In the middle of the commotion, several of the principals who had earlier rushed to aid Ibarin began to stir.
Their bodies ached, magic drained from pushing themselves too far, but their eyes fluttered open one by one. So were in no state to stand, much less rejoin the battle, while others, despite the wounds streaking across their robes and the blood dripping down their faces, still clutched at their staffs, desperate to channel whatever scraps of mana they had left.
The instinct to help their Grand Magus was strong.
But when they tried to rise, when they tried to push forward into the ruined arena, it was their own students who stopped them.
Hands pressed firmly against their shoulders. Voices whispered urgent pleas.
"Please, don’t."
"Stay down. It’s over."
"Don’t get involved..."
Whether out of fear, respect for the duel’s outco, or simply exhaustion, the students held their teachers back. And perhaps deep down, all of them knew the truth: the fight was already decided.
The Dark Magus had won.
Confusion rippled through the audience as Raze’s voice rang out over the silent battlefield. He wasn’t gloating. He wasn’t demanding surrender. Instead, he asked a question, a question that struck at sothing many had quietly wondered themselves.
Where was the Wilton principal?
The crowd glanced around uneasily. The absence suddenly stood out like a missing piece of a puzzle.
During the chaos, when the Grand Magus had unleashed his fury, other principals had stepped forward to intervene. But the head of Wilton Academy had not.
So muttered theories to their neighbors.
"Maybe he was working with the Dark Magus...?"
"But his whole academy in Raze’s hands? That’s too far-fetched."
"Then where is he? Why wouldn’t he co to help?"
Even as the speculation grew, Ibarin’s strained voice cut through the noise.
"What happened to him?!" he bellowed, blood staining his lips. "Why don’t you tell , Raze? He hasn’t turned up for days! Maybe you were the one who got rid of him!"
Raze shook his head slowly, his expression unreadable.
"That lie," he said coldly, "will be your first undoing."
The way Raze had fought up until this mont, the way he’d used the battlefield, turned Ibarin’s weapons against him, and carefully tested the limits of the breakthrough, none of it had been random. Every movent had been calculated, part of a plan leading to this very mont.
From the beginning, he could have rushed in, tried to cut Ibarin down with brute force. But that wasn’t his goal.
With one hand raised, he pressed his palm to the air. Dark magic spilled out of him, searing across the broken ground.
Lines etched themselves in fire and shadow, crawling outward like living veins. The surface burned and hissed, then cooled, until a vast pattern spread across the arena floor.
When the last trace of magic faded, those watching from above gasped.
"A... a magic circle?"
"What is he trying to do to the Grand Magus?!"
The circle glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
From within his cloak, Raze drew forth a crystal, holding it gently between two fingers. With a twist of his will, wind magic lifted it from his hand and carried it down, placing it carefully at one of the circle’s points.
Ibarin’s eyes widened. Recognition flashed instantly.
That crystal. He knew what it was.
"Magic is fascinating, isn’t it?" Raze said, his voice carrying over the hushed crowd. "Especially formations. Circles are more than simple traps or amplifiers, they are mory, structure, and truth bound together.
"Since I returned, I’ve seen how much magic has advanced. And because of that... today, you will all witness sothing for yourselves. You will see, through his eyes, the truth of what he has done."
Pinned by the crushing weight of Raze’s gravitational spell, Ibarin couldn’t lift his head high enough to see the completed formation. He could only feel the pressure of it humming beneath him.
"You used this formation once before," Raze continued, "without ever understanding its true depth. But I’ve studied it. Improved it. Altered it for my purpose."
His eyes darkened.
"Whatever I ask, you will answer, and the whole world will see through your eyes."
Dark mana coursed from his hand, feeding into the circle. The crystal pulsed, lines ignited, and a burning mark seared itself across Ibarin’s forehead.
The Grand Magus scread.
Then a projection burst into the air above them, images forming like a film reel, scenes flickering in and out, all from a first-person view.
The crowd gasped.
They saw Ibarin dragging the Wilton principal into a room, questioning him, pressing him harder and harder. They heard the words exchanged, the denials, the fury. And then they saw it, the flash of power, the crushing end, the principal collapsing lifeless to the floor.
The arena erupted in shocked cries.
The principals who had once stood by Ibarin clenched their robes, eyes filled with pain. They had suspected, but seeing it with their own eyes left them shaken to their core.
So still tried to deny it.
"This has to be a trick!" one shouted hoarsely. "The Dark Magus is manipulating the images!"
But fewer voices rose in doubt this ti.
Because they rembered. They rembered how Ibarin had unleashed his power without hesitation, nearly killing them alongside his enemies. They rembered the fear, the callous disregard.
And above all, they rembered: the Wilton principal had never appeared.
The pieces no longer fit Ibarin’s story.
"Show them," Raze commanded, "what you gave the students before the event began."
The images shifted.
Now, they saw Ibarin handing out small pills, his voice echoing in the air: "Take these. You must win at all costs."
"Did you know what those pills did?" Raze asked.
Another image appeared. A robed figure standing over Ibarin’s desk, sliding the sa pills across the surface. His voice whispered in explanation: "They will no longer be able to use magic once they take them."
The Central students stiffened. The truth slamd into them like a hamr. The pills weren’t for their benefit, they had been used as pawns, their futures sacrificed for his ambition.
Whispers spread, horrified and bitter.
But Raze didn’t stop there.
He pressed again, forcing more mana into the circle. Each question peeled away another layer of Ibarin’s sins.
Scenes flashed, him abusing his title to crush smaller academies that dared rise against him.
Him silencing voices of dissent with cold execution.
Him standing over bodies, blood dripping from his hand, as he struck down those who challenged his corruption.
The longer it played, the quieter the arena beca. No one could deny it anymore.
The Grand Magus wasn’t their savior. He was their tyrant.
The spell was draining Raze, eating away at his mana reserves. His breathing grew heavier, his grip on the circle’s flow trembling. He had already shown them enough, enough to damn Ibarin forever.
But there was still one final truth that needed to be revealed.
He clenched his jaw, forcing more power into the crystal.
"Show ," he demanded, voice sharp, "what you did to Raze Cromwell. And what you did to take the position of principal of Central Academy."
Author’s Note
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