Three days,
Three days until I sat in front of a panel of pompous robed relics who probably hadn’t taught a class in decades. Three days to turn every scrap of credibility, every ounce of earned trust, and every underhanded trick I had into a case solid enough to keep my position.
Piece of cake, right?
I spent the first hour pacing like a deranged cat across my quarters. Notes were scattered across the desk, enchanted chalk etchings glowed faintly on the walls, and my tea had gone cold. Again. The Ring of Cernex pulsed subtly on my finger—an ever-present reminder that my "victory" at Black Stone Mountain had co with a higher cost: scrutiny.
I flicked open the system window again, eyes narrowing at the requirents of Courtroom Gambit. Maintain Class C’s trust. Present a strong case. Navigate political agendas.
The first was manageable. My students might complain, whine, or even attempt mutiny—but they trusted . Mostly. Felix probably still had trauma from our "dodge the flaming boulders" lesson, but even he had stopped flinching whenever I moved suddenly.
The second requirent? Tricky. "Present a strong case" to the Council ant constructing an argunt that didn’t rely on sarcasm and intimidation. I’d need evidence. Testimonials. Maybe even a student demonstration.
The third was the real minefield.
Political agendas.
Noctis Ardentis wasn’t just an academy—it was a polished, obsidian-glass battlefield. Every instructor was part scholar, part warrior, part aspiring noble. There were factions, rumors, alliances built on shallow smiles and sharper daggers. The High Tower Council? They were the ones who governed the academy’s future, held sway over instructor appointnts, funding, curriculum... and more importantly, secrets.
One wrong step, and I wouldn’t just be out of a job—I’d be out of the academy, hunted, and possibly exiled. Or worse: I’d have to beco a substitute instructor for first-years.
"Alright," I muttered, cracking my knuckles. "Let’s dance, you miserable bastards."
I spent the next day assembling a report—tedious, but essential. I gathered class performance charts (heavily doctored), compiled a record of Class C’s progress (ignoring the more explosive failures), and added comntary about my "unique pedagogy" designed to "foster situational resilience and critical thinking."
In other words, I made it sound like I wasn’t just torturing my students into competence.
It was during this paper avalanche that a knock ca at my door. I opened it to find Wallace standing there, soot on his cheek and goggles pushed onto his forehead.
"You look like a gremlin," I said while looking at Wallace.
"I am a gremlin," he replied, holding up a parchnt. "You asked for a mana circuit that could pulse on command? Got it working. Also... we might’ve accidentally shorted out part of the alchemy lab. Professor Gorran isn’t happy."
"Perfect. You’re promoted to my lead saboteur."
Wallace bead like I’d handed him a crown.
Behind him, Julien leaned against the doorfra, arms crossed and grinning. "We heard about the tribunal. Planning to actually try? Or are we improvising as usual?"
"Why not both?"
"Should we prepare sothing?"
"Get the others. We’re doing a mock tribunal. You all will play Council mbers. I want to hear every insult, accusation, and dramatic gasp you can muster."
Mira arrived not long after, clearly intrigued, and even Garrick looked surprisingly serious. They ford a semi-circle around my desk, where I stood like a student on trial.
Julien, naturally, took the role of lead inquisitor.
"Professor Drelmont," he began, voice dripping with faux authority, "we have observed reports that your class routinely engages in combat training involving falling trees, fireballs, and illusions of spectral beasts. Do you deny these reckless endangernts?"
"I admit," I said, pacing slowly, "that I believe in rigorous testing. What’s a student if not battle-ready by sester’s end?"
Mira raised a brow. "And what of the multiple injuries logged under your instruction?"
"Scars build character," I deadpanned.
Leo, peeking in from the side, muttered, "I have three new character arcs thanks to you."
The room broke into laughter—but it was good practice. I noted where I stumbled, where their jokes landed too close to truth, and what points might actually be used against .
I wasn’t just preparing my speech—I was preparing for war.
On the second night, I visited Instructor Vaughn.
Roderick had heard the rumors, of course. He was waiting for in the lounge, his usual drink in hand. He didn’t say anything until I poured myself a glass and sat down.
"They’re going after you," he said, without preamble. "Gale’s been whispering about ’instability’ in Class C."
Of course he was. Gale never forgot getting decked—"accidentally"—in front of half the faculty. The man held grudges like family heirlooms.
"I need support at the Tribunal," I said.
Roderick nodded slowly. "I’ll be there. I owe you that much."
"I might also need you to speak up."
"I figured," he sighed, then smirked. "You better not die before I get to call in the favor."
"No promises."
The morning of the tribunal ca faster than I liked.
The Council’s chamber was a towering room of black marble and enchanted crystal, designed to be intimidating. Arched windows let in shafts of golden light, and hovering glyphs docunted every word spoken within.
Nine Council mbers sat atop their thrones, faces unreadable beneath shimring veils of status and magic. Gale stood near the side, eyes burning holes into .
I stood alone before them, a single figure against a tide of judgnt.
"Lucian Drelmont," the central figure intoned, "you stand before the High Tower Council to defend your thods, your class’s progress, and your continued role at this Academy. Begin."
I exhaled once, drew myself up, and stepped forward.
"I will not apologize for pushing my students. I will not apologize for breaking the mold. What I will do is prove that Class C is no longer the academy’s dumping ground—but its proving ground."
Silence.
Then a whisper of magic flowed, recording my words. The Council leaned in.
I was in.
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