"So what now?" Michael asked after a while, his complexion regaining some color.

"The offenders are in custody already," professor Stark stated, "they will be held accountable for their actions. Being expelled from the academy will be the least of their worries."

Expulsion!? Michael's eyes widened at the revelation.

Though the more he thought about it, the more natural it sounded. Attempted murder was not something that would be taken lightly—even if the offenders were only teenagers.

Judging by the expressions of the headmaster and professor in front of them, it appeared that they would not be giving the boys any leeway, regardless of their noble families status. A fact that Michael was thankful for.

It seems that the headmaster is a just man, he commented inwardly, feeling pleased.

"That brings me peace of mind," Michael admitted, nodding his head—his relief evident.

"I have some questions for you, young Michael." Bartholomew spoke up, his expression still maintaining a calm mask. There was no way of knowing what the guy was thinking.

Slightly taken aback, he nodded slowly. He gulped softly, feeling a hint of trepidation for some reason—surprising even himself.

I didn't even do anything wrong, so why am I getting nervous?

"What is the last thing that you remembered in that room?"

The question lingered, seeming simple at first, but Michael felt the air change subtly. Professor Stark leaned forward in his chair, as if very interested in the answer—but the headmaster's gaze remained the same, giving nothing away.

Michael frowned, trying to remember.

"The other guy grabbed me…" he recounted, furrowing his brows even further. "I couldn't mutter any incantations since Troy was hitting me so much…"

He thought deeply, reliving the harrowing moment. He had remembered his consciousness fading after receiving the straight punch to the bridge of the nose—but the rest was a blur afterwards.

Michael explained this much, apologizing for not being able to go into anymore detail.

Bartholomew nodded while Stark seemed a little disappointed.

"You don't remember casting any spells? Or drawing a magic circle?" The thin professor probed, as if holding onto a small hope.

Drawing a magic circle? He repeated in his heart.

Michael tilted his head, as if trying to recollect. "I might have tried to draw a mana circle back then…" he admitted, though things were hazy. "We have been learning to build them from scratch in spellcrafting—and since I couldn't use any incantations, that would have been my only option."

At his admission, the two men perked up almost imperceptibly.

"Can you try remembering the mana circle you drew? Or at least a few of the runes?" the headmaster asked, his impassive mask cracking slightly.

"I…"

Seeing the hopefulness of the two, Michael didn't know what to think. He had yet to be successful in completing a mana circle from scratch, so how could he have expected to do so in the middle of a desperate battle?

"Were there any traces of spells when you found me? Maybe I can tell you which one I performed if you can give me this information," Michael offered, not wanting to disappoint the two.

However, the two men exchanged troubled looks, sharing a long, silent glance—one that seemed to carry the weight of a private debate.

Eventually, the headmaster sighed and leaned back in his chair, his calm demeanor cracking. The mask he'd worn until now slipped just enough to reveal the fatigue beneath. His eyes looked tired, dulled of their usual spark. It was the first time Michael had seen him look... worn.

"Let me cut to the chase, Michael," he said bluntly. "Do you know any ancient magic?"

"EH!?"

Michael nearly jumped out of his seat. The question caught him completely off guard.

Ancient magic? What kind of question is that to ask a first-year!?

"How could I possibly know ancient magic?" he replied quickly, eyes darting between the two men in confusion. Their serious expressions only made it worse.

But the headmaster didn't flinch. He reached into a drawer of his mahogany desk and pulled out a rolled-up piece of parchment. With a casual flick of the wrist, he sent it gliding through the air toward Michael.

Michael caught it with curiosity and unrolled it.

It was a magic circle—or at least, the skeletal frame of one. The design was incomplete. Some key runes were missing, and the structure was shaky, uneven.

And yet… it looked familiar.

"What is this?" he asked, narrowing his eyes as he studied it. The symbols tugged at his memory.

"It is the magic circle I saw in the room you were ambushed in," the headmaster replied slowly. "Does it look familiar to you?"

Michael frowned, turning the parchment toward the light. He studied the lines and curves carefully, sifting through the growing catalogue of mana circles he'd been exposed to in class.

Then his breath caught.

Wait... no way—

A cold shiver ran down his spine.

This looks like one of the circles from the scrolls in my storage ring!

The resemblance was undeniable. Every night back in the Winterborne manor, he had pored over those mysterious scrolls, trying to unravel their secrets. The patterns had become etched into his subconscious—even if he didn't fully understand them yet.

But he had only just begun learning how to construct mana circles in class. Could he have subconsciously copied it?

Did I draw the circle from the scroll? Did I actually cast that spell…?

His heart raced, pounding in his ears. His thoughts spiraled.

He could feel the eyes of the two professors watching him carefully, their gazes intense. Any attempt at lying would be pointless—they already saw the recognition in his expression.

"It is familiar…" Michael admitted with a nod.

Bartholomew's tone sharpened. "And where did you learn it?"

Michael paused.

He didn't have to answer. That much was clear. But despite the heaviness of the moment, he couldn't ignore the fact that these men had saved his life. If not for their intervention, he would've died on that cold floor—forgotten and broken.

With a sigh, Michael raised his hand.

A flash of light shimmered in the air as a yellowed scroll materialized in his palm.

Both professors leaned forward, eyes wide.

Michael rose from his seat and stepped toward the desk. He carefully unfurled the ancient scroll, placing it next to the parchment he had been given.

A series of complex runes and elegant geometric curves spread across its surface—along with a strange, foreign script.

"This is where I learned it," he said quietly.

He set the headmaster's parchment beside the scroll. At a glance, the resemblance was clear. But the scroll's version was far more refined—complete.

Bartholomew leaned in, his eyes narrowing.

"This is it…" he whispered, voice filled with awe. "This is the magic circle I saw."

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