Void Lord: My Revenge Is My Harem

Chapter 121: 121: The Academy Test XXXI


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The north hall swallowed John like a solemn stone throat. The benches were old oak, scarred with the patient vandalism of bored students past. He slipped into a seat, steadying his breath, his token stamped slate resting on the desk.

Around him the exam hall hummed with nerves. Quills clicked. Ink pots glistened like tiny black pools waiting to drown careless hands. The walls seemed to lean forward, listening for mistakes.

At the far end, proctors in gray robes settled into their posts with grim faces that said they enjoyed crushing dreams before breakfast. One of them lit the tall hour candle, its wax groaning as the flame took.

And there, at the third row front, sat Fartray.

The wealthy boy's coat was trimmed in gold thread, his ring heavy with a family crest. His hair gleamed too perfectly to have ever known real wind. He was already smirking at the empty seat beside him, ready to whisper triumph about the hired thugs, kidnapers, who had surely disposed of John.

Then John sat down.

The smirk cracked.

Fartray's quill froze above his paper. His eyes went wide, and for a moment he looked like a statue carved by a drunk sculptor who had just remembered a debt.

John did not look at him. He set his slate square, took the quill, and dipped it once, calm as a pond.

Fartray's jaw worked. He muttered something obscene under his breath, low enough the proctor would not hear, but sharp enough to break teeth on. His hand trembled as he clutched the quill, already planning future torments.

"Enjoy your ink while it lasts, gutter rat," Fartray whispered to the air, eyes drilling into John's temple. "After the exam, I will have my fun time with you. Slowly. I will make you scream until even your little spark creature cannot roast a sound."

John exhaled once, numbers steady in his chest. He did not hear. There were already question papers on the bench.

The proctor cleared her throat. "Begin."

The exam paper unfolded across the desks, neat lines of runes and questions.

Question One: Define the principle of Mana Conduction and its limits in raw stone channels.

John wrote, steady hand:

Mana flows by affinity, not command. Stone without affinity resists flow. Too much pressure breaks the channel like water splits a rotten plank. To control is to balance pressure, not force it.

Question Two: List three differences between glyph-based spellcasting and circle-based spellcasting.

John wrote:

Glyphs bind mana with symbols. Circles bind with shape. Glyphs need precision of line. Circles need harmony of measure. Glyphs are fast but brittle. Circles are slow but strong.

Question Three: Explain the Void Principle in relation to negation magic.

John paused, then let the words flow.

Void does not destroy. Void removes the stage so the actor cannot stand. What is gone is not broken. It is waiting elsewhere. To call void is to ask the world to forget something existed for a breath.

He finished the line without smudges, his script narrow and deliberate.

Fartray, still shaking, pressed his quill so hard that ink splattered across his cuff. He glared sideways, furious that John's calm was louder than any taunt.

Meanwhile, in the academy yard, chaos bloomed of a different kind.

Fizz floated above the cart like a smug lantern, tail sparking faintly. He was still muttering insults under his breath about Brann, Edda, and Rusk when a whisper rippled across the yard.

"What is that?" a girl in silk shoes breathed.

"A spirit?" another gasped.

"No, no, look at its face — it is adorable!" a third cried, already clutching her hands to her cheeks.

The first girl lunged up on tiptoe. "I want to pet it! What is your name, cute one?"

"My name is Lord Fizz." He froze midair as three upper class girls surged toward him, skirts swishing like a tide of silk. He zipped backward, scandalized.

"No touching!" he ordered, sparks popping from his whiskers. "Respect the fluff! Look, but do not grab! I am delicate, like a fine pastry. You wouldn't squeeze a pastry, would you?"

The girls squealed. "He talks!"

Fizz rolled his eyes dramatically. "Of course I talk. What did you expect, interpretive dance? I am not a carrot."

Another wave of students crowded closer — boys this time, their faces torn between amusement and disbelief. One of them whispered, "He's glowing. Look at the glow."

Fizz puffed himself larger, spinning once like a firework. "Yes, yes, admire my radiance. But keep your hands to yourselves. This is a strict no-petting policy. You may form a neat line and follow me at a respectful distance. Consider yourselves… a fluffy worship club."

The yard erupted. Laughter, cheers, applause. Someone actually shouted, "Lord Fizz! Lord Fizz! Lord Fizz!" like it was a chant.

Fizz placed a paw to his chest. "Finally, proper recognition. I accept your devotion. Girls on the left, boys on the right. No elbowing. I will sign autographs later. With sparks."

The proctors at the gate exchanged baffled looks as half the yard swirled into a buzzing flock behind the tiny glowing creature, trailing him like bees to a very sarcastic flower.

Fizz preened shamelessly. "Yes, yes, keep up. Worship in moderation. I will allow one dramatic sigh per person. And absolutely no licking."

One brave boy actually raised his hand. "Can I —uh— just touch your ear?"

Fizz shrieked in horror, zipping upward like a firecracker. "No! You shall not corrupt the sacred ears! Stand back, common mortals!"

The crowd laughed harder, enchanted. Even the clerk at the desk tried to hide a smile behind her ink-stained hand.

Fizz darted higher, looking down at his growing mob of admirers. "Oh, John," he muttered smugly. "You suffer in exams. I thrive in glory. This academy was built for me."

John dipped his quill again, steady, though the exam room felt heavy with expectation. The proctors' eyes swept the benches like hawks hunting for dishonor. He ignored them. Numbers steadied him. Four in. Four out. His mind lined itself like bricks.

Question Four: Describe the function of mana resonance when two casters attempt to combine spells.

John wrote:

Two voices cannot sing different songs on one stage. Either they clash into noise or they find a note that both can carry. Resonance is rare, but when it comes, the power is greater than both alone. To fail is to break ears. To succeed is to shake mountains.

His script stayed sharp, even as Fartray's breath rasped beside him like an angry saw.

Fartray bent over his parchment, but his eyes kept flicking sideways, fury in every glance. "How?" he thought. "How is he here?" He imagined Brann's cold nod, Edda's sharp grin, Rusk's clumsy fists. They had promised results. And yet here was John, ink flowing, hair ragged but alive.

Fartray's quill stabbed the page, blotting ink like spilled blood. "After. After this exam, I will remind him where he belongs — beneath me, begging, broken." His lips curled into the faintest smile, not of joy but of cruelty rehearsed.

The hall stayed silent but for the scratching of quills and the sigh of parchment.

Outside, silence was not possible.

Fizz now had fifteen students trailing him like pilgrims after a holy relic. The first girl tried again, fingers twitching like she was about to pet a cat.

"No touching!" Fizz ordered again, sparks flying. "Hands down! Eyes only! You may admire from a distance, like people admire the moon. If you try to grab the moon, you set your roof on fire. That is science."

The group laughed and actually clapped.

One upper-class boy in a tailored coat whispered to another, "He's… sort of… majestic."

Fizz whirled on him. "Majestic? Yes. Finally someone with good eyesight. Tell the others."

The boy straightened, cheeks pink. "He's majestic!"

Half the yard echoed it. "Majestic Lord Fizz!"

Fizz puffed out his fur so hard it looked like a glowing dandelion caught in a storm. "Excellent. I will allow this chant. But only between bells. No off rhythm clapping or I revoke privileges."

The clerk at the desk hid her grin badly. Even the guards smirked.

Fizz drifted closer to the fan club, lowering his voice in mock secrecy. "You may form a society. Call it 'The League of Fizz.' Membership is free. Perks include… getting to look at me."

The girls squealed.

The boys, not to be outdone, cheered too. Someone shouted, "Fizz as Headmaster of our new club!"

Fizz froze, then gave a regal nod. "Finally, progress."

Inside, John pressed on.

Question Five: Explain why raw flame spells are unstable when drawn through unmarked iron.

John wrote:

Iron eats fire unless it is blessed or carved. Mana sparks scatter, biting their own tails. That is why smiths sing runes into iron. No song, no shape, only wild fire. Dangerous, not useful.

He set his quill down for a breath. His hand ached, but his lines were clean.

Across the hall, Fartray's page was smudged, his answers half-legible. He wasn't failing —he had studied— but the sight of John steady and calm was poisoning his focus. Rage bubbled in him like hot tar.

He imagined the exam ending. He imagined John cornered, Fizz trapped in a rusted chains, both of them screaming as he worked methodically, taking joy in every sound. His lips twitched into that cruel smile again.

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