NOVEL NEXT Chapter 46: Result (2)
Michael's scalp burned under the professor's grip, pain mingling with a creeping sense of dread. In that moment, he felt less than human—an insect caught in a giant's hand, ready to be crushed at a whim.
He couldn't summon his mind's eye to inspect within, but he didn't need to. He could feel the professor's will burrowing into him, sifting through every layer of his being. It was invasive—violating—as though every corner of his soul lay open for inspection.
If this man harbored even a flicker of malice, Michael knew there would be nothing he could do to stop him.
"Oho? Your soul is quite resilient," Professor Stark remarked, his tone one of genuine praise.
The next instant, the crushing pressure vanished. Michael collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath, his body trembling from the release.
"Birthright rings—three orange."
The professor's voice carried easily across the hall. He glanced toward the assistants at the desk. "Potential…" He paused briefly, as if choosing his words. "Late-stage Arcanist Mage."
The words hung in the air, heavy and electric. A tense silence gripped the hall, almost deafening in its intensity.
Shock spread across the faces of the three assistants—but it was Charles whose reaction betrayed the greatest surprise.
Arcanist Mage? Michael echoed inwardly.
He knew the naming convention for each major realm: Orange-ringed mages were Ember Mages, red were Crimson Mages, blue were Azure Mages, and green were Verdant Mages.
Each tier was divided further into stages: early, middle, and late—one, two, or three rings respectively.
Yellow- and white-ringed mages weren't given formal mage titles, and in all his studies, Michael had never once heard of an Arcanist Mage. That could mean only one thing.
Does he mean… Violet Mage?
Michael blinked, still frozen in disbelief.
"B-but is that even possible, Professor?" The female assistant in the academy's uniform rose to her feet, her voice thick with doubt.
"Right," another added. "Isn't the limit for a human soul three major realms? By that logic, he should only be able to reach late-stage Verdant Mage."
"Though extremely rare, it is not impossible for someone to be born with a unique soul," Professor Stark replied. His gaze returned to Michael, a newfound curiosity gleaming in his eyes. The earlier detachment in his manner was gone—replaced by a sharp, assessing interest.
Under that look, Michael felt stripped bare, less a student than a specimen under examination.
"Shall I… move on to the next test, sir?" he asked, trying to steer the moment elsewhere.
But the tall man didn't answer. He continued to stare.
"Professor…" Charles prompted gently.
"There's no need," Stark said at last, flicking his wrist.
The left-most door adjoining the hall swung open with a sharp creak, yet his gaze didn't leave Michael for a second.
"T-thank you, Professor." Michael bowed, retreating a step. Every instinct screamed at him not to turn his back, but he forced himself to do so.
His pace quickened toward the open door—half-expecting Stark to call him back at any moment.
He didn't even glance at Charles as he left, too intent on escaping the predator's gaze that lingered at his back until the very last step.
The moment Michael stepped through the threshold, his balance faltered. It was a familiar disorientation—one he'd now experienced three times since arriving at Arcadia Academy.
Spatial magic…
Darkness swallowed his vision for an instant before the floor seemed to steady beneath his feet. Voices filtered into his ears—a blend of chatter and laughter—followed by the warm glow of lanterns set into the stone walls, each one lit with steady magical light.
Blinking away the dizziness, Michael took in his new surroundings. The chamber was wide, with an open space dominating the center. The cold stone walls were softened by the heat of the room and the color of banners hanging from above. Each one bore the same emblem: an open grimoire encircled by a violet magic circle.
The crest of Arcadia.
A prickle ran down his neck. He turned—and met several lingering stares. The source of one glare was easy to identify: the curly-haired youth from earlier. The boy was whispering something to a companion, both of them smirking.
Braydon Marbury. Son of the rotund Lord Marbury.
Michael looked away, scanning the rest of the room. Fewer than a hundred teens filled the space, clustered in small groups. Out of the four hundred who'd stood in the great hall, less than a third remained.
Lord Winterborne's prediction had been unnervingly accurate.
This must mean I passed, he thought, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
He'd feared the examination orb would strip away every one of his secrets. Instead, it had revealed something so unexpected it still didn't feel real—his soul's potential had been measured at the level of a late-stage Arcanist Mage.
The claim was so far beyond his understanding that part of him refused to believe it. A lifetime of being pitied—or outright shunned—for his supposed lack of potential wasn't something that could be erased in a few passing minutes.
Still… if the professor was right, his limitations might no longer matter.
Where's Melody?
The thought hit him with sudden urgency.
Michael rose onto his toes, scanning the room. His height worked to his advantage; he spotted her in seconds—her cool, blue hair catching the lantern light like frost under the sun.
Straightening his suit, he began weaving his way through the knots of chattering students, intent on reaching her.
That was when someone slammed into him from the side.
"Hmm?" Michael turned just in time to see the figure stumble back, eyes wide with surprise. It was none other than the curly-haired youth from outside.
The boy had clearly intended to send Michael sprawling—but he'd badly misjudged his target. To the casual eye, Michael's lean frame might suggest a frail aristocrat. In reality, years of steady physical work had given him quite the strength.
Truly a sleeper build.
"Can I help you?" Michael arched an eyebrow, his words cold.