In the academy’s dical room, Professor Tanvir paced restlessly, his footsteps echoing against the cold floor.
He gnawed at his fingernails, his face pale with distress.
Kafrik had received imdiate treatnt, his severed hand was reattached, and his wounds were stabilized.
Yet Tanvir’s heart remained heavy, weighed down by sothing far more unsettling than injuries.
It was Vivian.
Or rather, the warning Princess Charlotte had left behind as she carried Vivian away.
"Make sure he doesn’t die... he still has much to pay."
Those words kept repeating in his mind, striking him harder than the sight of blood in the arena.
He had been left dumbstruck, unable to decide whether her words were a threat or sothing else?
Because as much as he thought about it was clearly Vivian’s fault.
"Though I haven’t checked the recording yet... from what I saw, it was Vivian’s fault," Tanvir muttered under his breath, pacing faster. "He shouldn’t have gone that far, cutting off Kafrik’s hand just because of a few taunts..."
His chest tightened at the mory, the clash replaying vividly in his mind.
He had no idea where Princess Charlotte had taken Vivian afterward, only that the boy had looked far worse than Kafrik.
Vivian’s lips had been stained with blood, each cough rattling his frail body like a bell tolling doom.
Tanvir let out a heavy sigh, his nails biting into his palm.
’I should have intervened...’ He stopped himself, shaking his head with bitter resignation. ’No, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. That final strike... even a fifth-star warrior would’ve struggled to block it.’ His thoughts broke into a low whisper.
As Tanvir continued to ponder to himself, the door creaked open.
The sound cut through the silence, and an old man stepped inside.
It was none other than the Dean, Rolack Zaran.
Straightening instinctively, Professor Tanvir moved forward, his shoulders slightly hunched in nervous respect. "Good evening, sir," he said quickly, his voice subdued.
"Good evening to you as well, Professor Tanvir," the dean replied with a soft chuckle, his tone calm yet carrying the weight of authority.
"So, how is he?" Dean Rolack asked, his gaze shifting to the unconscious Kafrik.
His eyes held neither sorrow nor anger, only a steady, unreadable blankness as he studied the boy.
"He’s stable now," Professor Tanvir replied quickly. "His hand was reattached without delay, so there shouldn’t be lasting consequences. He’ll just need a few days of rest."
"Hmm." With a low, thoughtful hum, Dean Rolack eased himself into the chair nearby.
Then, with a small gesture of his hand, he signaled Tanvir to sit across from him.
Swallowing his unease, Professor Tanvir obeyed, lowering himself onto the bed opposite the dean.
"Can you explain what happened?" Dean Rolack asked once Tanvir had settled across from him.
"Well..." Tanvir hesitated, his throat dry as he swallowed hard. "When the spar began, Vivian introduced himself, and then..."
Piece by piece, he recounted the entire scene to the point where he could listen at that ti.
The clash, the taunts, the blood, the mont Kafrik’s hand was severed, each word felt heavier as he laid it before the dean.
By the ti he finished, Tanvir let out a long, shaky breath. "Haa..." He rubbed his palms together nervously before adding, "In my opinion... Vivian’s actions were far too aggressive. I think... we should reconsider his admission to the academy, at least hold it off for now."
The dean remained silent for a long mont before finally speaking. "Have you heard the taunts Kafrik uttered?"
"No... I haven’t," Tanvir admitted, shaking his head.
Reaching into his robes, he pulled out an artifact shaped like an hourglass, its surface faintly shimring with runic patterns.
He offered it to the dean with both hands. "I wanted you to review the contents first."
"Hmm." Dean Rolack gave a slight nod as he accepted the artifact. His fingers closed firmly around it, and then he placed both hands over the glass.
As he channeled his mana into the relic, a faint glow pulsed from within.
His consciousness began to sink, drawn into the artifact’s stored mory.
After a while, Dean Rolack’s consciousness returned to his body.
His eyes opened slowly, a faint sigh escaping his lips. Without a word at first, he set the artifact back into Tanvir’s waiting hands.
Tanvir’s curiosity was written plainly across his face as he leaned forward slightly.
"You should check the contents yourself," the dean finally said, his voice calm but edged with weight. "Then... decide for yourself whose fault it truly was."
"Hmm" Tanvir nodded.
Heeding the dean’s words, Professor Tanvir closed his eyes and channeled a thread of mana into the artifact.
His consciousness was pulled inward, the recorded mory playing before him in vivid detail.
It didn’t take long. Within monts, his awareness returned to his body, and his expression shifted from shock to sha.
With an embarrassed smile that quickly faded, Tanvir rose to his feet. "I... I’m sorry, sir," he admitted, bowing deeply. "I judged the situation without any evidence."
In the artifact’s record, every taunt and insult Kafrik had spat was laid bare, cruel, unrelenting, and ant to cut deeper than any blade.
Yet even then, Vivian had endured, showing restraint and patience no one would have expected.
He hadn’t severed Kafrik’s head, though he easily could have. Instead, he had stopped at the hand.
It was rcy... harsh, but rcy all the sa.
"Professor Tanvir, you don’t need to apologize," Dean Rolack said, his voice steady. "It wasn’t your fault."
But then his tone shifted, a faint tremor of worry threading through his words. "Tell ... where is Princess Charlotte?"
His gaze grew distant for a mont, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him.
A promise echoed in his heart, one he had made to an old friend. He had been entrusted with the care of that friend’s grandson, and yet on the very first day, he had already failed.
A pang of guilt tightened in his chest, heavier than any duty of office or title.
"Well..." Professor Tanvir hesitated under the dean’s piercing gaze before finally speaking. "She took Vivian away. As you already know from the artifact, she didn’t say anything to either."
"Hmm?" With a thoughtful hum, Dean Rolack leaned back slightly. "You’re right. But Charlotte won’t let this matter slide so easily. From her words... she will almost certainly take strict action against Kafrik." His tone carried both worry and inevitability.
Professor Tanvir lowered his eyes. Now that he had seen the truth himself, he couldn’t argue.
Whatever the princess chose to do would be justifiable. And so, he chose to remain silent.
"But sir... if you don’t mind asking..." Tanvir hesitated, the question lingering on his tongue. For a mont, he debated whether it was appropriate, but in the end, curiosity won out. "Are the rumors true, that Princess Charlotte and the heir of the Zenithara are quite engaged?"
Dean Rolack let out a low chuckle, not out of amusent, but because he had expected the question. "Engaged? No... not yet." His eyes narrowed slightly, as though recalling old words. "But the princess, well... how should I put it?" He paused, searching for the right phrase, until the mory of his friend’s description surfaced.
"Obsessed," he finally said, his voice asured. "That’s the word. She is utterly obsessed with him."
The weight of the statent hung in the air. Then, with a weary exhale, Rolack added, "And now, after what Kafrik has done... she may very well try to kill him."
Professor Tanvir had nothing to say, or rather, he couldn’t summon any words.
He stared at the motionless Kafrik, feeling the weight of the day press into his chest.
For a mont, his face went slack, and a thin, bitter prayer slipped through his mind: ’May you rest... after you die.’
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