The Duke's words struck deeply, reverberating in the minds of both the Dean and the Vice Dean. His statent wasn't rely a critique of the Academy's graduates—it was an indirect but pointed remark on their own shortcomings as leaders of the institution.
It forced them to confront a glaring truth: despite their best efforts, the Academy's standards had not produced the results the Southern Duke sought, particularly in the field of alchemy.
Within the world of alchemy, a practitioner's capabilities were rigorously classified by the Alchemist Guild. These rankings were a testant to the quality and complexity of the potions they could create.
Grade Four Alchemists, regarded as highly skilled, were capable of producing items such as the Highest Grade Healing Potions, Mana Potions, and poisons—an achievent that, for many, marked the pinnacle of their craft.
Yet, it was the elusive Grade Five that represented the truth of alchemical mastery, reserved for only the most exceptional talents.
The defining hallmark of a Grade Five Alchemist was their ability to create elixirs. Elixirs were alchemical marvels that required not only unparalleled skill but also a deep understanding of complex techniques and ingredients.
The leap from crafting Grade Four potions to mastering the creation of elixirs was imnse. For most, this boundary remained insurmountable, as alchemy demanded not only innate talent but also years—if not decades—of ticulous study and practice.
It was a profession that rewarded patience, precision, and an unrelenting drive for perfection.
The agreent, spanning over two decades, had inevitably led to the recruitnt of a significant number of alchemists by the Southern Duke.
Yet the fact that none of them reached the coveted Grade Five raised pointed concerns about the Academy's ability to fully nurture talent, at least in the Duke's eyes. His dissatisfaction was clear—it reflected his belief that the Academy was falling short in fulfilling its duty to produce exceptional graduates.
However, this critique didn't wholly align with the reality of alchemical progression. The Academy was not at fault, as alchemical advancent was an imnsely challenging field, and reaching Grade Four itself represented a significant milestone.
For many aspiring alchemists, even crossing into Grade Four was an achievent of exceptional skill and dedication. Grade Five, the realm of elixir creation, was a far rarer pinnacle of mastery, requiring both inherent talent and years of painstaking practice and refinent.
When broken down statistically, the demanding nature of alchemy beca evident. Out of 1,000 trained alchemists, only about 10 might successfully ascend to Grade Five, while roughly 300 would attain Grade Four, mastering high-grade potions or poisons.
The majority—approximately 690—would remain at Grades Two or Three, as even these levels demanded imnse precision and expertise. This ratio underscored the daunting odds alchemists faced in reaching the upper echelons of their craft, making the Duke's expectations sowhat unrealistic in scale.
While most of the 10 Grade Five and 300 Grade Four alchemists counted among the Academy's graduates, the institution itself faced a delicate challenge. It could never compel Grade Five graduates to work under the Southern Duke.
Such individuals often held their own ambitions, and their extraordinary talents made them highly sought after across the entire World and mostly grade five alchemists do not like to tied to anyone.
The Dean, despite her stature as an Ascended, could not openly state this fact, especially considering the man sitting across the conversation orb was far more than a re recruiter.
The Southern Duke's contributions to the Academy were monuntal. His agreent to provide resources at just a quarter of their market value transford him into a silent benefactor.
The remaining 75% of the resources' costs ca directly from his own pocket, making him the financial backbone of the Academy's continued operations. Without his steadfast support, it was unlikely that the Academy would have survived its critical years of reduced imperial funding.
In a way, while the Academy's teachers were responsible for cultivating talent and molding these exceptional graduates, the Southern Duke was indisputably the reason the institution existed in its current form.
He was the lifeline that allowed the Academy to maintain its prestige and continue to fulfill its founding mission. His unyielding contributions turned a vision into reality, even amid the Imperial Family's attempts to curtail its power.
Faced with this reality, the Dean found herself in an impossible position. She was the most powerful individual in the Academy—a figure whose strength as an Ascended was unmatched and whose title commanded respect.
Yet, she could not defy the very person who supported the Academy's existence. The Duke's authority and contributions cast a shadow so vast that even her role paled in comparison.
In the early years of the contract, the Southern Duke had already co to terms with the reality of his decision—it was an investnt that brought heavy losses. Despite this, he chose to uphold the agreent, using it as a ans to challenge the Imperial Family's reach.
Initially, the Duke had intended to annul the agreent once he amassed enough power to stand as a rival to the Imperial Family. Over the years, through his mastery over the rchant Guilds and the influence he wielded in trade and information networks, he gradually achieved that goal.
Yet, when the ti ca to terminate the contract, he surprised even himself by choosing to maintain it. This decision stemd not from strategy but from sothing deeply personal—his daughter.
The birth of his daughter marked a turning point in the Duke's life. Born of a witch, the Duke knew that her future would be fraught with challenges. The World's prejudice against witches would cast a shadow over her life, and he resolved to prepare her for a world that might reject her.
He refused to let her follow in his footsteps as a rchant, for while wealth brought him power, he knew it was a fragile shield.
Instead, he wanted his daughter to rise above societal constraints—to beco an Ascended, a being whose strength transcended prejudice, granting her the freedom to forge her own path.
To achieve this, the Duke focused his efforts on the Academy. He maintained the agreent not for its practical benefits but to ensure the Academy's neutrality and independence when his daughter would one day attend it.
He wanted her to have a sanctuary where the Emperor's influence could not reach, a place where she could grow into her potential without fear of manipulation or control. For over two decades, this beca his silent motivation, a commitnt born out of love.
But now, with his daughter's life at risk, the Duke's priorities had shifted. The agreent, once a pillar of his long-term strategy, was no longer his concern.
The Duke, visibly vexed by the delay, silently mulled over the ticking ti as he considered Adlet's likely progress toward the Warp Portal.
He was well-acquainted with the speed of his own carriages, and if the gates of the Academy weren't open by the ti Adlet arrived, the boy's unpredictable nature might lead to an unwanted scene.
For the Duke, waiting any longer served no purpose. "Talking any longer would be a waste of my ti," he declared, his voice cutting sharply through the orb's hum.
The Dean imdiately sensed the shift in the Duke's deanor. His patience, already thin, was now nearing its limit. Though she had held firm against him until this point, the Dean knew the stakes.
Refusing him outright could trigger consequences that the Academy could ill afford. However, she couldn't shake her curiosity about why the Duke was pushing so fervently for Adlet—soone who, as far as she could tell, was just an expelled student from a noble family with a troubled past.
What made this boy so significant that the Duke would risk severing their pivotal agreent over him?
Determined to test the Duke's resolve one final ti, the Dean offered a concession that was deliberately steeped in implied resistance.
"Fine. I will accept that kid in the Academy," she began, her words heavy with deliberate pauses, "but activating the portal for just a single kid, given its outrageous cost, and opening the gates of the Academy for a latecor—an act that essentially alters the rules of the Academy itself—this will surely reach the Emperor's ears."
Her tone was asured but probing, carefully crafted to assess how far the Duke was willing to go.
"You don't need to worry, I will deal with the Emperor," his voice echoed, firm and final, before abruptly cutting the connection. The communication orb fell silent after the Southern Duke's resolute declaration.
The Vice Dean, still recovering from the unexpected turn of events, glanced nervously at the Dean. "What now, Dean?" he asked, his voice tinged with apprehension.
"Open the Gates of the Academy," she ordered decisively, leaning back in the seat as if relishing the unfolding drama. "I want to see just what sort of kid managed to get that Duke into his hands." Her tone carried a mix of curiosity and amusent, hinting at her growing interest in the mysterious Adlet.
Despite the frustration she felt toward the Duke's relentless demand, she couldn't deny the intrigue surrounding this boy who had apparently sparked such an extraordinary reaction.
The Vice Dean nodded stiffly, suppressing the urge to sigh loudly, and turned to leave the Dean's cabin.
Just as his hand reached the door handle, the Dean's voice floated casually from behind, "Tell the cafeteria to send dessert to my office. I'm tired after dealing with that Duke."
A vein instantly popped on the Vice Dean's forehead, his patience teetering dangerously close to the edge. Reputation of the Academy when this matter get out among the new students? Hanging by a thread.
Resources drained for the Warp Portal activation? Don't even get him started. And now, amidst all this chaos, the Dean was craving desserts.
Desserts! As though icing on cake was what the Academy needed to solve all its problems.
The Vice Dean stord out of the cabin, his thoughts spiraling into vivid dissatisfaction.
'Forget Ascended politics. Forget the Academy. I should just resign. Let soone else babysit these kids,' he grumbled silently, half tempted to throw his resignation letter on top of the dessert plate once it arrived at the Dean's office.
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