"So what now?" Michael asked after a while, his complexion regaining so 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 sothing 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 comnted inwardly, feeling pleased.
"That brings peace of mind," Michael admitted, nodding his head—his relief evident.
"I have so questions for you, young Michael." Bartholow 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 so reason—surprising even himself.
I didn’t even do anything wrong, so why am I getting nervous?
"What is the last thing that you rembered 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 sa, giving nothing away.
Michael frowned, trying to rember.
"The other guy grabbed ..." he recounted, furrowing his brows even further. "I couldn’t mutter any incantations since Troy was hitting so much..."
He thought deeply, reliving the harrowing mont. He had rembered 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.
Bartholow nodded while Stark seed a little disappointed.
"You don’t rember 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 n perked up almost imperceptibly.
"Can you try rembering 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 ? Maybe I can tell you which one I perford if you can give this information," Michael offered, not wanting to disappoint the two.
However, the two n exchanged troubled looks, sharing a long, silent glance—one that seed to carry the weight of a private debate.
Eventually, the headmaster sighed and leaned back in his chair, his calm deanor 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 ti Michael had seen him look... worn.
"Let 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 n 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 parchnt. 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 fra of one. The design was incomplete. So 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 mory.
"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 parchnt 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 beco 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.
Bartholow’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 mont, he couldn’t ignore the fact that these n 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 shimred 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 parchnt he had been given.
A series of complex runes and elegant geotric 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 parchnt beside the scroll. At a glance, the resemblance was clear. But the scroll’s version was far more refined—complete.
Bartholow 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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