Braydon stirred to the sound of low muttering, a deep frown creasing his brow as a haze clung stubbornly to his thoughts. His memories were a murky blur. Blinking his eyes open, he found two pale faces hovering above him.

"What are you doing?" he muttered, struggling to sit up from the cold, unforgiving floor. His gaze swept across the hall in dazed confusion, as if trying to piece together why he was on the ground in the first place.

Then he saw it—the scorched hole in the rug between his legs.

His brows furrowed sharply. The memory came flooding back with jarring clarity:

Michael.

The ice lance.

The fear.

Color drained from his face, only to return with a vengeance—flushed, red, and burning with shame.

Embarrassment. Rage.

A tangled storm of emotions surged within him.

He turned his furious gaze on Craig and Randolph—the two followers who had abandoned him, left him to face danger alone. Both lowered their heads in guilt, their expressions a silent confession.

But the damage had already been done.

Braydon had been humiliated in front of Melody, the very girl he had been hoping to impress. The weight of that disgrace threatened to shatter his pride entirely. He could still feel the raw, animal panic that had taken hold of him.

He had been so confident, so sure the commoner wouldn't dare lift a hand against him.

But that… that attack—

He never expected anything so powerful.

If it had struck him…

A shiver ran through him.

But fear quickly gave way to fury.

Braydon surged to his feet, rage burning away the last remnants of shame.

"That filthy commoner," he spat, each word soaked in venom.

Without so much as a glance at his lackeys, he flicked his wrist. A small green gem appeared in his palm, summoned from his storage ring. A tendril of mana flowed into it, making the gem pulse with light.

A translucent display materialized—like a screen hovering midair. On the other end stood a broad-shouldered man with a stern face and an unreadable expression.

"Young master, what is it?" the man asked, his voice neutral.

"Bring the carriage," Braydon said through clenched teeth. "I need to speak with Father. Now."

"Understood," the man replied curtly. The projection winked out.

"Braydon… First-years aren't allowed to leave the academy," Randolph murmured, but the words were barely out of his mouth before Braydon shot him a murderous glare.

"I don't give a shit," he snapped. "My family is one of the academy's top donors. They won't stop me."

Without another word, he strode forward, his cape fluttering behind him. Randolph and Craig remained frozen in place, exchanging a look of mutual shame.

"There was something different about him…" Randolph said, his voice hushed. "I told you we shouldn't have provoked that guy. I just knew it."

Craig nodded grimly. "I thought I was going to die."

Meanwhile, Braydon descended the stairs from the upper level, rage simmering just beneath the surface. Students parted instinctively, giving him a wide berth—none willing to meet his eyes.

At the foot of the staircase, just ahead of the grand entrance doors where the students had gathered a week prior, stood two imposing figures. Sentinels. Watching.

Waiting.

Braydon squared his shoulders and strode toward the exit, sparing the two guards only a fleeting glance.

"Hold on. No one's allowed to leave," one of them said, raising a hand to block his path.

"Step aside," Braydon ordered sharply. "I'm returning to the Marbury estate on urgent business."

His voice dripped with noble arrogance—confident, commanding, and entirely self-assured.

But the response was far from what he expected.

"I don't care," the guard replied flatly. "We've got orders. No students are to leave the castle."

Braydon's eye twitched.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" he snapped. "I'm the heir to the Marbury family—one of Arcadia Academy's top donors. With a single word, I could have you both stripped of your rank."

He took a step forward, voice rising. "Now move, before I end your careers!"

For a moment, the guards blinked in surprise. Then, in perfect unison, they snapped to attention, backs straight and hands clasped behind them like soldiers saluting a superior.

The abrupt shift caught Braydon off guard—but he mistook it for compliance.

"Hmph. At least you know your place," he muttered, smoothing his robes.

Without sparing them another look, he walked past, heading toward the massive doors that opened into the courtyard. He could already picture his butler arriving, the family crest gleaming on the side of the carriage.

But just as he stepped past the threshold—

He stopped.

Something was wrong.

An invisible force pressed against his chest like a wall of solid air. The temperature seemed to drop as the atmosphere thickened, suddenly heavy with unseen pressure.

A wave of dread crept over him, instinctual and primal.

He couldn't move.

With immense effort, Braydon turned his head.

Behind him stood a squat figure in a flowing crimson robe, his long red beard billowing ever so slightly despite the still air. His expression was unreadable—impassive, calm.

"H-Headmaster!?" Braydon gasped, voice high-pitched from shock. His knees nearly gave out.

"Young Mr. Marbury," the man said evenly, his tone as soft as it was immovable. "My instructions were clear. No students are to leave the castle at this time."

That calm voice carried the weight of law.

Braydon's fury dissolved in an instant. Every ounce of bluster drained from his body. He didn't even attempt a response—he knew it would be futile.

This… this was the power of an Arcanist, one who stood at the pinnacle of magical authority. Against it, his noble lineage meant nothing.

"Go to the Great Hall. An announcement will begin shortly," Headmaster Bartholomew instructed.

Then, with a wave of his sleeve, the crimson-robed mage shimmered—and vanished into the ether, leaving behind only silence.

"You heard the Headmaster," the guard said after a beat, his earlier tone replaced with dry amusement. "Get moving."

*DING*

A crisp chime echoed in Braydon's ears.

He glanced down at his system notifications, and his expression darkened. The pomp and rage that had driven him just moments ago were gone—replaced by something colder. Focused.

Without a word, he turned and marched toward the Great Hall, his pace swift and purposeful.

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