Chapter 322 – Light Spectacles

Chapter 322 – Light Spectacles

 

Zalgor Armenius Crowler, esteemed associate professor of Raelion Academy for Superior Studies, clicked his tongue. A single affinity barely reaching forty and a few paltry minors.

“…to enroll in Mana Studies.” He scoffed, noting down the applicant’s pathetic result in elegant letters.

Clank.

The lowborn boy ran out the moment the door unlocked, releasing the wards. Not even a bow, or waiting for a dismissal.

Untalented and mannerless.

How had this rubble passed the status threshold?

True, few examiners possessed his discerning eye, but they couldn’t possibly consider admitting such uneducated dredge.

It would have never been allowed in my time.

When he had frequented, people accepted their station. From the highest patricians to mana siphoners and bound servants, everyone knew their place. Over a century of lax hands and undisciplined leadership had eroded that natural order to its sad present state.

I warned them what thinning the blood would do.

Zalgor Armenius Crowler allowed himself a sigh. It pained him to see Raelion’s decline.

He had hoped the new dean would restore the academy’s old glory, but despite his illustrious bloodline, the man was too young and radical. Drunk on his own accomplishments, he refused to listen to the wisdom of age.

How could they let this happen…

When they instituted Martial Studies, he recognized the usefulness of training promising servants and retainers, but vehemently protested placing them on the same grounds. You didn’t raise dogs together with their masters. It was common sense, but the collegium still outvoted his proposal.

And look what that brought us.

Swarms of lowborns encroached upon Mana Studies. An insult to Raelion’s legacy. How much further must they disgrace the institution before—

“Uhm…” The assistant at the door cleared her throat, watching him with pretty brown eyes. “Professor Crowler?”

“What is it, girl? Send me the next candidate!” He snapped his fingers to get her moving.

Why am I surrounded by incompetence?

To think she might graduate from Raelion made him shiver. The standards had fallen precipitously low.

“Ehm…” The girl lingered on the threshold and held the clipboard to her chest. “Excuse me, professor. I need the result for candidate 1768 to proceed.”

The results… You…

The air shimmered in rippling waves of mana. If they hadn’t cut his research funding, no one would speak to Zalgor Armenius Crowler with such impertinence. His arms shook and clenched, searching the empty desk for something to throw—anything aside from the plaque bearing his name.

“What does that matter?” He spat, heat rising from his neck as his aura crackled. “Such rubble will never enter Raelion. Not while I breathe! Sign nine points and fetch me the next candidate. Be quick.”

“I— Y—yes…” The assistant darted away with a shallow bow, stuttering excuses.

How— how—

What had he done to deserve such treatment?

This was what happened when you started making exceptions for people who didn’t belong. To have a professor of his standing perform menial tasks. Inexcusable.

I’ll be treated with the respect I deserve.

His chest heaved. House Crowler might have fallen from the middle peerage, but it maintained powerful connections.

The dean will hear about this.

Zalgor Armenius Crowler breathed in and out to settle his nerves. Even in the face of injustices, true patricians kept a befitting poise.

“Come on in.” He motioned at the candidate entering.

The boy met his gaze without flinching—the door shut behind him. His snowy hair and softly sculpted features looked unusual. They didn’t match any of the bloodlines he recognized, though he couldn’t be a lowborn citizen from his bearing.

A new lineage? Or a foreign halfblood?

Some patricians were known to have bizarre tastes, and there was always the possibility of an arranged marriage outside civilized lands. It was the easiest way to ensure an alliance would endure, though it diluted the blood. For newly raised families, a title couldn’t replace the ancestry and history of a true House.

Better than a commoner, I suppose.

After the slew of inepts, the thinnest dignity was welcome. “Take a seat, young man. Let me see what I can do for you.”

“Thank you…” The boy’s eyes moved to the gold-plated plaque on the desk. “Associate Professor Zalgor Armenius Crowler.” An awed smile curved his lips. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

Finally, some manners.

Zalgor gave a terse nod, chest puffed with Distinguished Demeanor. “It heartens me to see a promising seed among the chaff. Raelion is in dire need of them. But hmm… do tell… I didn’t recognize from which House you hail?”

Though newblood, it might be worth remembering.

“Excuse me, Professor Crowler.” His pale brows formed a furrow. “I thought we weren’t supposed to say.”

He’s still so naive.

“Don’t mind the examiners, young man. They like to exaggerate.” He leaned on the desk to share a complicit glance. “What’s the point of anonymity between us?”

“Oh, I see.” The candidate dipped his chin, eyes widened in understanding. “But well… I’m not from the Republic. I doubt you’d recognize the name of my House.”

Excuse me?

Zalgor fell into his seat, mouth dry and curled in disdain. Not a halfblood, but an uncivilized barbarian? Really, he would have realized if he had taken a second look.

It’s obvious.

The boy’s face was too perfect. It couldn’t be natural. His family must have paid a heathen biomancer for the modification. Proper patricians knew better than to excess in such extravagant splurges; his own closing eyebrows and pronounced nose distinguished his ancient lineage. He would pick that over a handsome veneer any day—even if he had the money.

What an awful day.

“Let’s get this over with.” He flicked his hand to the array on the left desk side. “My time’s too precious to waste.”

Seven concentric runic circles covered a base of adamantine brimming with mana, the enchantments linked to a square catalyst of moon quartz. Zalgor licked his lips. The price of the materials alone was worth a villa in the capital’s inner district.

More than these commoners deserve.

“Spill a drop of blood in the center.” He gestured to the enchanted needle beside the array. “Hurry up, boy. I don’t have all day.”

“My apologies, professor.” The fool boy kept smiling, almost naively. Instead of using the needle, he pressed his thumb against his canine.

Savages.

A drop, gleaming bright crimson, fell upon the enchantments.

“Sit back and don’t touch the array.” Zalgor took a bead of crystallized mana from the drawer. “We’ll see if you have some measure of talent.”

Pitiless Sister… It’s such a waste.

With a regretful gesture, he placed the bead on the siphon mark and watched it melt into a stream of light. The glow spread through the runic chains; the array hummed to life, painting the room in color.

Dark purple, silver-white and a deep ocean blue, mixed with a myriad paler hues.

What’s happening?

Zalgor squinted at the bright light, too busy analyzing the results on the quartz catalyst to ponder it.

This doesn’t make any sense…

His gaze darted to check the integrity of the array: the mana flowed smoothly through the runic script. He couldn’t spot any irregularity, let alone a scratch. Everything was working correctly, but…

These results don’t make sense.

“What does it say, Professor Zalgor Armenius Crowley?” The boy sat straighter with an inquisitive smile. “I’m good with Water Magic, but I’ve never had a professional reading done in the Republic.”

Why is this fool…

“There is a mistake… Yes. That’s it…” Zalgor waved at the array and grabbed another bead from the drawer. “Add another drop of blood. No tricks this time.”

“Is that necessary?” The ignorant boy asked, clearly confused.

“Stop wasting time and do it.”

“Okay, professor.” He bit his finger again, performing each gesture with exceeding slowness.

Another drop of crimson fell on the runes.

Another bead of crystallized mana melted into the array.

Another ocean of blue light flooded the testing room.

No, no, no. It can’t be…

He had followed each step without blinking—there were no mistakes.

“Professor? Is everything alright…?” The boy tilted his head up at him.

Divine Moons, why did you bless the unworthy?

To be naturally gifted with such an affinity… When had he last heard of a value this high?

“It appears the Sleeping Sister has bestowed on you a bit of talent…” Zalgor croaked, obsessively checking the catalyst, his hope for errors slowly withering.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“Really?” The boy beamed. “How much is it, professor?”

“You— You’ve got three major affinities… Mind at 54 and Gravity at 63. Both are exotic elements. Likely, you’ll never achieve much with them. Same for the minor ones, not worth mentioning.”

“Uhm, I see.” The boy bobbed his head, white teeth shining. “I will try my best, professor. Hmm… but what is the third major one?”

Moons… why…

Zalgor massaged his balding scalp. “Water… at 82.”

Affinities scaled exponentially closer to 100, and became equally more difficult to raise. The difference wasn’t very noticeable until 50, where each point began to mark a significant improvement. And at 82…

Why… Moons? Why this nobody?

“Sorry, professor. Could you repeat that?” The boy perked up, pale eyebrows arched in confusion on his forehead. “You said 82? Is that good?”

Of course, the uneducated lowborn has no idea of his loathsome luck.

“Yes.” Zalgort gritted his teeth. “It’s quite good. We’re done here. Now leave.” He slammed his hand on the rune to unseal the door.

“Of course. I’m honored, associate professor Zalgort Armenius Crowler has found me worthy.” The boy performed a shallow bow before gliding out of the room.

Like runes wasted on a kettle.

Sensing his mood, the assistant keeping the record stood by the door. “… Professor Crowler?”

“Candidate 1771. Forty-seven points.”

Her eyes widened. “The applicant got—”

“Don’t make me repeat it.”

“Y—Yes.” The girl threw glances at her back where the jolly fool had disappeared. “I’ll send in the next candidate.”

This day can’t get any worse.

Zalgor Armenius Crowler crumbled into his armchair. The Moons would bring justice to the worthy in the end—he must believe that.

The following applicants lifted his spirits: all patricians with bright futures ahead, his mood only marred by another lowborn commoner who fancied herself a mage.