The Cursed Extra-Chapter 118: [2.66] A Tale of Bureaucracy and Self-Loathing

Chapter 118: [2.66] A Tale of Bureaucracy and Self-Loathing

"There is no failure more bitter than the one you bring back to someone you’d die for."

***

The Agora pressed in on Lyra from every direction.

Shelves bowed under the weight of gleaming armor that caught the light like captured stars. Glass display cases housed enchanted weapons that hummed with barely contained power. Silk-robed merchants called out their wares in practiced sing-song voices while apprentices scurried between stalls with arms laden with wrapped packages.

It was a world of power, condensed and displayed for consumption.

She was here to buy a small piece of it.

Lyra placed a meticulously written requisition slip on the counter. Each movement designed to draw minimal attention. Her fingers released the parchment with the restraint of a servant who understood that excessive gestures invited scrutiny.

The document displayed Kaelen’s unmistakable handwriting. Neat yet unremarkable. The kind of script that eyes passed over without lingering.

Just like the public persona he cultivated with such deliberate care.

One vial of Flash-Powder. Five ounces of Niter-Dust. A spool of quick-fuse.

The quartermaster, a stout dwarf whose iron-gray hair was elaborately braided into his beard, looked up from his massive leather-bound ledger. The tome before him was thick as a man’s torso. Its pages yellowed with age and covered in cramped notations that tracked every transaction this shop had processed since before most current students were born.

His hands, thick-fingered and marked with permanent calluses, drummed impatiently against the counter’s scarred surface. Deep-set brown eyes narrowed with the instinctive wariness of a man who had spent half a lifetime denying students the tools to cause mayhem.

"For Young Master Leone," Lyra announced.

Her tone was perfectly balanced. Respectful enough to acknowledge the quartermaster’s authority while carrying the quiet insistence expected from someone representing a noble house. However diminished.

She kept her hands folded before her apron. The picture of patient servitude.

The dwarf’s bushy eyebrows climbed toward his hairline as he examined the order. He flipped the slip over with deliberate slowness. The parchment crackled softly between his calloused fingers.

His scrutiny lingered on the wax seal bearing the Leone family crest. Once proud. Now faded and slightly chipped at the edges where age and neglect had worn away the once-sharp impressions.

"Leone? House Onyx?" He reached for a large rubber stamp. Its wooden handle worn smooth from countless uses. The red ink pad beside it stained dark from years of denials and approvals. "Rank 1 students and below are restricted from purchasing tactical alchemical components. Academy regulations, section twelve, subsection four."

A heavy thump.

The sound echoed through the shop like a judge’s gavel delivering sentence.

Red ink bled into the parchment. Spread through the fibers like a wound refusing to clot.

DENIED.

A raw, gaping accusation on the face of their plan.

"But sir," Lyra began. Her fingers tightened on the counter’s edge before she caught herself and relaxed them.

A servant’s hands should never betray tension.

"The order is for educational purposes. Young Master Leone is conducting research for Professor Delacroix’s theoretical foundations course."

The dwarf snorted. A sound like steam escaping from a forge bellows. His beard quivered with the force of it.

"Research, is it? Tell me, lass, what theoretical application requires flash-powder and quick-fuse?"

He leaned forward. Brought with him the scent of pipe smoke and metal polish. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow managed to carry judgment rather than secrecy.

"I’ve been running this shop for thirty-seven years. Thirty-seven years of watching bright-eyed students try to talk their way past these regulations. I know the difference between research and mischief, and this order smells like the latter dressed up in academic robes."

Heat crept up Lyra’s neck. Bloomed beneath her collar like a brand.

But she maintained her composed facade. Her expression remained the pleasant, empty mask of a servant receiving unwelcome news. Disappointed but accepting. As was proper for someone of her station.

Inside, however, something darker stirred.

The quartermaster’s dismissive tone. His casual assumption that her master’s needs were nothing more than a student’s prank.

It took more effort than she cared to admit to keep her hands still. To resist the urge to reach across the counter and teach him the consequences of denying her master anything.

"I’ll convey your decision to Young Master Leone," she said instead.

The words smooth as honey poured over broken glass.

"You do that. And remind him that rank restrictions exist for good reason. These components in the wrong hands..."

The dwarf shook his head. Set his beard-braids swaying.

"Well, let’s just say the infirmary sees enough students as it is. Last month alone we had three incidents involving improperly mixed accelerants. One poor lad still hasn’t grown his eyebrows back."

Lyra folded the denied slip with careful, methodical movements. Creased the paper along straight lines before tucking it into her apron pocket where it sat against her hip like a stone.

She offered a shallow bow. Exactly deep enough to acknowledge his authority without suggesting she agreed with his judgment.

Then she turned away.

Her steps were slow despite the frustration burning in her chest. Each footfall placed with deliberate care. She refused to let her emotions show through her gait.

Behind her, she heard the dwarf muttering to his assistant. His voice carried in the way of someone who no longer cared who overheard.

"Ambitious youngsters, always thinking they’re the exception. Safety protocols exist for reasons they’re too young and too foolish to understand..."

The walk back to Room 247 was a silent march of recrimination.

Every scrape of her sensible shoes on the stone floor echoed the quartermaster’s derisive snort. The corridors of the academic wing stretched before her. Lined with portraits of distinguished alumni whose painted eyes seemed to track her passage with aristocratic disdain.

Students passed her without a second glance.

She was invisible to them. Just another servant moving through their world like a ghost.

Which was precisely how it should be.

And precisely what burned.

The denied slip in her pocket felt heavier than a brick of gold. Heavier than armor.

She had failed her master.

The thought circled through her mind like a vulture over carrion. Refused to leave. Refused to let her rest.

He had entrusted her with this simple task. And she had returned empty-handed. Bearing nothing but a stamped rejection and excuses.

What use was a blade that could not cut?

What purpose did a shadow serve if it could not deliver what the light demanded?

She knocked twice on Kaelen’s door before entering. The pattern quick and firm. Their signal that she had returned.

The hinges whispered as she pushed the heavy oak panel inward.

He sat at his desk. Surrounded by maps and diagrams that spread across the surface like the plans of a general preparing for war. His dark hair fell across his forehead in careless strands as he made notes in the margins of a warren schematic.

The afternoon light streaming through the window caught the silver thread of his rune scar. Barely visible beneath the collar of his shirt.

"Master."

She placed the stamped slip on his desk. Positioned it at the edge of his field of vision. The red denial mark facing up like an accusation.

Like a confession of her inadequacy.

Kaelen’s gray eyes fixed on the document.

For a moment, his expression remained neutral. The mask of the pathetic young master firmly in place.

But she had learned to read him in the weeks since her salvation.

She caught the slight tightening around his eyes. The way his jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. The micro-tension in his shoulders that would be invisible to anyone who hadn’t spent hours studying his every movement.

He was disappointed.

The knowledge cut deeper than any blade.

He picked up the slip. Turned it over as if the denial might disappear from a different angle. His fingers traced the edges of the stamp. The rough impression where the rubber had pressed deep into the paper’s grain.

"Rank restrictions," Lyra said. Her voice carefully controlled. Stripped of the self-loathing that threatened to color each word. "The quartermaster wouldn’t budge, even when I mentioned Professor Delacroix. He’s been running that shop for thirty-seven years. He claimed to know the difference between research and mischief."