Bartholomew cleared his throat, changing the subject. His serious bearing returned, "The recent phenomenon that occurred in Newhall…"

Michael's body tensed subconsciously, an unease creeping through his heart.

Why is he bringing this up?

Did the headmaster find out his identity?

No… That's impossible, he reasoned.

Everyone that knew of Michael Aurelius, knew he was a white-ringed mage—and the weakest of them all. Even if they suspected his identity, a quick look at his left wrist should be enough to confirm that they were different people.

After all, what happened to him was something that even he couldn't explain.

"What does it have to do with me?" Michael asked, his voice coming out higher than he had intended.

He gazed at the headmaster, looking for any subtle shifts in his expression. But it was difficult. Not only was the man adept at keeping his expression impassive, he also had a huge bushy beard covering half his face.

Michael's many years of reading people's body language and expressions in the noble circles was rendered useless in this moment, a fact that depressed him.

"Well, I'm sure you're aware, the whole town was killed—their inner palaces destroyed and their souls taken… Just like Claywall and Velmara three years ago." He continued, slowly.

The mention of Velmara prompted Michael's eyes to flicker imperceptibly, yet thankfully the headmaster had turned his head, missing it completely.

"Yes, it's truly tragic…" Michael replied, his voice even.

"Indeed, it is something that I have trouble even fathoming. Just who could be so depraved to do such a thing, and what is their goal?" he asked, to no one in particular.

The headmaster got up from his chair and walked towards the bookshelf on the opposite side of the room, his back turned to Michael. The atmosphere was odd, and Michael felt uncomfortable—still unsure of the reason why he was brought here.

Does he suspect my identity? Or is this related to something else?

"There are stories—myths you might say," he corrected, "of Ancient mages using souls to summon powerful beings from other dimensions…"

Michael's ears perked up at the unexpected information. He watched as the headmaster picked a book from the bookshelf, flipping through it absentmindedly.

"But these tales were lost—along with nearly all of our arcane knowledge in the great war," he added softly, closing the book abruptly. "Very few tomes exist from that era, and even fewer that are still legible after two millennium."

He then turned towards Michael, staring at him intently from the other side of the room, "But it's hard to believe that these occurrences are just coincidences right? Don't you think?" he asked insistently.

Why is he asking me? I'm just a first-year student, not one of his professors…

"Y-yeah… Do you think that's what's happening now headmaster?" Michael queried, still feeling uneasy.

Bartholomew nodded, placing the book carefully back into his bookshelf. "I have my suspicions of who might be behind the attacks, but no concrete evidence. However, even if I did, it might not make a difference in the end."

The headmaster's shoulders slumped slightly, as though an unseen weight had settled upon him. For the first time since Michael had met him, Bartholomew's usual commanding presence was absent—his grand, unshakable aura dimmed. It was unsettling to see him like this.

Yet despite the man's weariness, his words lit a spark deep within Michael's chest.

He swallowed hard, forcing composure into his voice. "Who… who do you think is responsible?" he asked, striving to sound merely curious rather than desperate for answers.

This is my chance…

If I can get even a hint, a single lead… It might finally allow me to find out who killed Mom.

But Bartholomew's sharp gaze fixed on him like a spear, halting the breath in his lungs. The weight behind those eyes made Michael feel as though his entire being had been laid bare.

For several excruciating moments, he sat frozen, praying silently for the tension to pass.

It felt as though a bright, blinding light had been cast upon his soul, stripping away every facade, every secret.

Then Bartholomew spoke.

"Your soul," he said, his voice deep and resonant, "is unlike anything I have ever seen before." His tone carried no accusation, only quiet fascination.

Michael's chest tightened.

"Even I," the headmaster continued, "who have reached the depths of the violet ring in the Arcana… cannot fathom it." His intense gaze lingered a moment longer before finally easing.

Michael's body relaxed instinctively, air rushing back into his lungs. It was like escaping the scrutiny of a higher being—someone who didn't quite belong to this plane of existence.

"Forgive me," Bartholomew said suddenly, offering a faint, apologetic smile. "That was rude of me. It's rare to encounter someone with a soul this strong—in fact, this is the first time I've seen such a phenomenon in a mage without a violet ring."

Michael said nothing, still struggling to steady himself after the crushing pressure of the man's scrutiny. Only then did he realize his earlier question had been left unanswered—but the moment to ask again had passed. Pressing further now might draw suspicion he couldn't afford.

So close… he cursed inwardly.

"It's fine, Headmaster," Michael managed, his tone subdued. "I still don't even understand what's so special about my soul."

Bartholomew nodded thoughtfully. "Unique souls are just that—unique," he explained, folding his hands behind his back as he paced. "Some are more solid than others, allowing their wielders to traverse deeper into the Arcana than most could dream. Others are extraordinarily attuned to mana itself, capable of purifying it with ease."

He paused, his piercing gaze returning to Michael. "But yours… yours doesn't fully match either type I've encountered before. For now, I advise you to continue your studies. The truth of your soul's nature will reveal itself… in time."

A silence settled between them, heavy and unspoken.

Michael sat still, forcing himself not to fidget, waiting patiently for dismissal. But Bartholomew seemed deep in thought, his expression shadowed by something unspoken.

At last, the headmaster spoke, his tone softer than before—and, for the first time, he addressed him by name.

"You need to grow, Michael," he said quietly. "I wish you had more time to do so… but it seems our friend Brian Winterborne has made that task far more difficult." A low, humorless chuckle followed, lacking any real mirth.

Michael's eyes narrowed faintly. So the headmaster did know about Melody's father's machinations—and clearly, he wasn't pleased.

"With so many nobles circling his daughter and her bloodline," Bartholomew continued, "you'll face more challenges than you realize. In time, even Mr. Marbury may seem like nothing more than an insect in comparison." He sighed, rubbing a hand along his beard.

Then, without warning, he stepped forward and placed a heavy hand on Michael's shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding, carrying the weight of unspoken responsibility.

"Be careful, Michael," Bartholomew said gravely. "Keep your wits about you. My hands are tied for now—I can't offer you the support you may need until the true nature of your soul reveals itself. Until then… do your best to weather the storm."

Before Michael could respond, the world lurched violently. The room around him spun, his balance shattering as vertigo seized him.

And then, just as suddenly, it was over.

He blinked, breathless, finding himself standing in a familiar room. Rudy sat sprawled across the couch, wide-eyed in shock.

"Michael!?" Rudy blurted, nearly falling off the cushions. "How the hell did you get here?"

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