhaled in disbelief. The father who had been physically absent for the ten years had left me a gift? “What about my father?” I asked, wondering if the traitor within my family had tried in any way to repent for his actions. Having left me at the young age of five, I had experienced ten years of relative solitude. The reclusive entity that my father had represented for the first five years of my life hadn’t exactly left me stable psychologically. However, I also understood that no matter what had happened, my mother would tell me to forgive him.

  “I know you don’t have the best relationship with your father, but knowing him, it’s either you or the world,” Mr Defargo replied.

  Even if he were right about my father, I already knew in my heart I wanted the care and compassion that everyone else experienced. “Well, what’s the item?” I asked impatiently, hoping to avoid the fight. Knowing Mr Defargo, though, he wouldn’t give a dime for my question.

  His smile radiated confidence and his leisurely attitude about the approaching battle. “Don’t worry; I think you’ll like it,” he announced. “Well, are you ready to fight?” He drew runes on his hands, essential preparation for the conflict he’d instigated. “Since you’re so good with runes, I’ll let you prepare.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I muttered slyly, drawing runes across the dirt. “I mean, I beat you outright in rune knowledge.” I proceeded cockily, the interlocking grid of runes meshing to change the environment slowly to my liking. “These illusions are as realistic as they get.”

  “I’ve fought in every environment you can explore on this planet.” Mr Defargo’s short reply denied me the upper hand in the mental battle that sparked between us. His logical and structured fighting style had been demonstrated multiple times in the past. He didn’t use any flashy, unique magic, which was the way to have your name be spread. Being above tier ten was already a lucrative title: the titled mages…they were select few who were credited by the Council of Mages as the strongest within the borders of Arcana.

  “Well, I doubt our battle will take long,” I declared, remembering his previous statement. The idea that he had already seen the desert-like environment that I mimicked with runes was not entirely unrealistic. The southern border of Arcana was mainly desert and small rainforests assisted by the scalding heat. Having not actually experienced the southern deserts, I couldn’t replicate the entire experience.

  “Let us begin,” Mr Defargo announced, taking a low, wide stance, his legs spaced slightly further than shoulder-width apart, a common martial arts pose. The runes on his hands glowed a deep red. Simply read; his rune was for quickly casting magic. The lack of a tome or staff dictated that either a mage would draw quick-cast runes on their hands or cast with another conduit of magic. However, this rule was exposed by the test of time as fiction after mages who created their own unique magics took the scene during the Essence Wars several centuries ago.

  “Spirits of the wind, I beseech thee, give me your strength!” I exclaimed, relying on s
tandard incantations that turned obsolete after learning to use magic by tome or by staff. Chants and incantations were no longer a viable option for mages at the peak to use in battle. The air surrounding me sharpened and targeted Mr Defargo. Knowing my timing to be perfect, I erased the single rune binding the array, turning the slightly damp grass into searing-hot sand.

  “Slightly too slow,” Mr Defargo commented on my technique. “Your runes are ineffective; you probably could have made the illusion half a second faster.” He avoided the blades of air that attacked him. His hands pointed in my general direction, and a puddle of water dampened the sand below me. Sinking slightly, the remainder of the spell rose to restrict me. Noticing a second too late for a slight adjustment, I opted for a riskier approach.

  Leaping upwards with the little raw strength within my legs gave me the elevation required for my escape from the cage of water that had nearly confined me and spelled my defeat.

  I had already lost focus on my opponent’s position, though; Mr Defargo’s figure flashed to the edges of the dome-like array that trapped him. His intention was clear: to break the illusion. With the knowledge required to foil his plan, I raised my arms to cast my own magic.

  “Light of the sky, I implore you to bend to my will,” I chanted, wasting precious time actually executing the plan. Targeting Mr Defargo’s elderly body, the beams of light homed in on him, going for the kill.

  “Smart boy!” he roared, raising the shield of runes he had hidden carefully.

  Reading the runes, I realised his true intention, and I ran with all my might, my lungs losing air as I rapidly tried to reach a position where I could nullify them. Inverting his multi-layered defensive mechanism, I broke his defence before a single spot of light had touched the shield.