The dining hall, already silent, now felt utterly hollow like the very air had been sucked from the room, leaving only empty shells where people once stood.

It was as if every soul had momentarily fled, leaving behind a space devoid of breath.

The shift in the room was immediate.

The casual arrogance drained from his face, leaving behind something far colder. Julian's entire attention turned, fully and dangerously, to Ruvian who dared to mock him so openly.

And amidst it all—Silvena, Calyra, Rosalin, and Loden stood and looked at him too.

Ruvian Castelor.

Silvena barely shifted, but her sharp eyes moved toward him. A slight smirk played at the corner of her lips. Her mana didn’t fade, but it steadied.

Calyra inhaled softly, barely audible amidst the stifling silence. Her grip on her sleeve tightened, out of restraint.

The atmosphere between them had shifted, no longer a mere exchange of words but a delicate clash of wills.

And as Ruvian spoke with an unshakable certainty, she felt a reluctance of admiration, sharp in its clarity and unwelcome in its timing, but undeniably present.

Rosalin was the first to move, though it felt less like action and more like the natural rhythm long accustomed to a fight. And though Julian stood across from her, it wasn’t him she watched. Her gaze found Ruvian instead.

The way he shaped his words, not to impress but to pierce, reminded her of knights who fought for justice. She respected it. And for that afternoon, an unexpected satisfaction settled in her chest.

Loden exhaled, but it did little to ease the tension in his skin. This had gone beyond sparks of mana or the barely restrained provocations that danced so close to violence.

His eyes shifted—first to Julian, whose silence now, then to Ruvian, who stood as though he had been born to bear scrutiny.

Loden’s jaw tensed, a grind of pressure behind clenched teeth. There was always one or the other—the brash fool who mistook silence for safety, or the rare kind who understood the game and chose to walk the blade’s edge anyway.

He wasn’t yet sure which one Ruvian was. But either way, the boy had just stepped into the lion's den.

***

[Julian’s POV]

Mockery and defiance—such trifles, hardly worth a second thought. They were little more than fleeting amusements, the sort one might expect from those who lived in ignorance of their own insignificance.

At worst, they were minor inconveniences, easily swatted away with the elegance reserved for matters of no true consequence.

But to be dismissed? To have one’s honor so casually stripped, not in private, but before an audience that now dared to breathe in the wake of his humiliation? ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by novel⸺fire.net

That was an affront, a transgression of the highest order. It was, in his mind, unforgivable. His fingers twitched at his side. Beneath his skin, the currents of mana stirred, waiting for the command to strike.

The air around him thickened, swelling like an invisible force pushing against the room. The weak would bend, perhaps even break. And those with the wisdom to understand their place? They would kneel—no less, no more.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

And the boy before him did neither. He did not cower, nor bow, nor show the slightest tremor of deference.

Julian’s gaze narrowed, the cold amusement that had once danced at the edges of his expression now hollowed out, replaced by a dull focus.

The boy’s stance was too relaxed to be careless, too still to be untrained.

Ruvian had drawn the lines, placed the pieces, and made his play. But the board was Julian’s to command. The pace, the rhythm, the consequence—that would be his to dictate.

His lips parted.

“You dare, beggars?”

Three words spoken softly, handing down judgment. The very air reacted, trembling as arcs of violet static curled and danced at his fingertips, eager to be loosed.

His mana did not crackle or roar. Julian had no interest in theatrics. His strength was not the kind that clamored for attention but to remind his foe it was there.

Ruvian’s expression, relaxed as ever, held firm under the mounting pressure. Those dark eyes met Julian’s without hesitation.

Julian stepped forward, slow, studying the anomaly of the boy's defiance. And then… he stopped. Now, only a breath separated them. Julian’s eyes glance a cut, dissecting his posture, his eerie calm that refuses to break.

‘I have not seen him before…’

This was not the arrogance of a fool who didn’t know better. No, this was intention. Someone who knew exactly what they were risking and did it anyway.

‘How amusing.’

Julian’s smirk returned, faint and without warmth.

“You speak bold words for someone so insignificant. Now, my turn to ask—do you think your words carry weight simply because you dared to say them?”

He took another step closer, the violet hum of his mana flickering like a phantom around his fingertips.

“Or is it that you believe I won’t break you for daring to speak as you did?”

Ruvian tilted his head, just slightly and copied Julian’s smile.

“Break me?” he echoed, his voice carrying none of the arrogance Julian so often heard in challengers, nor the hesitation of those who feared him. (+30PP)

Ruvian asked. “With threats?” (+50PP)

His tone remained unhurried, almost indifferent.

“I expected more from you.” (+20PP)

Murmurs surged, tension crashing like a wave.

“You misunderstand something,” Julian said softly.

“This is no threat.”

His mana pulsed again, a violet gleam intensifying at his palm.

“It is a certainty.”

The pressure in the room deepened. Onlookers, even those with little sensitivity to mana, felt it in their bones—felt the inevitability of what was coming.

And yet…

“Then act on it,” Ruvian said, his voice untouched by fear. (+250PP)

The words had barely left his lips—

—but Julian already moved.

There was no warning, no moment of transition. One instant he was still, the next, lightning crackled around his arm, striking without mercy.

A crack split the silence—the roar of mana made manifest. Violet arcs burst forth like the snarl of a storm, jagged and alive, painting the air with their violence.

Julian struck, his arm lashing forward with brutal speed, a direct blow meant for the boy’s throat!

Fast.

A strike meant to end it all!

But Ruvian neither flinched nor shifted his footing. He stood unmoved, as though the violence bearing down on him were just a passing wind.

Then, four bursts of mana erupted across the hall, bright and desperate.

Silvena. Calyra. Rosalin. Loden.

They moved without thinking, without speaking—an instinctive reaction that came too late to matter. A wall of earth tore up from the ground. A lattice of crackling vines surged forward. Winds twisted and space distorted, each spell colliding in a chaotic dance between fury and panic.

But it was all futile. Too slow. And too far. Julian’s lightning had already reached its mark. Or so it should have.

“That’s enough!”

The words were firm and they cut through the air—absolute and impossible to ignore.

BOOM!

A force, silent until now, crashed into Julian’s spell with terrifying finality. The lightning shattered mid-flight, purple arcs scattering like broken glass, vanishing into the air with a hiss of displaced power. The sheer pressure of the collision warped the room, and all other mana recoiled.

Then, from amidst the fading sparks…

A white-gloved hand held Julian’s wrist, fingers closed not in control. Effortless. As if the lightning had been nothing more than a tantrum swatted from a child’s hand.

The strike had not missed. It had been stopped.

‘Tch!’

'Out of all the time...'

Julian’s gaze snapped to the hand that held his wrist, then slowly rose to the figure now standing between him and Ruvian.

White. Immaculate and unwrinkled, the coat gleamed faintly under the dim light, its gold embroidery shining with authority.

Three crests, each etched with painstaking precision.

The insignias of the Scholar Council.

Symbols not of power earned through battle, but of power enshrined by doctrine, tradition, and absolute rule.

Not one representative.

But three of them.

Three voices of Velthia Academy’s highest echelon now stood in full view, their timing were exact. Their presence alone silenced the hall and extinguishing even the thought.

The dining hall, moments ago electric with tension, now held a quiet that was not empty but watching….

PP= 6310

ME= 215