The trio walked briskly through the hall, the walls alive with chatter from the talking portraits that lined their path. Their footsteps echoed faintly on the polished stone floor, accompanied by bursts of laughter, squabbling, and cryptic mutterings from the enchanted paintings.

When they reached a set of double doors branching off the hallway, Rose stepped forward and pushed them open. Michael quickly ushered both himself and Melody inside, pulling the doors shut behind them with a soft thud. The thick wood instantly muffled the lively cacophony outside, and Michael exhaled, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.

"I see you've met the previous headmasters," a familiar voice drawled, tinged with amusement.

Michael froze. He turned to see Magnus seated at the round table, his chin resting lazily on his fist, watching him with an expression that blended regal elegance with unbothered detachment.

Magnus's gaze flicked to Michael's hand, which was still wrapped around Melody's. A knowing smirk ghosted across the royal's lips—he'd clearly mistaken the gesture for something romantic, rather than the desperate act of pulling her away from a corridor full of bickering portraits.

Realizing the implication, Michael dropped her hand like it was scalding. A subtle heat crept into his cheeks. In noble society, such displays of affection—especially with someone not officially betrothed—could stir rumors and unwelcome scrutiny.

Clearing his throat, Michael opted not to explain. That would only make things worse. "Apologies for our delay," he said instead, his tone dry. "We were... momentarily held up by the recruitment efforts of a few particularly persistent portraits."

"Who tried to recruit you?" Ren, the second-year council member, asked curiously. He nudged Mason beside him, rousing his interest as well.

"Rivelda and Gerald," Rose answered before either of them could respond, flashing a dazzling smile.

The names seemed to hit Ren like a thunderclap. "The Vermilion Mage and her father? No way," he muttered, eyes wide in disbelief.

Michael arched an eyebrow. He clearly didn't understand the significance.

"Truly remarkable," Blake, the composed third-year with wide-rimmed glasses, murmured as he adjusted his frames. "It's been quite some time since anyone's caught their attention."

"What does that mean?" Melody asked, stepping forward with genuine curiosity.

Blake looked as if he were about to reply, but Rose gently placed a hand on his shoulder, offering a soft smile instead.

"It's more superstition than anything," she said. "The previous headmasters often try to 'recruit' promising students to become their disciples. It's an old tradition—harmless, mostly. But within the student council, we say the generation of headmasters interested in you is an omen of your potential as a mage."

She walked over to her seat and sat gracefully, gesturing toward the two empty chairs across the table. "Supposedly, the stronger the generation, the greater the talent they recognize."

Magnus chuckled at that, a smooth, almost condescending sound. "Utter nonsense. What could a fragmented will of a long-dead mage possibly know about potential?"

"Easy for you to say," Ren muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with envy. "You were invited by the eighth generation headmasters…"

"Eighth generation?" Michael echoed, sensing weight behind the phrase.

Blake took over, his tone crisp. "Each headmaster serves a term of twenty years. The eighth generation refers to the fortieth through forty-fifth headmasters—arguably the most brilliant era in Arcadia's magical history."

There was something like this?

Michael felt his world expanding. It seemed there were still depths to the academy—and magic itself—that he had yet to uncover. Perhaps history class wouldn't be so dull after all.

That means Rivelda and Gerald belonged to the tenth generation, he realized. Were they also exceptional in their time?

As if reading his thoughts, Blake pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. "The tenth generation, namely Gerald," he began, "was responsible for refining space magic. Thanks to him, storage items became widely accessible again. He's the reason the Arcadius family solidified their influence across the continent."

Michael's eyes lit with surprise. He didn't need anyone to explain just how revolutionary space magic could be. Storage rings alone were priceless tools—tools he now realized were a specialty of the Arcadius bloodline.

Before anyone could continue, a faint click echoed through the chamber. The heavy double doors creaked open, revealing a tall, wiry figure draped in black robes.

Michael recognized him instantly—Professor Stark, the man who'd overseen the entrance examinations.

A subtle shift rippled through the room. Shoulders stiffened. Conversations halted.

"Take your seats," the professor said curtly, his voice flat and grave. "We have much to discuss."

The temperature of the room seemed to drop. Even Magnus, who had been lounging with all the ease of a cat on a windowsill, sat up straighter, his expression hardening.

"We weren't expecting you today, Professor," said Michelle Watts, a composed fourth-year who had remained mostly quiet until now. She straightened in her chair. "Is something the matter?"

Professor Stark didn't answer. With a wave of his hand, a faint whoosh of mana surged outward—and several heavy thuds landed on the round table.

Newspapers.

Each student now found a copy before them. The front page displayed a grainy, colorless image of a small, empty town—its streets vacant, its buildings still. Lifeless.

But it wasn't the image that drew gasps from around the room—it was the headline.

"TOWN OF NEWHOLD WIPED OUT – NO SURVIVORS"

"A whole town… dead!?" Ren shouted, eyes wide with disbelief. "How is that even possible?!"

Even Magnus paled, a rare sight. There was something dark in his eyes—recognition. Memory. Fear.

"Again?" Michelle muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. "Is this like what happened in our first year…?"

Michael barely heard them.

The words on the page blurred as the air was sucked from his lungs. The article detailed the sudden drying of a mana spring, followed by a mass extinction event. Not a single soul left alive.

His pulse pounded in his ears. The world tilted.

Not again...

His hands flew to his head as his breath caught in his throat. It felt as if a pair of invisible hands had wrapped around his chest, squeezing mercilessly.

No… NO!

Visions of Velmara flashed before him.

The butcher's rotting corpse.

A mother's hollow scream.

A city drowned in silence.

A voice—piercing, desperate—rang in his ears.

"RUN, MICHAEL! RUN!"

His eyes widened. His body trembled.

The ghosts weren't gone. They were just waiting.

The pain he thought he'd buried came surging back, unrelenting and raw.

His lungs burned. He couldn't breathe.

Then—

A hand.

Firm, grounding.

It landed on his shoulder with quiet force, snapping him back into the present.

Like ice water to the face, the touch jolted him. His panicked breath began to steady. The shrieking memories receded—still there, but now dulled, distant.

When he looked up, every pair of eyes was on him. Some curious. Some concerned. Others merely confused.

"Are you all right, Mr. Ellis?"

Professor Stark's voice came from behind, sharp and emotionless.

Michael swallowed hard. "Y-yes... Sorry."

He didn't dare meet the eyes of the other representatives.

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