Chapter 1467: The Weight of Defeat
After hearing Kayzel’s faint words of surrender, Raze made his decision. There was no longer any point in dragging things out. Why should he continue fighting someone who had already admitted defeat, who had lost both his pride and his will to resist? He turned and began walking away, each step measured and unhurried, leaving Kayzel lying on the ground in silence.
In Raze’s mind, the fight was already over. He had achieved what he had set out to do. Kayzel had been broken, not through one overwhelming spell, but through humiliation, through the repeated reminder that no matter how fast he was, no matter what magic he tried to use, he would always end up flat on the floor. Raze had forced humility into him, but that wasn’t the only reason he had acted this way.
The truth was, he had another goal entirely. Raze wanted to anger Ibarin.
Up in the high principal’s platform, Ibarin had been forced to sit and watch as his prized student, his shining star, was dismantled piece by piece. Every failed strike, every humiliating throw, every desperate attempt only to be crushed again, Raze wanted all of it to grate on him, to dig into his composure until he couldn’t take it anymore. Raze’s aim was simple: push Ibarin so far that he would descend into the arena himself.
If that happened, then Raze would finally get what he wanted, an excuse to stand face-to-face with the Grand Magus in front of the entire arena.
But it hadn’t worked. Ibarin remained where he was, unmoving, stone-faced. He had not intervened, had not lost control. So the opportunity was lost… for now. Raze told himself he still had time. The tournament would last two more days. If his plan failed today, he would find another chance to provoke him before it was over.
Confusion stirred elsewhere. The announcer of the event, who had been watching nervously, hadn’t heard Kayzel’s weak, trembling surrender. All he could see was Raze walking away, leaving the fight behind. For a tense moment, the announcer actually considered saying that Raze had forfeited. That would have been the natural conclusion if a fighter simply walked away.
But then he remembered everything he had just witnessed, the impossible speed, the utter dominance, Kayzel being thrown around like a doll. To declare Kayzel the winner now would be laughable. It would ruin the tournament’s credibility. The announcer’s pride and reputation were on the line as well, and so he made the only choice that wouldn’t make him look like a fool.
He raised his voice with finality.
“And the winner is, Raze, from Wilton Academy!”
At first, the response was hesitant. A few claps here and there, scattered, uncertain. But then, as the reality sank in, the applause grew. Louder, stronger, until it erupted into thunderous cheers that shook the arena itself. The crowd’s roar echoed from wall to wall, the sound of thousands of voices filled with disbelief and exhilaration.
It was an upset. A monumental one. And it was more than just a victory, it was a spectacle greater than anything the spectators had expected.
In the wake of this, the atmosphere of the tournament shifted. Before today, everyone had assumed Central Academy’s victory was all but guaranteed. But now? Wilton Academy had claimed the first three major events, one after another. The impossible had become possible. And for the first time, no one in the stands could confidently place their bets on Central Academy’s success.
Kayzel, meanwhile, finally stirred. His limbs ached, his head throbbed, and shame weighed on his shoulders heavier than any wound. Slowly, he dragged himself upright. His eyes remained fixed on the floor as he staggered down the hallway, each step echoing louder than the last. When he returned to the Central waiting area, the silence hit him harder than any blow Raze had dealt.
He had expected anger. He had expected ridicule. He had braced himself for George’s scornful voice saying I told you this would happen, mocking him for his arrogance. But none of that came. Instead, the other students said nothing. They didn’t scold him, they didn’t berate him. They simply watched as he lowered himself into a seat, and then they let him sit there in silence. The weight of their disappointment was heavier than any words.
Over in the Wilton dorms, the mood was entirely different. The students returned buzzing with energy, filled with a rush of pride that they could barely contain. They longed to celebrate, but even in their triumph, they knew they had to be cautious. Even with the masks concealing their identities, walking the halls in celebration would draw too much attention. It was better to keep their joy private, at least for now.
So, behind the safety of their doors, they let themselves rejoice. They laughed, they clapped, they congratulated Raze and Liam. Questions poured in, about how Raze had done it, how Liam had held his own. The two of them deflected, skirting the truth without giving away their secrets. But one thing was obvious: whatever Raze had planned to do today, he had not finished it. Which meant there was still something waiting in the days ahead. Something bigger.
As for Central’s students, the aftermath was grim. Once the Light mage had tended to their injuries, and once the guests had left the stands, they remained behind on the field. Their bodies lined up in a row, one after the other, heads lowered in shame.
Then he appeared.
Descending from the air, Ibarin landed before them with his hands clasped neatly behind his back. His presence was suffocating. His mana leaked out in waves, pressing against their chests, weighing on their lungs until it felt like they couldn’t breathe. Just standing in front of him felt like being crushed beneath an invisible mountain.
He hadn’t spoken a single word since the match ended. He hadn’t addressed the other principals. None of them had dared to speak to him either. Now, his eyes scanned the line of his students. One by one, he locked gazes with them, his stare sharp as a blade. When his eyes settled on Kayzel, the boy instinctively wanted to look away. But fear froze him in place. He was certain that if he broke eye contact, Ibarin would strike him where he stood.
“All of you,” Ibarin finally said, his voice deep and merciless, “will use the pills tomorrow. You tried winning with your own strength, and you failed. Central Academy has no use for failures. If you do not win tomorrow… then do not bother coming back.”
The command was final. There was no room for negotiation, no room for excuses. And with that, Ibarin’s body rose, lifted on currents of wind magic, until he disappeared into the night sky. The suffocating weight of his mana faded, leaving the students gasping for air as though they had been drowning.
If he had remained even a moment longer, it was clear he might have lashed out in anger, casting a spell against his own students.
Kayzel clenched his fists, shame burning hotter than his wounds. As he stared up at the place where Ibarin had stood, his mind replayed the words he had heard earlier in the match.
Did I hear him right? he thought, his chest tightening. That student… did he really say he wanted to face the Grand Magus?
The thought left him more unsettled than the defeat itself.
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Chapter 1468: Lightning’s Grip
When Ibarin left the arena, his steps were sharp, deliberate, and heavy. He did not linger, did not slow down. He headed straight to the main building, to the office that he always returned to when the weight of the world pressed against his chest. The moment he crossed the threshold and shut the door, his composure cracked.
The Grand Magus paced back and forth across the floorboards. Each step was restless, hurried, almost clawing at the ground itself. The air inside the room twisted unnaturally, warping like a mirage. The flow of mana leaking from his body was so overwhelming that reality itself seemed distorted.
If anyone else had been in the room, their vision would have blurred, their stomachs churned, as if the walls and floor no longer belonged to the same dimension.
Ibarin’s rage was rising, boiling, threatening to spill over.
He had restrained himself for too long. Watching the Wilton student, watching Raze, stand against Kayzel and toy with him had pushed Ibarin beyond reason. Every fiber of his being had screamed to strike then and there, to rip the entire hall apart, to slaughter not just the students but every teacher in the room who dared to sit and smile.
And yet he hadn’t. He had held himself back.
But now, within the silence of his own office, there was no one to witness the fury tearing through him.
What do I do? What can I possibly do in a situation like this? His thoughts spun like a storm. He pressed both palms against his desk, head bowing as his jaw clenched tight.
“Who is that student?” Ibarin growled aloud, his voice cracking in frustration. “This has to be impossible… it has to be! Am I losing my mind?” His eyes flared with sparks of lightning. “How can Wilton Academy have so many talented students? Students I have never even heard of! And all of them refusing to join the Central Academy… refusing me. Stronger even than Kayzel…”
His mind returned again and again to the same image: Raze moving faster than the eye could follow, appearing in places he had no right to be. The speed, it gnawed at him, clawed into his pride. He knew Kayzel’s unique trait. He understood it. But Raze? What was his secret?
Gritting his teeth, Ibarin turned his mana inward, channeling his own lightning affinity. Sparks coiled around his legs, surging down to the heels of his feet.
Then, crack!
His body jolted forward. The floor quaked beneath him as he vanished and reappeared on the opposite side of the room, arcs of lightning scattering across the walls.
But his expression twisted. He shook his head violently.
“No… this is not the same.” He clenched his fists, glaring down at his legs. “I can use lightning magic to enhance my speed, yes. But controlling it… directing it smoothly, seamlessly, the way that boy did? Impossible. Even if someone trained for decades, they couldn’t move as flawlessly as I saw.”
Still unwilling to accept, he tried again.
Lightning surged through his body. He dashed forward, cutting to the left, then to the right, forcing himself to change angles mid-movement. Sparks blazed across the floor, gouging black marks into the wood. The raw power left streaks of char and heat in his wake.
But the recoil was brutal. The lightning kicked back into his muscles, biting into his legs, tearing at his flesh. The pain stabbed deep.
“Arghhh! Damn it!” Ibarin shouted, staggering to a stop. His chest heaved with ragged breaths. His voice cracked into madness. “Call for a Light Mage, now!“
A crystal embedded into his desk pulsed to life. With a crackle, it carried his order outward, his command echoing through the halls. He slumped against the desk, fury trembling through his fingers.
What is this? How can this be? His thoughts screamed. What kind of magic did a mere student use? How could he show mastery of lightning in a way I cannot? Me! A Grand Magus!
The Central Academy was the heart of knowledge, the place where all secrets and techniques flowed. For a mere Wilton student to show him something he could not understand, it was an impossibility. A humiliation.
Minutes later, two Light Mages hurried in, their robes glowing faintly with restorative magic. They knelt beside him, channeling their energy into his battered legs. Warmth filled his limbs as the tearing flesh knit back together, the burns sealing over.
When they finished, Ibarin dismissed them coldly. “Go. And keep silent.”
Once alone again, he waved his hand. Mana surged. The burn marks across the floor vanished, the cracked wood restored, the faint smell of smoke wiped away. He returned the office to its pristine state, as though nothing had happened.
At least, on the surface.
The door creaked open.
A man stepped through, robed, his long garments brushing the floor with every step. His hair was as white as his beard, both cascading down in neat waves. His presence carried the calm dignity of age, but beneath it, nerves twitched in his eyes.
Wilton Junior, the principal of Wilton Academy, had arrived.
“Please. Take a seat,” Ibarin said flatly.
Wilton did not dare refuse. The weight of the Grand Magus’s gaze was enough to squeeze the breath from his lungs. He lowered himself into the chair across from the desk, spine stiffening, hands folded tightly together.
“To what,” Wilton began carefully, voice strained with tension, “do I owe the honor of being called by the great Grand Magus himself?”
Ibarin’s lips twitched. “Come now, don’t speak like that.” His voice grew sharp, mocking. “With the way your students are performing, perhaps soon you will be the one called Grand Magus, hmm?”
Wilton forced a chuckle. It was hollow, brittle, a sound more born of fear than amusement.
“You think that’s funny?” Ibarin’s voice cracked into a shout. His eyes bulged, wild. “Is that what you’ve been aiming for? Is that your goal all along, to undermine me? To take what is mine!”
Wilton’s throat tightened. Of course not. His only aim had ever been to guide his students, to bring prestige to his academy, to earn more funding and recognition. His magical ability was nowhere near Ibarin’s, nor did he ever aspire to challenge him.
But the room felt suffocating. The air was thick with unstable mana. If he spoke the wrong word, if he even breathed incorrectly, it might be his last.
“I… I…”
“I SAID ANSWER ME!”
Lightning ripped from Ibarin’s fingers. The blast slammed into Wilton’s chest, hurling him backward. His chair splintered against the floor. He gasped as the current surged through him, his limbs jerking violently.
Before he could recover, the lightning coiled, wrapping around his arms and legs like serpents of pure energy. They tightened, constricting, pinning him to the ground.
Ibarin stood over him, eyes glowing with unhinged fury, lightning snapping between his teeth as if even his words were too volatile to contain.
He didn’t even realize what he had just done.
And worse, he didn’t care.
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