The principal straightened his coat as he led Vonjo through the arched, iron-framed hallway of the Academia, the rhythmic echo of their footsteps swallowed by the soft hum of enchanted lighting that floated just below the high vaulted ceiling.

The air here was faintly perfumed with parchment, chalk dust, and the lingering sharpness of mana residue — a scent that clung to old institutions steeped in power and history.

Vonjo followed with measured strides, eyes scanning everything without urgency but with an intensity that made even the marble pillars seem to straighten under his gaze.

“This,” the principal began, his voice a mixture of pride and caution, “is the Hall of Convergence.”

He gestured to the vast, open atrium they stepped into — a circular space crowned by a stained-glass dome depicting a swirling battlefield of angels, demons, and men, all locked in eternal combat.

Below the dome, dozens of students sat cross-legged in tight formations, practicing synchronization chants.

The air shimmered faintly with the collective hum of their voices. “Here we train our initiates in unison casting, harmonizing their spells into singular bursts of power. No single mage can topple a great beast alone, but a chorus—”

Vonjo’s eyes narrowed, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips. “—a chorus can shake mountains,” he finished, as though recalling the truth from personal experience rather than the principal’s explanation.

“Yes… exactly,” the principal said, glancing sidelong at him. He quickly continued, almost tripping over his own words in an effort to mask his unease.

They moved on, crossing the wide atrium into a narrower hallway lined with intricate murals.

Each painted panel was alive, not in the simple sense of moving portraits, but with scenes that shifted and evolved with the viewer’s approach — a duel in one corner became a desperate defense in the next, a victory dissolving into mourning by the time one reached the far end.

“The Hallway of Memory,” the principal said. “Each mural is woven with the echoes of our past battles. Students pass through here to absorb not just the history, but the emotional truths of war. We believe it tempers arrogance.”

Vonjo’s gaze lingered on one particular panel — a lone figure standing against a tide of shadow beasts, crimson light erupting from his body.

For the briefest moment, the painted figure’s expression looked uncannily like Vonjo’s own, though the principal quickly ushered him along before the resemblance could linger in conversation.

The next door opened into a chamber so vast it felt like stepping into another world entirely.

The Training Sanctuary.

Expansive plains rolled beneath a painted sky that shifted between night and day in cycles dictated by the room’s own enchantments.

Students were scattered across the terrain, some sparring with blunted weapons, others manipulating elemental constructs, their forms blazing, shimmering, or dripping with conjured matter.

The principal gestured broadly. “Here, they learn to survive in any terrain — desert, swamp, frozen wastes. The Sanctuary can simulate it all.”

Vonjo’s eyes followed a group of young swordsmen attempting to pin down a towering, rune-bound construct. “Too many are aiming for its legs,” he muttered, almost to himself. “It’s expecting that.”

The principal blinked. “Expecting?”

Vonjo didn’t answer, simply walking forward a few steps before turning back, his silence carrying more weight than any explanation.

The principal felt an odd tightness in his chest, a prickling awareness that this man saw weaknesses in moments others barely noticed.

They continued, stepping into the Vault of Relics.

Here, artifacts floated within glass spheres suspended in midair, each guarded by layers of protective wards that shimmered like heat haze.

A jagged silver crown with a crack down its center pulsed faintly.

A dagger made of blackened bone twitched as though straining to leap from its display. A pair of gauntlets hung perfectly still, yet the air around them distorted like rippling water.

“This is where we keep the relics too dangerous or too unstable to be in the open armory,” the principal explained. His voice carried a note of reverence — and perhaps a warning. “Every item in this room has ended at least one kingdom.”

Vonjo’s gaze rested on a spear wrapped in chains thicker than his wrist. The plaque beneath it read:

The Spear of Returning.

The principal caught himself before speaking further — something about Vonjo’s stare made him feel as though the man was weighing not the weapon, but the worth of the chains.

Beyond the Vault lay the Summoning Amphitheater, a place carved deep into the bedrock of the Academia. This text is hosted at novelFirｅ.net

The air was warmer here, tinged with sulfur and ancient dust.

Students stood at the edges of an arena inscribed with concentric circles of summoning runes, each ring glowing with a different elemental hue.

In the center, a team worked in frantic coordination, their chanting building into a thunderous crescendo as a misty figure began to form — its shape shifting from wolf to serpent to winged beast as unstable magic crackled around it.

“We teach them not only to summon, but to control,” the principal said. “A creature obeys because it fears, respects, or bonds with you. Only a fool relies solely on fear.”

Vonjo gave a low hum, his eyes locked on the forming creature. “And only a dead man relies solely on respect.”

The principal shivered at the words, not because they were wrong, but because they felt like the distilled wisdom of someone who had already buried countless opponents.

From there, they passed the Alchemical Spire — a twisting tower with each floor dedicated to a different branch of potioncraft and transmutation.

The air shifted scents with each level they ascended: bitter herbs, molten metal, ozone from bottled storms.

Students in thick gloves and faceguards handled unstable concoctions that hissed and spat in crystalline vats.

A single misstep here could dissolve a hand — or worse.

The principal didn’t linger, steering Vonjo toward the final stop: the Hall of Discipline. Unlike the other rooms, this one was stark, almost bare.

No tapestries, no enchantments. Just rows of weapons mounted on the walls and a central sparring ring marked with deep scars in the stone floor. “Every student spends time here,” the principal said softly.

“Skill in magic means nothing without the discipline to act when everything is collapsing around you. This room breaks arrogance, tempers panic, and teaches the will to endure.”

Vonjo stepped into the ring, his boots clicking against the worn stone.

For a moment, the principal thought he might issue a challenge then and there, but instead, Vonjo simply turned back, his expression unreadable.

They retraced their steps toward the main office, the tour complete, but the air between them heavier than before.

Every room had been a display of the Academia’s pride — yet in each, Vonjo had looked less like a guest and more like a predator quietly assessing his hunting grounds.

As they approached the final corridor, the principal found his voice again, though it trembled. “This… concludes the introduction, sir. From here, we can finalize your appointment and—”

Vonjo interrupted with a simple, “Good. Then let’s begin.”

And just like that, he stepped past the principal toward his new position — not as a visitor, but as a teacher whose presence alone would ripple through the very foundations of the Academia.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep