CHAPTER 240: CHAPTER 240: THE INVITATION

The clash of spells faded as the protective sigil flared bright over the arena.

"Victory goes to Elena von Lestaria of the Imperial Academy of Valor!"

Applause erupted, loud and proud from her academy’s section, though not as deafening as some of the earlier cheers. Elena gave a small bow, composed as ever, before calmly leaving the field.

Noel leaned back in his seat. "Another clean win."

Balthor popped a peanut into his mouth. "She didn’t even sweat. When you brought her with you the first time she looked like a scared little girl, but it seems I was wrong about her, appearances are not what they seem."

"It was an entertaining fight at least. Her opponent was good—but Elena’s is better. And yes, you shouldn’t judge someone just by appearances because you would probably be surprised by the things you could discover."

The matches continued. More fighters came and went, but the pattern didn’t change. Every single one of the duels from the Tharvaldur Institute of Arcane Might ended exactly as Torwan had predicted—some won confidently, others lost in ways that felt... orchestrated.

Noel said nothing, but his thoughts grew heavier.

’Each result lines up perfectly. No one’s breaking the script. They’re either scared or Torwan has somehow made it so they can’t go against what he’s decided.’

Beside him, Balthor raised his mug again. "Well, if nothin’ else, we’ll be makin’ good money outta this. With this money we can really pretend to be the Estermonts and try to get him to tell us more about everything... silly little brother."

Noel nodded slightly.

He folded his arms, gaze locked on the arena.

Then, something unexpected happened.

As the next pair of students took the stage, a faint pulse of mana stirred the air around Noel.

A breeze—unnatural and soft—brushed past his cheek.

Then, a letter appeared.

It didn’t fall. It didn’t fly in from above. It simply hovered, materializing inches away from his face, suspended mid-air with a faint shimmer.

Noel blinked.

Balthor frowned and leaned in. "What the hell is that?"

"A letter," Noel replied, reaching for it slowly.

"No shit, genius. The question is—from who?"

Noel broke the seal. Elegant black wax, marked with a sigil he recognized instantly.

He unfolded the parchment and read silently:

"Noel Thorne. Meet me in the private chambers. It’s time to talk. – Nicolas von Aldros."

"It’s from the director," Noel said aloud.

Balthor raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? What’s he want?"

"He says... it’s time we talk. Now."

Balthor exhaled. "Well, go then. You don’t keep a headmaster waiting—especially one like him."

Noel stood. "You’re coming with me."

Balthor blinked. "Me? What the hell do I have to do with your fancy Imperial business?"

"You’ve been part of this since the beginning," Noel said, already heading down the steps. "Now move it, drunk dwarf."

Balthor grunted, standing with a muttered, "Pushy little bastard..." before following him.

The roar of the crowd faded into a distant hum as Noel and Balthor descended into the inner halls of the arena.

The atmosphere shifted immediately.

The hallway stretched long and narrow, its walls carved from dark granite blocks, each engraved with faintly glowing runes. Floating torchlights hovered along the edges, their blue flames casting long shadows over the insignias etched into the stone—crests of past champions, academy banners, and old tournament records.

The scent of incense lingered in the air, mixed with the more familiar smells of sweat, dust, and metal. Somewhere deeper in the halls, the echo of heavy boots and murmuring voices suggested staff preparing for upcoming matches.

Balthor trailed behind, his eyes scanning everything. "This place is too damn clean... for somewhere people get their ribs shattered every day."

Noel didn’t slow down. He turned left, then right, passing two guards who didn’t question him.

Balthor frowned. "How do you even know where we’re going?"

"I snuck in last time," Noel replied without missing a step.

Balthor snorted. "Why am I not surprised?"

They moved past a row of heavy doors, each sealed with metal locks and magical glyphs. Deeper into the complex, the halls grew quieter, more guarded, more official.

A few professors passed by, giving them short nods but saying nothing. Tournament workers carried boxes of supplies or checked lists on glowing scrolls.

At the end of one corridor, a tall black door stood open.

And right outside it, waiting with arms folded behind his back, stood Nicolas von Aldros.

As Noel and Balthor approached, Nicolas gave a subtle nod.

"It’s good to see you again after so long," he said calmly. Then his gaze shifted to Balthor. "And who might this be?"

The dwarf stepped forward and tapped his chest. "Balthor. Owner of the Drunken Hammer, down in Valon’s lower district."

Nicolas raised an eyebrow. "Interesting. And why did you bring him, Noel?"

Noel’s voice was steady. "Because he’s part of this. He’s been helping me from the beginning—and he knows what we’re dealing with."

Nicolas studied Balthor for a second, then looked back at Noel. "I see. And... do you have something for me?"

"I’ve discovered the identity of the Fifth Pillar," Noel said without flinching.

That made Nicolas pause.

His posture shifted just slightly—more alert, more engaged. "Then it seems this conversation will be worth the time. We’ve uncovered quite a few things ourselves these past few months aswell."

He stepped aside and gestured toward the door. "Let’s talk inside. It’ll be more private."

Balthor gave a small nod. "Gladly, Headmaster Nicolas von Aldros."

"And the pleasure is mine, Mr. Balthor," Nicolas replied with faint respect in his tone.

The door opened.

As the heavy door closed behind them, Noel took a moment to glance around.

The room was quiet, dimly lit by floating mana-lanterns anchored near the corners of the ceiling. Stone walls—unadorned but perfectly polished—gave the space a sense of weight and authority. In the center stood a rectangular blackwood table, elegant in design yet clearly meant for business, not decoration.

Four chairs surrounded it.

Nicolas moved without hesitation, pulling one back and sitting down. He gestured for the others to do the same.

Balthor remained standing for a moment longer, inspecting the ceiling for traps—half-seriously—before finally settling into his seat with a grunt.

Nicolas laced his fingers together. "Now then. Let’s begin."