Theron found that he could hardly breathe.
It wasn't a matter of will. In front of absolute power, he had long learned that this was worthless. He had had all the will in the world to save his family that day, but it hadn't meant anything at all.
In the end, he had had no choice but to rely on the mercy of a man he hated with every fiber of his being just to survive to this day.
Today, it was the second time he had had this feeling. He couldn't even begin to sense a cultivation; he just felt an endless well, unfathomable and deep. The difference was back then he hardly had any cultivation at all. Maybe this... was more impressive than even that had been.
The man sat behind a large desk, the lights of the room were deep. Despite his seated posture being a bit lazy, Theron could feel the same sort of willowy sturdiness he had felt from Sigil.
His hair was a deeper shade of brass, his amber eyes practically burning, akin to torch lights. In the somber lighting, it almost felt like two lighthouses were blaring right into his psyche.
No... maybe it would be more accurate to call him Patriarch Thistle. Theron knew that there could be no other man of the Thistles with this combination of youth and exuberant aura.
This wasn't to say that the Dean was young; he was far from it. He was definitely middle-aged, and had the faint crow's feet and slight greying to prove it.
This man was among the Thistles that wielded the most power. And, at least on the surface, his word carried the most weight.
He was most definitely the genius of a generation. But the difference was that he wasn't a weed in the grass that could be snuffed out any longer.
He had grown, and now he was a towering mass in the skies.
Unapproachable. Untouchable.
A man who, according to Theron's estimation, had the gall to go against the Imperial Clan themselves.
"Theron Galethunder, is it?" The Dean tossed Theron's file onto the desk. "Your file is quite interesting. I wasn't aware that the Imperial Clan was so irresponsible with their best talents. A shame, don't you think?"
"Quite." Theron replied.
Dean Thistle raised an eyebrow, and then a grin spread across his face.
"It seems that not many words are needed when speaking to smart people. You've done this on purpose, is it?"
"Your movements are too large." Theron replied.
"They are quite large. When you are strong, there's no need to hide anything. That's just not a level you've reached."
Dean Thistle paused and then began to tap a finger on his desk.
"Mm. On the one hand, you are a great talent. On the other hand, I'm not a fan of arrogant nobodies that don't know how to control their mouths. What do you think I should do?"
"I think it would be quite the waste of time to come to the Imperial Academy to search for talents, to find such a perfect candidate who wants exactly what you do, and then turn them away because you believe you don't have the ability to control them."
A low rumbling chuckle came from Dean Thistle.
"I can't remember the last time I've been goaded."
In the corner, Burne's eyes burned with rage. He knew there was a reason he didn't like Theron. Seeing his real personality only further deepened his dislike.
Patriarch Thistle was the man he respected more than life itself. Seeing a mere child of the Bronze Resonance speak to him in this way took everything within him to refrain from tearing him to pieces.
But Theron stood there beneath the Patriarch's pressure as though Burne himself didn't even exist.
"Mm." Dean Thistle hummed again, tapping at his desk. "If you want to speak , you'll have to prove yourself. I do not care much for these little Classes. They can be manipulated. From what I've seen of your results, you're very adept at that."
"I would argue it's even easier to manipulate things in real life." Theron replied calmly.
"Ha, we will see." Dean Thistle tapped his finger on the table again and then suddenly looked up. His entire demeanor changed and from a constant, pressuring wave, Theron almost felt like he was about to face plant to the ground.
He stumbled forward, falling to a knee so fast that his bone bruised. A rippling pain shot up his hip.
A palm slammed to the ground before him, barely stopping him from tipping over entirely. But the pain that rippled through his wrist made him feel that he had, at best, sprained it, and at worst, he had fractured it.
"What is your relation to Daggers of the Night?"
Theron's jaw set. He tried to hold it in, but he had no ability to do so.
A mouthful of blood came from him, his inner organs rattling and his body feeling as though it was about to completely collapse.
His head lowered, a deathly cold flash coming from him. There was an unsettling rattling in his teeth as though he was pressing down so hard that he just might shatter them any moment now.
"I have... no idea... what you are... talking... about..."
Theron finally managed to squeeze out. The Dean showed no signs of relenting his pressure for the sake of allowing him to speak. In fact, the pressure only seemed to increase to the point that the floorboards began to creak as though they might give way long before Theron's body would.
"Is that so? I've never heard of someone who didn't know of Daggers of the Night. There should be a limit to ignorance, no?"
"... I... didn't say... that I didn't know... who they... were..."
"Mm..." the Dean hummed again, his calmness belying the strength he was outputting. "... Is that so?"
Theron was sent flying, his robes shattering into pieces.
There was no doubt about what Dean Thistle wanted to do. There was nothing at all Theron would be able to do to hide the brand on his chest.