The lecture hall for Advanced Runic Geometry was a dizzying space. Floating slate boards drifted through the air, covered in glowing chalk diagrams for different shapes, while the air hummed with the headache-inducing pressure of spatial distortion.

Ray sat in the second row, his posture relaxed but attentive. On his right hand, the ‘Theorist’s Glove’ glinted in the light. It was a beautiful piece of nonsense, a gauntlet of brass gears, etched runic glass, and focusing lenses that clicked softly whenever he flexed his fingers.

“Novice. Croft,”

Master Aris said, her voice dry as she tapped a floating dodecahedron with her wand.

“Since you seem to have mastered the theory of the Anchoring Hexagram well enough to stare out the window, perhaps you can demonstrate its stabilization? Most students struggle to maintain the third vertex without a surplus of mana. But given your… reliance on Artifice, perhaps your tools can compensate?”

The class turned. A week ago, those gazes would have been filled with disdain for the ‘manaless cripple.’ Now, they held a mixture of wariness and grudging respect. They weren’t looking at a cripple anymore; they were looking at the architect of Team Chimera and Team SIS’s victory in the Promotion Trials.

Ray stood up.

“Showtime.”

Ray whispered.

Scholar: “Precision over power, the Hexagram requires a mana-density of 4.5 per line. Use the glove to ‘regulate’ the flow. Make it look like engineering, not magic.”

The Eccentric Scholar chimed in Ray’s mind, delighted by the subject matter.

Ray walked to the front of the room. He didn’t reach for the infinite, roaring ocean of Primordial Aether that sat in his core. Instead, he channeled a tiny, agonizingly thin trickle of it, forcing it through the glove’s intricate pathways.

He raised his gloved hand toward the floating slate. He didn’t cast the spell; he built it.

“The issue with the third vertex isn’t a lack of mana, Master Aris,”

Ray said, his voice calm.

“It’s a structural inefficiency. If you treat the rune as a circuit rather than a painting…”

He twisted a brass dial on the wrist with his left hand. Click-whir. The lenses on the knuckles flared with a pale, artificial blue light.

Ray traced the air. The glove emitted a focused beam of mana, drawing the line of the Hexagram with laser-like precision. When he reached the unstable third vertex, the point where the spell usually wobbled and collapsed for students, Ray didn’t pour more power in. Instead, he used the glove to pulse a counter-frequency.

Hum-click.

The rune snapped into place, rigid and perfect. It hovered in the air, glowing with a stable, steady light. It didn’t pulse or breathe like organic magic; it was static, perfect, and cold.

“Geometric reinforcement,”

Ray finished, letting the beam cut off with a theatrical vent of steam from the glove’s heat-sink.

“I don’t have the huge mana reserves to muscle through the instability, so I use the glove to calculate the exact angle where the stress is lowest.”

The room was silent.

“A perfect anchor,”

Master Aris muttered, inspecting the rune with a critical eye.

“Devoid of artistry, perhaps, but functionally flawless. Sit down, Novice Croft.”

Ray sat. Under the desk, his hand stopped trembling. It was exhausting work, pretending to be weak. It was so much harder to paint with a single drop of ink when you had a whole ocean in your pen.

[SKILLED APPLICATION DETECTED]

[EVENT: THEATRICAL DECEPTION (PUBLIC FORUM)]

[PERFORMANCE EVALUATION: ADEPT]

[ANALYSIS: Host successfully synchronized aetheric output with the mechanical limitations of the ‘Theorist’s Glove’. The integration of the ‘Eccentric Scholar’s’ mathematical dialogue with the ‘Charismatic Conman’s physical performance created a convincing narrative of artificial competence. Observer suspicion has been successfully converted to academic curiosity. Large mastery gain.]

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[Performance (Acting within Acting) +15% (CAPSTONE already reached, adding half of mastery gain to the next archetype skill ‘Social Chameleon’), Intellectual Hegemony +10%, Aether Weaving +5%]

Ray ignored the system notification. He gazed out the window. It had been three days since Auditor Landa had left Solhaven. Three days since Ray had looked a High Inquisitor in the eye and lied about the very nature of his existence.

But there was one loose end. One debt left to pay.

Ray packed his bag as the lecture ended. He had a promise to keep.

The dorms for the scholarship students were located in the western area of the academy. Ray walked the corridors, his boots clicking rhythmically on the stone. He stopped in front of a door that had a ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign written in three different dead languages.

He knocked.

Silence.

He knocked again, louder.

“Senior Cassian. It’s Ray.”

A crash echoed from inside, followed by the sound of falling books. Someone whispered on the other side of the door.

“I am currently navigating a theoretical impasse! Just come back next week!”

Ray didn’t leave. He turned the handle, locked, he leaned against the wood.

“I know you’re in there, Senior Cassian. I can hear the quill scratching. It sounds angry.”

The scratching stopped. A moment later, the door creaked open a sliver. One bright blue eye peered out, frantic and bloodshot. Cassian Ashvane looked like he hadn’t slept since the Trials ended three days ago. His robes were stained with ink, and his hair looked like it had been styled by a static shock.

“Ray,”

Cassian hissed, glancing down the empty hallway as if expecting the Inquisition.

“You shouldn’t be here. I’m close. I’m so close to untangling the sub-harmonics of the Third Anchor. If I stop now, the variables will scatter!”

Ray gently pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was a disaster zone of genius. Scrolls were nailed to the walls, forming a chaotic spiderweb of diagrams connecting dates, mana-readings, and historical accounts of Solhaven Academy’s founding. It was the lair of a conspiracy theorist, but Ray knew the conspiracy was real.

“You look terrible, Senior Cassian,”

Ray said honestly.

“I look efficient,”

Cassian countered, stumbling over a stack of text books. He moved back to his desk, where a half-finished derivation glowed faintly on a slate.

“Sleep is a variable I have temporarily factored out. I can’t stop, I have to prove it… My ancestor… If I can just match the frequency…”

He was manic, vibrating with nervous energy. He picked up his quill, his hand shaking so badly that ink splattered onto the desk.

“You’re making mistakes,”

Ray said softly.

Cassian froze.

“What?”

“Your hand,”

Ray pointed out.

“Tremors introduce irregularity in your script. Irregular script leads to calculation drift. You’ve been awake for how long now?”

“Just forty-eight hours, I did some naps so I am good.”

Cassian muttered defensively.

“A tired mind is a dull blade, Senior Cassian,”

Ray said, his voice shifting into the calm, logical cadence of the Eccentric Scholar.

“You aren’t analyzing data anymore; you’re just staring at it. You need a reset. A change of environment to recalibrate your cognitive baseline.”

Cassian looked at the slate. He looked at his shaking hand. He frowned, the logic piercing through his exhaustion.

“A recalibration…”

“Just a short walk,”

Ray promised.

“Half an hour. Then you can come back and attack the problem with fresh eyes.”

Cassian hesitated, warring between his obsession and his exhaustion. Finally, he dropped the quill. It clattered loudly on the slate.

“Fine,”

Cassian sighed, rubbing his eyes.

“But if I lose my train of thought, I’m blaming you. And I’m charging you for the ink.”

The walk to the Administration Tower was tense. Cassian mumbled to himself the entire way, his eyes darting around like a prey animal. Every time a student passed them and whispered, Cassian flinched.

But Ray walked with purpose. He led them past the classrooms, past the Great Hall, and then finally the upper sanctum.

As they ascended, Cassian’s muttering stopped. He recognized the path. His face went pale.

“Ray,”

he whispered, grabbing Ray’s sleeve.

“This is the Headmaster’s Office.”

“It is.”

Ray confirmed.

“Why are we here?”

Cassian’s voice pitched up.

“Did I do something wrong? Did someone report me? I haven’t spent all the silence money, Ray! I still have some of it. Is the headmaster demanding I return it?”

Ray stopped on the landing. He turned and placed a hand on Cassian’s shoulder. The touch was firm, grounding.

“You aren’t in trouble,”

Ray said, his voice dropping into the deep, he used the World Weary Healer’s ‘Calming Presence’ skill to try and calm Cassian down.

“Straighten your back, Senior Cassian. You are a scholar of Solhaven Academy. Act like one.”

Cassian swallowed hard. He nodded, though he looked like he might faint.

“Right. Scholar. Okay.”

They reached the heavy oak doors. The receptionist looked at Ray and her eyes widened slightly.

“Novice Croft,”

she said.

“Mage Ashvane. The Headmaster is expecting you.”

Cassian made a small squeaking noise.

“Expecting?”

Ray proceeded to the headmaster’s office and pushed the doors open.

The Headmaster’s office was bathed in the golden light of the afternoon sun. It was a room of power, high ceilings, shelves lined with grimoires that could level cities, and a desk that looked like a fortress.

Headmaster Andrade stood by the window, her back to them. She wore her formal robes. The air around her hummed with suppressed power, a static charge that made the hairs on Cassian’s arms stand up.

“Sit,”

she said, without turning around.

Ray sat in one of the plush chairs. Cassian perched on the edge of his, looking ready to bolt.

Andrade turned. Her face was impassive, a mask of stone. She looked at Ray, and for a second, their eyes met, a silent acknowledgment of the conspiracy they shared. Then, she looked at Cassian.

“Mage Ashvane,”

she said.

“Headmaster!”

Cassian yelped.

“I didn’t do it. Whatever it is. Or if I did, it was purely theoretical! I can explain the experiments in the lab, it was an accident involving a failed levitation rune and…”

“Stop, Mage Ashvane,”

Andrade commanded, though her tone was not angry, merely tired.

Cassian’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click.

Andrade walked to her desk. She didn’t sit. She stood behind it, her hand resting on a heavy scroll sealed with the Academy’s official wax crest.

“I asked Novice Croft to bring you here not to discipline you, but to inform you of a change in Academy policy,”

Andrade said, her voice formal.

Cassian blinked, sweat beading on his forehead.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep