The Last Star-Bearer: Heir of the Shattered Light

CHAPTER 9: ARCUM GAUGE

“What—”

“By the Circle—”

“Impossible,” Professor Vance breathed.

“No, no, that reading is wrong,” another faculty member hissed urgently. “Recalibrate it...now!”

“You can’t recalibrate mid-measurement!” someone snapped back. “It’s already past the limit!”

The crystal didn't just glow; it fractured. A web of brilliant, gold-and-silver lightning crackled across its surface. The humming escalated into a deafening shriek that vibrated through the stone seats of the coliseum. The numbers within the sphere didn't just spin; they became a blur of light, climbing at an impossible, exponential rate, shattering every record held within the university's history.

“That’s… that’s not linear growth,” a trembling Professor Mistry muttered.

“It’s accelerating,” another whispered. “It’s still accelerating!”

“Make it stop!” someone shouted. “That gauge can’t handle this!”

“Shut it down!” a student screamed from the stands. “You’ll kill him! The shockwave will kill him.”

“Impossible,” came a hoarse reply. “There is no shutdown.”

The laughter died. The smirks vanished. Every student, every professor, even Gildart himself, stood frozen.

“This isn’t a trick,” someone said faintly.

“No illusion spell does this,” another replied, voice hollow.

“No,” Gildart whispered, his voice barely audible. “That’s not possible.”

“This has to be an error,” he said louder, desperation creeping in. “The system is flawed...say it’s flawed!”

But no one answered him.

Their jeers had turned to shock, their scorn to disbelief. In the echoing silence of the Grand Coliseum, a thousand people held their breath, their eyes locked on the impossible display, their hearts pounding in unison, all awaiting the final, world-shattering score.

“Please,” a first-year whispered, hands clasped together. “Please stop…”

Then, it stopped.

“Did it… freeze?”

“No,” someone murmured. “It's finished.”

The lightning vanished, the shriek cut off, and the blur of numbers froze. For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of ten thousand people drawing a single, collective breath. The Arcum Gauge, a flawless sphere for centuries, now held a single, glowing number that seemed to burn the very air.

“Read it,” someone said, voice shaking.

“I— I can’t,” another replied. “My eyes won’t focus.”

And then the crystal sphere, the pinnacle of the academy’s enchanting art, gave a final, crystalline sigh. A web of cracks, shot through with gold and silver, crawled across its surface. It didn’t shatter into a thousand pieces. It dissolved. The mighty sphere unraveled, its resonant structure breaking down into a swirling cloud of glittering dust that hung for a moment in the air before raining down like harmless, shimmering snow onto the arena floor.

“It’s… apologizing,” a mage whispered in awe.

“No,” an elder professor said softly. “It’s surrendering.”

In the center of that fading cloud, the last image projected by the gauge remained, a ghost in the air, a number seared into everyone’s retinas.

“Saints preserve us,” someone breathed.

999,999,999,999,999 msi.

The resonant voice of the gauge, usually a source of impartial announcement, now sputtered like a dying man. The blur of light within the fractured sphere coalesced not just into numbers, but into a single, chaotic symbol that blinked once... a sigil of eclipse... before the entire crystal let out a final, piercing shriek.

“That symbol—”

“Don’t say its name!” someone shouted in terror.

What they witnessed isn't usual. The explosion. It wasn't an explosion of shrapnel, but an implosion of light and sound.

A soundless scream rippled through the crowd.

The ten-foot sphere collapsed in on itself, vanishing with a soft whoop that left the air thrumming with an eerie silence. In the center of the arena, where a marvel of enchantment had floated moments before, there was nothing but a faint, shimmering dust that glittered like ground stars before dissipating entirely.

“Wait... Am I seeing it right? Did… did the gauge really just destroyed?”

“No,” a professor whispered. “It was erased.”

No one moved. No one breathed. The Grand Coliseum, a place of roaring crowds and epic displays, was now a tomb.

Even the banners seemed afraid to rustle.

Gildart’s face, a mask of supreme confidence just seconds ago, was now a canvas of horror.

“This isn’t real,” he muttered. “It can’t be real.”

His mind, unable to process what he had seen, simply refused to. 666,666 msi was the pinnacle, the absolute peak of a student’s ambition. What he had witnessed wasn’t a number; it was a universal truth being rewritten.

“That number…” he whispered hoarsely. “That number doesn’t belong to students. It doesn’t belong to people.” His fire, his power, his entire identity now felt like a child’s temper tantrum. He took an involuntary step back, his legs suddenly feeling like water.

“I… I was the best,” he said, almost pleading. “I was supposed to be.”

Tristan, however, felt nothing akin to triumph. The vortex of gold and silver energy vanished from his palm, leaving him swaying on his feet.

“Tristan! It's his name right?” someone called from the stands.

“Is he alright?” another asked urgently.

A profound emptiness washed over him, a cold, vast hollow where the cosmic power had been.

“What did I just do…?” Tristan murmured.

He stared at the empty space where the gauge had been, his own breath catching in his throat. He hadn’t meant for that. He had simply let go, just a little, and the universe had answered with a fury that broke the tools designed to measure it.

“I didn’t push,” he whispered to himself. “I barely touched it. I just want this situation to be finished.”

A cold dread settled in his stomach. He hadn’t just passed a test; he had revealed a monster, and he wasn't sure if it was the world’s, or his own.

“If they find out…” he thought, panic tightening his chest. He was afraid that people would be scared of him.

The spell of shock was finally broken by Headmaster Archon, a man whose quiet presence commanded more respect than any shout. He rose from his seat in the front row, his aged eyes missing nothing. With a simple, deliberate gesture, he waved a hand, and his voice, calm yet imbued with unshakable authority, rolled through the coliseum.

“Enough,” he said softly, yet it echoed like a commandment. “The test is over. All students will return to their dormitories. Professor Halloway, you will escort Mr. Gildart to my office. The rest of the faculty will remain.”

“He's a demon! Tristan is a demon! Headmaster—” Gildart tried to reason out.

“That was not a request,” Archon replied evenly.

His words acted like a reset switch. The crowd, still dazed, began to shuffle out, their whispers a nervous tide lapping at the stone.

“Did you see that number?”

“No one’s going to forget it.”

“We just watched history break.”

Gildart looked as if he wanted to protest, to argue, to do anything to reclaim his dignity, but one look from the Headmaster silenced him.

He glared at Tristan. “This isn’t finished, I'll prove to everyone that you are a demon.” Gildart muttered as he was led away.

Archon did not respond.

He was led away, not in triumph, but in disgrace, the jeers of the crowd were replaced by a silence that was far more damning.

Headmaster Archon approached Tristan, who stood alone in the center of the arena, a solitary figure in gold and silver.

“Do not move,” Archon said gently, sensing the boy’s unsteady stance. “Tristan,” the Headmaster said, his voice gentler now. “Are you alright?”

“I don’t think so,” Tristan replied faintly.

Tristan finally looked up, his eyes wide with a fear that had nothing to do with bullies or tests. “I broke it,” he whispered, the words feeling utterly inadequate. “I didn’t mean to…”

“I know,” Archon said without hesitation. “I know you didn't,” Archon said, placing a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. “The gauge was designed to measure the power that flows through this world. It seems you have the unfortunate ability to channel the power of this world. And that, my boy, is not a weakness.”

“Then what was it? A curse?” Tristan echoed weakly.

He guided the stunned Tristan away from the arena floor, toward the towering spires of the administration building.

“Am I in trouble?” Tristan asked quietly.

Archon did not answer immediately.

“We have a great deal to discuss. It seems your power has finally caught up to you. And perhaps,” he added, glancing back at the shimmering dust in the air, “ours have as well.”