Chapter 175. Assembling A Team

Adom turned another page in the Book of Primordial Runes, his finger tracing down the ancient symbols carved into the parchment. The candlelight flickered across the intricate drawings, casting shadows that made the runes seem to shift and writhe.

"Where is it..." he muttered, flipping to the next section. "Where is it..."

He'd been at this for over an hour now, cross-referencing his notes and checking every healing-related entry he could find. The book was organized in the most inconvenient way possible—not alphabetically, not by function, but according to some primordial logic that probably made perfect sense to whoever had compiled it thousands of years ago.

Three more pages. Nothing.

Two more pages. Still nothing.

One more page, and—

"Ah."

There it was. A rune that looked like a stylized heart with radiating lines extending outward like veins, surrounded by smaller symbols that seemed to pulse even on the static page.

He knew it was related to healing. The surrounding context made that much clear. But the exact mechanics, the specific applications, the precise way to activate it—all of that remained locked behind layers of meaning he hadn't been able to crack.

Until now, maybe.

Adom leaned back in his chair, staring at the rune while his mind worked through the problem Sam had presented him with. Sam's mother had been in a coma for over six years now, ever since the magical accident that had nearly killed her when Sam first awakened to magic. According to Sam, his whole room had been blasted apart by the uncontrolled surge of power, and his mother had been caught in the aftershock.

It was a hard thing for the young man even now, at nineteen. He blamed himself for not growing up with his mother, for his little sister basically not knowing her either. The guilt had been eating at him for years, a constant weight that he carried but rarely talked about.

The problem was that conventional healing magic had its limits.

Healing worked by accelerating the body's natural recovery processes and providing the energy needed for rapid cellular regeneration. A skilled healer could mend broken bones in minutes, close wounds that would normally take weeks to heal, even regrow lost fingers or toes given enough time and mana.

But there were thresholds. Lines that, once crossed, couldn't be uncrossed with ordinary magic.

Brain damage was one of those lines. When neural tissue was destroyed rather than simply damaged, when entire sections of the brain had been burned away by magical fire, conventional healing could only do so much. The body's natural healing processes didn't include regenerating complex neural networks. You could heal the skull, repair the blood vessels, even regrow brain tissue—but the memories, the personality, the intricate web of connections that made someone who they were... that was beyond what most healing magic could restore.

Sam's mother had also been technically dead for several minutes before the healers had managed to restart her heart. When the brain was deprived of oxygen for that long, when the heart stopped pumping blood for extended periods, damage accumulated that went beyond what simple healing could address.

The healers had managed to save her life, but the person who woke up—if she ever woke up—might not be the same person who had gone to sleep that night years ago.

Adom had considered other options over the years. The alchemical method he'd used on Helios back when they were stuck in the dungeon was one possibility, but that process was incredibly dangerous. Adom had nearly died during that transmutation, and he'd been relatively healthy and prepared. Sam's mother was already in a fragile state. The shock of the process alone might kill her.

Also, vampires were not as common as one might think, which—and Adom was surprised he was even considering this—was a pity in this moment.

Which left him with one solution, really.

The Primordial Rune of Healing.

Adom adjusted his glasses, the familiar weight of the enchanted lenses settling on his nose. The left lens held [Riddler's Bane], which helped him understand magical constructs and their underlying logic. The right lens contained [Revealer's Eye], which let him perceive hidden runes and magical writing that would normally be invisible to the naked eye.

Through the dual enchantments, the Primordial Rune of Healing became clearer. Not completely clear—he wasn't that lucky—but the hidden layers of meaning started to make some sense.

The central heart symbol was actually composed of dozens of smaller runes, each one representing a different aspect of biological function. Blood flow, neural activity, cellular regeneration, immune response. The radiating lines weren't just decorative—they were instruction sets, detailing how the healing energy should be distributed through the body.

And underneath it all, barely visible even with his enhanced sight, were alchemical formulas. Symbols that looked suspiciously like transmutation circles, mixed with medical diagrams that predated modern anatomy by millennia.

It was a complete biological reconstruction protocol.

Adom had never spent too much time on this particular rune before, partly because its complexity had seemed overwhelming and partly because he'd never had a pressing need for healing magic of this magnitude. His own [Primordial Body] made most injuries irrelevant, and the few times he'd needed serious healing, conventional magic had been sufficient.

But now he was determined to find a solution. Sam's face when he'd spoken about his mother, the quiet desperation behind his friend's careful composure—that was worth whatever effort this would require.

The problem was that what he could not have deciphered in years, he would probably not be able to crack in months. Not alone, at least.

He'd need help. Help from people in other fields who could fill in the gaps in his knowledge.

A healer, definitely. Someone who understood the medical side of what this rune was trying to accomplish. His mother would be the obvious choice, Maria had years of experience with complex healing cases, and she knew Sam personally.

An alchemist would be essential too. Those transmutation symbols embedded in the rune's structure suggested that this healing process involved more than just magical energy. It might require specific compounds, carefully prepared solutions, maybe even physical transformation of the damaged tissue before the healing could take effect. Mia would be perfect for that. She had the expertise and, more importantly, she'd be willing to work on something this experimental.

For runicologists, which would be the most important part of deciphering the rune's actual activation sequence, he had himself and Kim. Kim's approach to runic analysis was different from his own—more intuitive, less systematic—and that complementary perspective might be exactly what he needed to crack this thing.

And then his eyes widened as another possibility occurred to him.

There was Vivian's mother. Lysandra Kallistrate.

Footsteps suddenly echoed in the hallway outside his room, followed by a gentle knock at the door.

"Come in," Adom called, not looking up from the book.

His mother's head appeared around the doorframe, her dark hair slightly mussed and her robes wrinkled from what had probably been a long day. She took in the scene—Adom hunched over the ancient tome with his enchanted glasses on, candles burning low, papers scattered across his desk—and her expression shifted to that particular blend of concern and exasperation that mothers seemed to perfect.

"Bennu told me what happened this morning," Maria said, stepping fully into the room. "The advancement, the runes, the voices. Are you alright?"

Adom finally looked up, blinking as his eyes adjusted to focusing on something more than six inches away. "I'm okay. Still processing it all, but okay."

"You've been in here for hours. Have you eaten anything?"

"I had breakfast."

"That was eighteen hours ago."

Had it really been that long? Adom glanced toward the window and was surprised to see that the full moon. No wonder the candles were burning so low.

"I... got distracted," he admitted.

Maria moved closer, her healer's instincts automatically assessing him for signs of exhaustion or magical strain. "The advancement didn't cause any lingering effects? No headaches, no disorientation?"

"Nothing like that. If anything, I feel better than usual. More... balanced."

"Good. Though I'd like to examine you properly tomorrow, just to be safe. Spontaneous advancement is rare, and when it involves unknown runic inscription..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Well, it's not something I want to leave to chance."

Adom nodded absently, his mind already shifting back to the problem at hand. His mother's presence here was actually perfect timing.

"Actually," he said, "there's a favor I need to ask you. And it's good that you're here."

"What is it?"

"It's about Sam."

*****

The day after...

"Alright, everyone," Adom called out as he stood from his desk, a stack of graded exams in his hands. "Time to see how badly I've crushed your academic spirits this week."

A ripple of nervous laughter went through the classroom. Twenty-three students sat forward in their chairs, some with confidence, others with the resigned expression of people about to receive disappointing news.

Adom began making his way through the rows, placing papers face-down on desks. He'd learned years ago that the anticipation was almost worse than the actual grades, so he tried to move quickly while still offering his usual commentary.

"Miss Chen," he said, placing her paper down with a small smile. "Eighty-seven. Your theoretical framework on mana binding was particularly well-reasoned."

The girl beamed, clearly relieved.

"Mr. Aldrich." Adom set down the next paper. "Seventy-nine. Your practical applications section was creative, though I'm not entirely convinced that using runic amplification to heat bathwater counts as 'advanced magical theory.'"

A few students chuckled. Marcus looked sheepish but pleased with his grade.

"Miss Hartwell, eighty-three. Solid work across the board, but next time try to write legibly enough that I don't need to consult an ancient divination ritual to read your answers."

More laughter. The girl in question grinned and immediately started examining her paper.

Adom continued his circuit, offering encouragement and gentle ribbing in equal measure. Most of the class had done well—grades in the seventies and eighties, with a few outstanding papers scattered throughout. The material was challenging, but his students were rising to meet it.

"Mr. Whitmore," he said, approaching Thomas's desk. "Eighty-one. Much better than your last exam. Apparently being caught cheating was exactly the motivation you needed."

Thomas flushed red but managed a smile. "Thank you, Professor."

"Though I do hope you've retired that communication device permanently."

"Yes, sir. Definitely, sir."

Adom moved on, suppressing his amusement. The boy had been a model student ever since the cheating incident, probably terrified of being caught in any further academic misconduct.

He approached Eren's desk and set the paper down with perhaps more flourish than strictly necessary.

"Ninety-six," he announced. "Second highest in the class."

Eren looked up with raised eyebrows. "Second?"

"Don't let it go to your head. You missed a few points on the practical applications section. Apparently, all that confidence doesn't automatically translate to perfect execution."

"Who got first?" Eren asked, though his tone suggested he already suspected the answer.

Adom didn't respond immediately, instead continuing to the front row where Vivian sat with her hands folded neatly on her desk, her expression carefully neutral.

"Miss Hartwell," he said, placing her paper down with ceremonial precision. "One hundred out of one hundred. Again."

A few students groaned good-naturedly. Vivian's perfect scores had become something of a running joke in the class—not because anyone resented her for it, but because her consistency was almost supernatural.

"Show-off," someone called out from the back of the room, followed by more laughter.

Vivian's cheeks turned slightly pink, but she managed a small smile. "I just study hard."

"Study hard?" Adom repeated with exaggerated disbelief. "Miss Hartwell, I'm fairly certain you could recite the theoretical principles of advanced runic manipulation in your sleep. At this point, I'm considering just giving you the answer key and having you grade your own exams."

"Please don't," Vivian said quickly, looking genuinely alarmed at the prospect.

"Don't worry. I wouldn't deprive myself of the pleasure of reading your perfectly formatted, completely correct responses to my carefully crafted questions."

He finished distributing the remaining papers and returned to the front of the classroom.

"Overall, I'm pleased with your performance," he said, settling back against his desk. "The average was eighty-two, which suggests you're actually paying attention during my lectures instead of just pretending to take notes while planning your weekend activities."

A few guilty looks were exchanged among the students.

"However," Adom continued, "I notice that several of you are still struggling with the practical application portions of these exams. Remember, runic theory is only useful if you can actually implement it in real-world scenarios. Next week, we'll be spending more time on hands-on exercises."

A student in the middle row raised her hand. "Will we be working with actual runes, Professor?"

"Basic ones, yes. Nothing that will accidentally level the classroom." He paused for effect. "Probably."

More nervous laughter.

"Any other questions about the exam?" Adom looked around the room. "No? Good. Then that concludes today's lesson. Remember, chapter twelve for next week, and I want a two-page analysis of the historical development of binding runes. Not one and three-quarter pages. Not 'two pages' written in eighteen-point font. Two actual pages of substantive analysis."

Students began gathering their belongings with the usual post-class chatter and rustling of papers. Chairs scraped against the floor as people stood and stretched.

"Oh, and those of you who scored below seventy-five," Adom added, raising his voice slightly over the noise, "my office hours are Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. I recommend taking advantage of them unless you enjoy the thrill of disappointing grades."

The classroom began to empty in the typical pattern—eager students rushing out to their next destination, others lingering to discuss their grades with friends, a few approaching his desk with questions about specific answers.

Adom fielded the usual inquiries with patience. Yes, the question about mana resonance frequency was meant to be that difficult. No, he wouldn't accept a regrade request based on "I think I deserved more points for creativity." Yes, the material would be on the next exam as well.

As the last of the question-askers departed, Adom noticed Vivian gathering her materials with her usual methodical precision. She was taking longer than necessary, which typically meant she had something on her mind.

He approached her desk as she was sliding her perfect exam into her perfectly organized folder.

"Miss Hartwell," he said quietly, "I was wondering if I could speak with your mother again. As soon as possible, if that's convenient."

Vivian looked up, her expression shifting to something more attentive. "Of course, Professor. Is everything alright?"

"Nothing urgent," Adom assured her. "I have a research question that falls into her area of expertise."

"I'll let her know tonight. I'm sure she'll be happy to meet with you." Vivian finished packing her bag and stood. "Should I have her contact you directly, or would you prefer to arrange something through me?"

"Either way works. Though sooner rather than later would be appreciated."

"I understand." Vivian slung her bag over her shoulder and headed toward the door. "I'll make sure she knows it's a priority."

"Thank you."

Adom watched her leave, then began organizing his own materials. The classroom was nearly empty now, just the usual post-class detritus of forgotten quills and crumpled papers scattered across the floor.

He was reaching for his grade book when he realized someone was still sitting in the back row.

Eren hadn't moved from his seat. He was staring down at his exam paper, but his posture suggested he wasn't actually reading it. More like he was using it as an excuse to remain in the classroom.

Adom finished gathering his things and waited. Experience had taught him that when Eren lingered after class like this, he usually had something important to discuss. Pushing him to speak before he was ready rarely produced good results.

The silence stretched for nearly a minute. Then Eren finally looked up and made eye contact.

Without a word, he stood and made his way down to the front of the classroom, his footsteps echoing in the now-empty space.