My head… it hurts…
A lone figure staggered across the moonlit path outside the boys' dormitory. Slender, pale, and dressed in Serendia Academy's uniform, the young man's silver hair glimmered weakly under the night sky. It was the student council vice president, Cyril Ashley.
Sweat clung to his fair cheeks, making his already fragile expression even more strained. Brow tightly knit, he walked unsteadily away from the dorms and slipped into the forest beside the building.
"…Urgh… ah…"
Throb—
Every time a sharp pain tore through his skull, the mana inside his body lashed out wildly, as though rebelling. Cyril pressed a hand to a nearby tree and murmured a quick chant. Ice instantly crawled across the bark, freezing it solid.
Cyril Ashley suffered from a condition known as mana hyperabsorption.
All humans possessed a vessel within them—a container for mana. When mana was depleted, the vessel naturally refilled by absorbing ambient mana from outside. Once full, the body rejected any more; it would simply stop absorbing.
But Cyril's body didn't stop. Even when his vessel overflowed, his body behaved as though it were starving. It continued to drink in mana endlessly.
This was mana hyperabsorption. And an excess of mana could tear a person apart from the inside—mana poisoning. To prevent that, he had to release it regularly.
Groaning, Cyril clutched at the brooch pinned to his tie. The ornate piece wasn't an accessory at all—it was a magical device, forcibly purging excess mana from his body. With it, he could function. Breathe. Live.
But since yesterday, something had been wrong.
Using magecraft should have lowered his mana temporarily, easing the symptoms. But now, no matter how many spells he cast, his mana never dipped. If anything, his body was absorbing it faster than he could expend it.
He collapsed to his knees, curling in on himself, gripping the brooch like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world. The brooch—his treasure—had been a gift from none other than Marquess Lombardy.
Cyril was not the marquess's real son. The Highown family, renowned as the Lineage of the Wise, possessed a daughter but no heir. Cyril—a distant, lowborn relative—had been chosen solely for his talent.
He had entered the marquess's household filled with pride… only to meet his new younger sister.
A genius. A prodigy worthy of the Highown name. Brilliant, far beyond him.
Why, then… why had he been chosen?
His confidence collapsed. In desperation, he drowned himself in all manner of studies. But books only revealed an even wider gulf between him and his sister. So he sought another strength—magecraft. He trained recklessly.
And that led him to this sickness.
The harder he struggled toward greatness, the further it pulled away from him.
He had been lost. Despairing. Until the marquess placed this brooch in his hands.
Wear this, and your condition will stabilize. To Cyril, the gift meant acceptance. Recognition. A place in the family.
He wanted to live up to that trust. More than anything—
I want… to believe in myself.
He couldn't stay collapsed here. He had responsibilities and duties—he had no time to break down.
But his body refused to listen. With every flicker of relief, the surge returned, fiercer than before.
Why? Why is it worsening? Why?
His head pounded. His pulse stumbled. Breath caught painfully in his throat.
He couldn't chant anymore.
He couldn't cast.
He couldn't—
"Ah… guh…"
Cyril's hands clawed weakly at the earth as his consciousness slipped away, swallowed by darkness creeping at the edges of his vision.
Just before he lost himself completely, he heard—faint, familiar—a cat's meow.
........
With Ryn's flight magic carrying them, Lillian, Nero, and the spirit had slipped unseen out of the girls' dormitory window. From there, they followed the jagged trail of ice mana cutting through the night air, deeper into the forest—until they found him.
Cyril Ashley.
Slumped under a towering tree, trembling, sweating, and unleashing ice spells in every direction like a wild animal lashing out.
Ryn tilted her head, expression unchanged despite her confusion. "I wasn't aware that students these days practiced magecraft in secret at such hours. How diligent."
"N-no… I think Lord Ashley is suffering from mana poisoning from… um… mana hyperabsorption," Lillian explained softly.
"Mana poisoning?" Ryn and Nero echoed, both equally baffled.
"Humans have low mana resistance compared to spirits or dragons, so if they absorb too much mana, their bodies become overwhelmed… It's called mana poisoning. In severe cases, it can cause death."
Lillian's voice trembled slightly. She had seen symptoms like these during her time at Minerva's Mage Training Institution. Cyril was showing the signs of stage five, the most dangerous.
"Someone like Lord Ashley, who naturally absorbs mana easily, probably uses magecraft often to reduce it… or wears a magical item that absorbs the excess…"
That explained his frequent creation of ice—expelling mana by freezing it. And the glass he had been filling with ice shards. And the way his hand kept clutching the brooch at his collar.
Ryn made a small loop with her fingers and peered through it at Cyril as though adjusting some invisible lens.
"I can see the mana flow. His brooch is collecting the mana expelled from his body… and returning it."
Lillian's heart dropped. "I knew it…! It's malfunctioning!"
They needed to remove it immediately.
But if she got close, Cyril would almost certainly recognize her—even with her hood. She hesitated.
Nero stepped forward boldly. "Leave it to me!"
Before Lillian could protest, he sprang out of the bushes and leapt at Cyril. His teeth clamped around the brooch.
"What—? A cat?! Stop—don't touch that!"
Cyril swiped wildly, but Nero slipped past him, ripped the brooch free, and bounded away.
"Give it… Give it back!" Cyril screamed, the words ragged and desperate.
A wall of ice erupted in front of Nero, blocking his escape.
What—?! In a panic, Nero darted sideways, but the ice surged again, spreading, twisting, and enclosing. In seconds, he and Cyril were trapped within a ring of towering ice.
Oh damn… and I hate the cold!
"Give it back…" Cyril staggered closer. His pupils were blown wide, bloodshot. Every breath came out as a hollow groan. "That…my father…gave it… Need him to…accept… me…"
His voice trembled with obsession and heartbreak. Any trace of sanity had vanished.
Poor kid, Nero thought, ears flattening. Why are humans other than Lillian such absolute idiots? He probably had his own story behind that brooch. But Nero wasn't about to die over it.
Cyril began chanting again.
Dozens of ice stakes—thick as arms—formed in the air behind him, gleaming in the moonlight.
"He acknowledged me… my stepfather… the prince… too… So then… why…?"
But Cyril wasn't looking at Nero anymore. His fevered eyes were seeing someone else.
"…Why…?" His expression twisted—pain, longing, and sorrow all tangled together. "Why won't you acknowledge me… Mother…?"
And then—
Crack—
The ice walls fractured and collapsed into nothingness. The floating ice stakes dissolved. A blaze surged upward, melting everything, until all that remained was a coiling inferno that shaped itself into a massive serpent of flame.
And behind it—
At the forest's edge, illuminated by moonlight, stood a small witch. Hood low, cloak billowing, a shadow against the white-blue glow.
The girl is known as the master of enchanted magecraft. One of the Seven Sages.
Lillian Islar—the Silent Witch.
........
Though the blood of House Highown had flowed through Cyril's father, the man had never held a noble title. Their family was poor—embarrassingly so—yet his father clung to his distant noble lineage with pathetic pride. He refused to take on real work and lorded that "noble blood" over Cyril's mother whenever the mood struck him.
Cyril had despised it. He had always taken his mother's side, doing whatever a child could to bring her even the smallest bit of happiness.
But whenever she looked at him—at the noble features he had inherited from the husband who tormented her—her expression would twist with sorrow. She would look away, as though it hurt to see his face at all.
In the end, his father drank himself to death. And soon after, someone from House Highown came with an unexpected offer: the marquess wished to meet this distant relative's talented son—perhaps even adopt him.
Cyril had been overjoyed. If he were accepted into a noble household, he could finally lift his mother out of hardship. He could finally make her happy. But when his mother heard the news and saw his innocent excitement, she let out a weary sigh.
"…You really are a noble, just as I thought."
No.
Mother, I'm your son.
He had wanted to say that. But no matter how desperately he tried, the words would not come.
........
In front of Cyril stood a hooded figure. They were small—too small to be an adult, he thought. Yet when they lifted their right arm, the flaming serpent that had devoured his ice wall coiled obediently around them.
The black cat that had stolen Cyril's brooch trotted over with a proud meow. The hooded figure bent, scooped up the cat, and plucked the broach from its mouth.
"…Does that cat belong to you?" Cyril growled.
The figure didn't look at him. They were completely absorbed in the broach.
Their indifference only stoked Cyril's irritation. "Give that back!" he snapped, chanting a spell through gritted teeth—one that would bind the figure in chains of ice.
He snapped his fingers. The chains materialised—and then shattered instantly.
"…Huh?"
The figure hadn't moved. They hadn't even chanted. Yet the chains had broken like fragile glass, fragments glittering as they scattered across the ground.
Thinking he'd miscast, Cyril tried again. But the moment the chains formed, they crumbled.
"Why…? You— Is this your doing?"
The hooded figure remained silent, gaze still fixed on the broach, as though Cyril didn't exist.
…It was unsettling.
"Answer me!" he shouted, launching multiple ice arrows.
Before any could strike, they burst into flame and evaporated. That had to mean the figure had an accomplice. There was no other explanation. They hadn't chanted—no one could nullify spells of that complexity without doing so.
"Damn it… Damn it!"
He summoned dozens more arrows and fired them wildly in all directions, trying to smoke out the hidden partner.
The figure casually raised a hand—just a hand—and every arrow blossomed into flame midair before dissolving like mist.
What…? What is that…?
It was one thing to block random arrows with a shield. But to individually shoot each projectile down with perfectly measured flames—each one hot enough to melt ice yet precise enough not to ignite the forest—was impossible. The level of calculation required was absurd.
Anyone might have been distracted by the giant flaming serpent, but that wasn't the terrifying part. Those tiny flames had been constructed with accuracy bordering on unnatural.
Shields were the foundation of mage combat—basic defensive barriers. But this person hadn't used a shield at all. The difference in skill between them was unfathomable.
"What…what are you?" Cyril whispered. Abandoning finesse, he crushed all his remaining mana into frigid air and hurled it at the figure. "Freeze! Freeze, damn you! I'll turn you into an ice statue!"
The wave of cold radiated outward, freezing the ground, the trees, and Cyril's own limbs. He didn't care. He forced more mana into the spell.
But then he realised something was wrong.
The cold wave, all of it, was being deflected—pushed upward into the sky by wind magecraft.
At the same time, the frost on his own limbs cracked and fell away. A barrier had wrapped around his body, protecting him. He hadn't cast it.
Then…they're the ones doing it?
A wind spell to divert his attack, and a defensive barrier around him—two advanced spells at once.
No. Impossible. There had to be an accomplice hiding nearby, chanting in secret. That had to be it.
But what if it wasn't?
If the hooded figure was doing all of this alone…
Then they weren't a mage. They were a monster.
The blood drained from Cyril's face. His earlier exhilaration vanished, leaving his body cold and trembling.
"Ah…" His vision blurred. His limbs went numb as mana depletion struck him like a blow. "No such thing as…can't… I…"
He clenched his teeth, desperate to stay conscious. But his body sagged, heavy as stone.
"I… I need to…live up to—"
Just before darkness claimed him, Cyril saw it—the hooded figure stumbling toward him, reaching out a small hand.
...........
"Are you all right?!" Lillian exclaimed as she rushed to Cyril's side. She lifted his head into her lap and examined him quickly. He was unconscious, his pulse faint, but stable. He would live. A little rest, and he'd recover.
"…Thank goodness."
Mana poisoning, in its early stages, gave a person a sharp exhilaration when using magecraft. In later stages it caused hallucinations, heart palpitations, dizziness—and in the worst cases, the mana would devour the body from within. The fastest way to treat early-stage poisoning was to force the patient to use magecraft until their mana ran completely dry.
"Excellent job."
Ryn emerged from the shadows—the place she had been observing from—and eyed the broach in Lillian's hands. "Is the item malfunctioning, just as you predicted?"
"Yes… There's a flaw in the formula. I don't think it had a protective layer at all."
Magical items were incredibly delicate—devices designed to channel mana along precise paths. If the formula was incorrect, the item would malfunction. Which was exactly why one always overlaid a protection formula to stabilize it.
But Cyril's broach had none.
"Without a protection formula," Lillian said, "magical items often malfunction when their bearer suffers a strong magical impact."
"So it's a defective product?!" Nero yowled, tail lashing. "Geez! Who's the cheapskate who cut corners?!"
"Um… there's a maker's mark engraved on the back."
Lillian turned the broach over. Her expression darkened. "…Emanuel Darwin. The Gem Mage."
"Who? Anyone know him?"
Lillian hesitated, but Ryn answered bluntly.
"He is recorded as one of the Seven Sages, like the Silent Witch. Not a friend of Lord Louis. He belongs to the second prince's faction. According to Lord Louis, he is 'a money-grubber.'"
A long silence followed.
"…Do any of the Seven Sages have their heads on straight?" Nero finally muttered.
The statement stung. Lillian pressed a hand to her chest with a small groan and began rewriting the broach's formula. It was simple imbued magecraft—magic that infused mana directly into matter. Lillian hadn't deeply studied this field in depth, but the construction here was so rudimentary she had no trouble correcting it.
Louis's broach for Felix, by contrast, was an exceptionally advanced item—tracking location, detecting danger, and deploying a defensive barrier if the wearer was attacked.
This broach, on the other hand, merely absorbed and emitted mana.
Maybe I should add a self-regulating function… something to adjust how much mana it absorbs depending on how much Cyril has at the moment.
Whenever Lillian saw a magical formula, her hands itched to improve it. A terrible habit. But if the broach suddenly behaved differently, Cyril might panic. So she limited herself: she corrected the flaw, added a simple self-regulation layer, and overlaid two protective formulas. That would prevent future accidents.
As she fastened the broach back onto Cyril's collar, Nero peered up at her with a mischievous glint.
"Why do all that for free, hmm? You could squeeze a couple of gold coins out of him for the repair."
"…Well, that's…"
Lillian paused to gather her thoughts. Cyril was so proud that someone had acknowledged him—and he worked tirelessly to live up to that acknowledgment. She couldn't help but envy him.
"Mana hyperabsorption has its issues," she said softly, "but if you learn to control it, it can become an advantage."
A high absorption rate meant rapid mana recovery—something invaluable for mages during long battles. Some mages even trained themselves brutally, trying to force their regeneration rate higher.
In other words, Cyril's condition could easily be considered a talent.
"…I didn't want him to think his talent was a curse."
Lillian had never been able to take pride in her own gifts. They felt like misfortune to her. But she didn't want Cyril to be the same. She wanted him to hold his head high—to have enough confidence for both of them.
"Hey, um," Nero said, poking Cyril's cheek with his paw. "What now? Just leave him here to sleep it off?"
He had a point. It wasn't winter yet, but Lillian still didn't want to leave him unconscious in a forest.
Before she could decide, Ryn raised her hand. "I can use a gust of wind to blow his body back to the boys' dormitory."
"I'd prefer something less… violent…"
"Then I'll create a tornado and send him flying—"
"That sounds even worse!"
Sneaking him into the dorm wasn't practical either—Ryn wouldn't know which room was his.
Lillian sighed helplessly.
Finally, Nero gave an exaggerated groan. He leaped into the air, flipped, and landed—not as a black cat, but as a young man with black hair and golden eyes.
"I'll carry him to the boys' dorm gate. If I leave him lying somewhere near the entrance, someone will notice."
Lillian winced. "Do you really have to leave him on the ground?"
"Wouldn't make sense for me to sneak inside and risk getting caught, would it?" Nero said, hoisting Cyril over his shoulder like a sack.
"Um—Nero—could you at least carry him on your back…?"
But Nero ignored her entirely and dashed off at a light, effortless sprint. His silhouette vanished into the forest darkness moments later.
With Cyril slung over his shoulder, Nero darted through the pitch-black forest. Even in human form, his night vision was sharper than any human's, and his strength far surpassed theirs. Carrying Cyril did nothing to slow him down.
…Come to think of it, he mused, how did this chilly guy sneak out of the dorm?
The boys' and girls' dormitories were both surrounded by towering walls, with guards posted at the gates even at night. It shouldn't have been easy to slip out.
If he had used flight magic, sure—but that wasn't simple. Flight required extreme precision in mana control and exceptional physical conditioning. Only high mages could pull it off.
In my expert opinion, chilly guy's got standout ice magecraft, Nero thought, but he's not exactly well-rounded like Lillian. Most mages were born with an elemental affinity and could only use that one element. Lillian's ability to handle advanced magecraft across elements was the anomaly—though Nero often forgot that she was one of the Seven Sages, the Empire's greatest mages.
Chilly guy can't use wind spells, then. But even so… pretty impressive for his age.
How had Cyril snuck out?
Nero found the answer the second he reached the back entrance of the dormitory. A large crack split part of the wall.
Cyril must've slipped through there.
"For an elite academy," Nero muttered, "that's some sloppy maintenance."
"Generations of students have used that crack to sneak out for a breather," came a voice behind him.
Nero turned, Cyril still dangling from his shoulder. A familiar figure stood in the moonlight: tall and slender, golden hair glimmering softly, handsome face composed. Felix Arc Ridill, second prince of the Castina Empire, wearing his academy uniform and holding a large wooden board.
Felix propped the board against the wall, concealing the crack. "We usually hide it with this," he said lightly. "It seems Cyril wasn't able to put it back."
Ah. So the prince is a regular customer, too.
Nero nodded to himself and laid Cyril on the ground. "I'm just a traveler passing by. This chilly guy was losing it from mana poisoning and collapsed in the forest, so I brought him back. Pretty nice of me, right? Hurry up and thank me."
"Yes. Thank you for your efforts," Felix said politely.
"Whatever he says he saw, tell him it was all a hallucination from the mana poisoning. Got that? Everything he saw."
Felix glanced briefly at Cyril before meeting Nero's eyes again. His expression remained gentle. But behind the calm blue eyes was a careful wariness. "Would you mind giving me your name, kind traveler?"
"Oh, I'm no one important. But since I'm so nice, I'll tell you. The name's Bartholomew Alexander."
Felix covered his mouth and chuckled. "That's the same name as the main character in an adventure novel."
"Wait—you know Adolf Tylar?" Nero blurted out, instantly excited.
Anyone who liked Adilf Tylar novels was automatically a good person in Nero's book. His opinion of the prince ticked up a notch.
Felix shrugged lightly. "I've experienced most amusements this country offers—novels, games, theater." He smiled again, though his smile carried a hollow undertone.
Nero's face twisted slightly. This guy gives me the creeps.No wonder Lillian said he is dangerous.Born with everything, yet his eyes were as empty as someone who had nothing at all.
Felix effortlessly lifted Cyril onto his back. Then he paused, as if remembering something. "By the way, traveler. These forests are academy property. Only personnel and students are allowed inside."
"Oh. Really?" Nero replied flatly.
He hated humans telling him to follow their rules. He wasn't human, after all. Their rules meant nothing to him. He jerked his chin toward Cyril. "Since I saved chilly guy, just pretend you never saw me."
"Yes, of course. I won't interrogate someone who saved Cyril."
"Ohhh?" Nero narrowed his eyes suspiciously and dug into the folds of his robe. After rummaging, he pinched something and pulled it out. "…Or maybe you don't need to question me because you were planning to have your little spy follow me instead."
Between his fingers dangled the tail of a small white lizard, its tiny limbs flailing.
"Looks tasty," Nero threatened, baring his sharp teeth in a wicked grin.
The lizard wriggled helplessly.
"A mid-level water spirit, huh?" Nero drawled. "Gonna hide in my clothes and report back? Too bad. I'm pretty sensitive to mana."
Spirits were just compressed clumps of mana—and the higher their rank, the easier they were to detect. This one was a mid-level water spirit, likely contracted with the prince. Even confronted with his captured spirit, Felix didn't blink. He kept that same calm smile—which only made him creepier.
Nero had been hoping for some reaction.
Wh-what?!
Who are you?!
Anything.
But Felix remained unruffled.
Bored, Nero dropped the lizard onto the ground and turned away.
"See ya."
Before leaving, he glanced back once more. Felix said nothing—just watched with that quiet, unreadable smile.
Listen here, sparkly prince, Nero thought. I don't care how bored you are. Don't you dare lay a finger on my favorite.
He didn't speak the words aloud—too risky—but he flashed another vicious grin over his shoulder.
If you break Lillian, I'll tear you apart and eat you.
After being tossed to the dirt, the water spirit Gaia scurried to Felix and bowed his tiny head. "My deepest apologies, sir. I shall resume pursuit immediately and—"
"No, it's all right. I'd rather you not get eaten."
Felix said it lightly, but the spirit was clearly mortified by his failure.
Regardless, Felix had already decided not to chase the black-haired man. Whoever he was, he wasn't human—nor a spirit. Something else entirely. But if he meant no harm to Felix, there was little point in pursuing him.
"Gaia, return to Isacc. It'll be troublesome if Cyril sees you."
"Yes, sir." The spirit slithered up wall and vanished into darkness.
Felix adjusted Cyril on his back and began walking. Cyril groaned faintly. He was waking.
"Ugh… I… I…" he murmured.
"Hey," Felix said softly. "Awake now?"
"…Prince…?" Cyril blinked sluggishly, trying to focus on him.
"You collapsed from mana poisoning in the forest. A kind traveler brought you back."
"…I've caused you trouble."
"Oh, I don't mind."
Cyril didn't protest being carried, which spoke volumes about how exhausted he was. After Felix brought him to his room, Cyril slumped onto his bed and stared up at him. "…The traveler. Was it a short person wearing a hood?"
Felix shook his head. "No. A tall man with black hair."
"…I see," Cyril whispered, closing his eyes—clearly replaying something troubling.
Curiosity tugged at Felix. "What kind of hallucinations were you having in the forest?"
Cyril was silent for a long moment. Finally, eyes still shut, he murmured, "…I saw a monster. Terrifyingly quiet. Terrifyingly powerful. I don't think I'll ever forget it."
...........
After leaving Cyril in Nero's care, Lillian slipped out of the forest and made her way past the girls' dormitory toward the main building of Serendia Academy. Ryn followed silently behind her, head tilted to an angle so extreme she looked like a marionette with a snapped neck. For a wind spirit, that posture meant confusion.
"Aren't you returning to the dormitory?" Ryn asked.
"…There's something I wanted to check on," Lillian murmured.
She circled toward the academy's rear gate. Moonlight caught the iron bars, painting long shadows across the stone path. Lillian stopped, her hood falling slightly as she looked up.
"…Lord Ashley's brooch malfunctioned because it was struck by an overwhelming amount of mana," she whispered.
Without protective wards, even a well–crafted magic tool could short-circuit. But the question gnawed at her: what had poured so much mana onto Cyril… and why?
"If it had merely been mana poisoning, his symptoms would have been different. Earlier, his condition…felt closer to the side effects of mental interference magecraft."
Ryn's head straightened with a faint flutter. The implications clicked.
"In other words," Ryn said, "that child was recently subjected to mental interference, and the backlash ruined his brooch?"
"…Yes."
With that, everything loosened and fell into place—each strange behavior, each contradiction. Selma Karsh dropping the flowerpot in her frenzy. Aaron O'Brien stammering about an accomplice he could not name. Their muddled memories. Their erratic moods.
They had all been tampered with. Someone skilled in forbidden arts had twisted them into convenient puppets.
"…Miss Ryn," Lillian whispered, heart tightening, "please hide."
Ryn vanished upward, perching weightlessly on a branch. Leaves rustled with a sound so soft it was almost imaginary.
Lillian stepped forward.
A lone figure emerged from the school building—a man clutching a thick sheaf of papers. The lamplight revealed his fussy spectacles, the sharp angle of his jaw, and the perpetual irritation written on his features.
Victor Thorn. The instructor on Fundamentals of Magecraft and adviser to the student council.
He blinked at finding her there. "Assistant Medical Officer? What are you doing out at this hour? Curfew was long ago. Being outside without permission is grounds for suspen—"
"Those papers," Lillian interrupted softly, pointing. "Where are you taking them?"
His entire body flinched. It was a small motion—barely perceptible—but Lillian saw it. His eyes darted away, ever so slightly. His fingers tightened around the documents.
"It's no use switching them," she said quietly. "I've already memorized all the numbers."
Memorizing numbers was the one thing she never failed at. They fit into her mind like pieces of a puzzle finally finding their place.
Thorn's smile warped. "Switching them? What are you talking about?"
But his voice strained unnaturally—too high, too thin, trembling on the edge. Lillina's hesitant expression melted away.
For once, she wasn't shrinking. Fear drained from her face like water spilling from cupped hands. She looked at the papers—not at him—with the cold, sharp focus she reserved only for equations and magecraft.
"The academy's accounting records have been unstable for years," she said. "Numbers that should match…don't. Someone kept falsifying them. Sloppily, at first—but five years ago, they suddenly became more precise. And the amount embezzled grew larger and larger."
She lifted her chin.
"Five years ago…you became the adviser."
A hush fell. The night air seemed to freeze around them.
"After Aaron O'Brien took over as accountant, the numbers ballooned even further. His accomplice…was you, Mr. Thorn."
The papers slipped from his grasp like dying birds. He moved before she could fully react—lunging forward, seizing her wrist in a grip vicious enough to bruise. Lillian gasped, pain lancing up her arm.
"For a useless doctor's assistant," he hissed, face twisted, "you're awfully perceptive."
"Please…let go…"
Her voice shook, but Thorn's fury only intensified. He looked down at her with seething contempt.
"Magecraft research requires funds. And my work is brilliant—revolutionary. A mediocre girl like you couldn't fathom it in an entire lifetime."
His other hand clamped over her face. He chanted. The formula was unmistakable. Mental interference.
A swarm of white light ignited at his palm—particles swirling together, forming a crude sequence of magical symbols.
"Burn this into your eyes," Thorn spat, "my perfect formula!"
Her vision went white. The suggestion—a wedge of foreign will—pressed into her mind, trying to root itself, to take hold. For a moment, she felt the sharp sting of it, a hook digging beneath her skull.
But then… It dissolved.
Thorn's formula unraveled like a badly knitted scarf. The particles lost their glow, collapsing into pale dust.
"What…? Why…?"
Lillian looked up at him.
She wasn't trembling.
She wasn't crying.
Her eyes—green with a touch of blue—glinted with unmistakable revulsion.
"…This isn't perfect," she said softly. "Not even close."
Thorn's face contorted. Normally, Lillian would have looked away without saying anything. But this—this—she could not forgive. Numbers, formulas, equations: these were beautiful. They were sacred.
To mar them…
To insult the craft itself…
It stirred a rare spark of anger deep in her chest.
"Mental interference requires delicate mana control and an immaculate formula," she whispered. "Yours is riddled with holes."
"Lies!" he barked. "My formula is flawless!"
"…And yet I blocked it?"
"Silence!"
He raised his hand again, chanting a harsher spell—one meant not just to seal memories, but to break a mind.
"A fool like you," he snarled, "is better off as a mindless doll!"
His palm struck her head.
Lillian inhaled.
And pushed back.
Her mana surged—not violently, but with breathtaking precision. She slipped into the stream of his formula, unraveling the symbols, dismantling them with the ease of untangling thread.
The white light burst apart.
This time, she didn't let it fade.
Instead, Lillian reconstructed it—delicate, intricate, exacting—each symbol folding seamlessly into the next. A formula more advanced than Thorn had ever dared imagine.
The scattered light gathered.
And then…
They formed wings.
Butterflies—hundreds of them—took shape from luminous particles. They fluttered around them in the dark, leaving shimmering trails like falling stars.
Thorn's jaw hung open.
Each butterfly…was a living magical formula.
Beautiful. Precise. Perfect.
The kind described only in the oldest texts. The kind whispered of by legendary mages.
"It's…not possible…" he choked. "You…without chanting… you used that formula? There's only one mage in the kingdom who can—"
Realization stabbed through him.
The genius chosen as a Seven Sage at fourteen. The girl who crushed decades of magical research with a single formula. The witch who needed no chant.
"You…you're the Silent—!"
The butterflies swarmed him. They clung to his arms, his mouth, his legs—soft as feathers, merciless as chains.
"No—! Stop! STOP! PLEASE!"
His screams were muffled as the cocoon engulfed him. Only a sliver of one frantic eye peered through.
He stared at her—this small, fragile girl with trembling shoulders and jewel-bright eyes—stared at the monster wearing a child's shape.
Lillian looked back without emotion.
Her voice was quiet. Final. Unforgiving.
"The spell will last for twenty-four hours," she whispered, the butterflies pulsing with her words. "You will dream of…"
...........
Victor Thorn stood alone in a sweep of wind-brushed grass.
He knew this place—every contour, every scent. These were the plains of his homeland, the land he had always considered beneath him. A place for simple folk, not for a man of talent like himself.
Why am I here? His lip curled. I'm too brilliant to rot in an empty countryside like this.
Money. Everything always came back to money. Magecraft demanded resources—rare reagents, equipment, space. With enough funding, he could have stood atop the world. He could've proven that he, not that accursed Silent Witch, deserved the spotlight… the respect… the dignity stolen from him.
That was why he'd pulled the strings of that gullible boy Aaron O'Brien, dipping into the deep coffers of Serendia Academy. But then that sharp-eyed prince—the decorative little pawn of Duke Clockford—had noticed.
And Cyril Ashley, the quiet vice president… he'd uncovered the truth.
I should've brainwashed him, Thorn thought bitterly. Erasing his memories wasn't enough. I should've bound his will entirely.
Why stop there?
Why not brainwash the president himself? The second prince—such a convenient puppet. The academy's resources would have been his for life. His research could have soared beyond all limits.
So simple. So obvious. Why didn't I realize sooner?
He straightened, excitement threading through him. I must get back. I must begin again. I must—
He strode forward… and halted.
A pig stood in his path.
A small, pink, placid pig.
"…What?"
He blinked hard. Rubbed his eyes.
Now there were two pigs.
Then three.
Five.
Eight.
Thirteen.
They multiplied silently, impossibly, swelling across the field like a spreading tide. In seconds, his vision was drowning in pink bodies and twitching ears—right, left, ahead, behind—an endless expanse of pigs, stretching to the horizon.
"What—what is this? Stop! Stop, get away from me—!"
From beyond the sea of bodies came the distant creak of wagon wheels. The pigs all stirred at once, shuffling toward the sound. Even as they moved, their numbers continued to swell, surging like a living flood.
"No—stop! Someone! Anyone—NOOOOO!"
The squealing mass rose around him, swallowing him, burying him. His scream tore through the plains—but the pigs drowned even that, until Victor Thorn vanished entirely beneath the living, snorting tide.
...........
Lillian knelt beside Mr. Thorn, gently lifting his head into her arms. His body twitched; foam clung to the corners of his mouth, and his eyes had rolled so far back only the whites remained.
"Wh-what do I do…? I—I went too far…" Her voice trembled. Her hands trembled. Her heart pounded with the awful thud of regret she should have anticipated but never did.
He shouldn't have waved that flawed formula at her. He shouldn't have challenged her pride. But still… to use that spell…
In the Castina Empire, mental interference magecraft was permitted only for the gravest of crimes—treason, murder, catastrophes—and even then, only under the supervision of the Mages Guild or with direct approval from the Seven Sages.
"U-umm… m-maybe this counts as a serious crime…? He was indirectly hurting royalty, s-so that should qualify… right?" She squeezed her eyes shut. "And I'm one of the Seven Sages, so technically it's not illegal… probably. Maybe. But… b-but what if it is…?"
Her breath hitched.
"Louis is going to be so mad…! W-would they… e-e-execute me…?"
She curled in on herself, muttering in growing panic, when a light tap landed on her back. Ryn had come up behind her, calm as ever.
"I believe Lord Louis would say something like this," she said, placing a hand elegantly over her chest. Her expression sharpened into something sly and knowing. "Anything goes, as long as nobody knows."
Lillian could see it—the handsome, wicked smile of Louis Miller flashing vividly through her mind. It frightened her. It comforted her. It was… very Louis.
Ryn hoisted the unconscious Thorn over her shoulder with surprising ease.
"I will deliver him to Lord Louis. I imagine he will thoroughly tor—"
She cleared her throat. "—interrogate him and dispose of him as he sees fit."
"Yes… thank you…" Lillian whispered.
Whatever Thorn had done with the embezzlement, using forbidden mental interference without approval meant his fate would ultimately fall to the Mages Guild. His sudden disappearance would certainly stir confusion at the academy… but Louis would smooth things over somehow. Probably. Hopefully.
Lillian let out a shaky breath of relief.
Over Ryn's shoulder, Thorn suddenly mumbled in a broken whisper, "The pigs… the pigs…"
Ryn blinked. "What kind of dream is he seeing to speak like that?"
Lillian hesitated, fidgeting with her fingers. A tiny, shy smile flickered across her face—almost proud, almost guilty.
"He's… dreaming of a very beautiful sequence of numbers."
...................................
About a week after Lillian delivered Mr. Thorn into Louis's hands, his name appeared in every newspaper stand across the capital.
"SERENDIA ACADEMY TEACHER ARRESTED FOR USING FORBIDDEN MAGECRAFT!"
The headline screamed from the front page of the capital's most prestigious publishing company, ensuring the scandal would reach far beyond the academy walls. By midday, every classroom at Serendia buzzed with rumor and speculation. Students whispered in corridors, clustered around papers held in trembling hands.
For Lillian's classmates—who had spoken with Mr. Thorn nearly every day—the shock was palpable.
"I still can't believe Mr. Thorn was doing something so horrible," Lana murmured, shivering as though she'd just stepped into a cold draft. Then her eyes flicked to Lillian. "Oh, you're right, the braid is coming undone."
"H-huh?! O-oh no…!"
Lillian clapped a hand over her braid in alarm, but the moment her fingers brushed it, the entire thing unravelled like a defeated spell. She ended up holding a limp bundle of hair in her palm. Again.
It was simple enough to divide her hair roughly and make quick, loose braids.
But side braids—pretty, elegant, and gently loosened to give them that effortless charm—were a completely different beast.
"Uuuugh… this is impossible…" Lillian groaned, deflating as she began separating her hair once more.
Lana had said loosened braids looked cute. On her, they certainly did.
But when Lillian tried… they simply collapsed into chaos. Purposeful looseness and accidental ruin were, it seemed, worlds apart.
While Lillian grimly started over, Lana continued flipping through the newspaper.
"Speaking of which," Lana said as if discussing the weather, "it says here that one of the Seven Sages made the arrest."
"H-huh—WH-WHAT?!"
Lillina's hand spasmed; the clump of carefully arranged hair slipped right out again. She stared at it as if it had betrayed her.
Oblivious to Lillian's stiff expression, Lana rested her cheek on her hand. "It was Lord Louis Miller—the Barrier Mage. Have you heard of him? I saw him once at a party in the capital. He's incredibly stylish. And handsome." She sighed dreamily.
"Ah, I see…"
Lillian's throat closed. Louis. Stylish. Handsome. The combination of words made her wish she could disappear under the nearest desk.
Mages attended social gatherings surprisingly often—especially the Seven Sages, who were whispered to be the king's closest advisers. They stood at the absolute summit of magecraft. Naturally, they drew attention wherever they went. Lillian, of course, had never attended such a grand party in her entire life.
"When it comes to the Seven Sages," Lana continued, warming to the topic, "I think the most famous are the Barrier Mage and the Starseer Witch—oh, and the Witch of Thorns, and the Artillery Mage, and—"
"E-EXCUSE ME!" Lillian squeaked suddenly, startling Lana into silence.
Face burning, she thrust the braid she'd just completed toward her friend. "Th-this braid—I worked… r-really hard to get the ratios and angles just right…! H-how does it look?"
Lana blinked in surprise—then smiled gently.
"It looks excellent."
Lillian nearly melted with relief.
...................................
Of all the people shaken by Mr. Thorn's arrest, none felt the impact more acutely than the student council. Even more than Lillian's class.
He had been their adviser—the one meant to guide them, support them, protect their work. It made far too much sense that his downfall hit them the hardest.
And now that the investigation had revealed he'd been quietly siphoning off the student council's own funds, the shock had turned into something heavier: betrayal, confusion, and an exhausting parade of damage control.
For the past week, the council room—normally a calm, orderly space—had been in constant upheaval. Faculty members came and went with stern expressions, arms full of documents, their soft but urgent voices overlapping with those of the students. Papers rustled. Chairs scraped. Someone was always knocking on the door.
The room that once hosted organized meetings and cheerful discussions now felt like the command center of a small crisis.
Things couldn't possibly have been any busier.
However, Lillina's meticulous revisions had been far too helpful. This, unfortunately, meant the student council president had insisted—quite enthusiastically—on appointing her as their new accountant.
And that was how Lillina, who had very sincerely, very desperately hoped to avoid such a fate, found herself once again saddled with unwanted responsibility.
Now she stood before the student council office door, taking a deep, steadying breath to calm her rattled nerves.But to anyone observing, she probably didn't look calm at all.
In fact, with her stiff posture, darting eyes, and suspiciously long hesitation, she looked—ironically—the very picture of a "suspicious individual."
It was her sworn mission to eliminate all suspicious people who might draw near the second prince.
A noble task…
Tragically complicated by the fact that the most suspicious person present was her.
"Um, are you alright?" a gentle voice asked from behind.
"Hy—!" Lillina shot forward in alarm, nearly slamming into the door.
The owner of the voice bowed quickly, hands raised in apology.
"Ah—sorry! I didn't mean to startle you. You were just—um—standing there breathing kind of… intensely? I thought maybe you felt faint…"
She turned to see a boy with soft light-brown hair and warm eyes. He was a little short for his age, his youthful features giving him a harmless air. But the color of his scarf marked him as a second-year student—just like her. And the shining pin on his lapel indicated he was on the student council.
He straightened and offered a refined bow that could have come straight from a noble etiquette manual.
"You're Lady Lillina, right? Our new accountant?" he said with a pleasant smile. "I'm Neil Clay Maywood, officer of general affairs. It's a pleasure to meet you. Since we're the only second-years on the council, I hope we can get along well."
Then he smiled—small and timid, but warm. A bashful curl of the lips that suggested nothing but sincerity and good nature.
Lillina felt her heartbeat begin to slow. Ah… at least the first person she met wasn't terrifying.
At that exact moment, a sharp voice cut through the hallway like a snapped thread.
"How long are you going to stand there loitering in front of the door?!"
Lillina flinched so hard her braid nearly swung loose. She whirled around to find the silver-haired Cyril Ashley—student council vice president—standing behind them with his arms crossed tightly, irritation radiating from every line of his posture. His pale brows were drawn low; his elegant chin tilted upward in practiced disdain.
"Lady Lillina," he said icily, "have you considered that your prolonged… nonsense is preventing me from entering the room?"
Ah. So he really had been watching her take those embarrassing, dramatic breaths in front of the door.
"Um, Vice President…" Neil ventured timidly. "Were you watching the whole time?"
That was a mistake. Cyril's glare swept toward Neil like a blade, and the gentle second-year instantly shrank into silence. With a huff of irritation, Cyril brushed past them and pushed open the council room door.
"I don't know what you've done to curry favor with Lord Ricardo," he muttered over his shoulder. "But you're now a member of the student council. Your actions reflect upon His Imperial Highness."
Lillina felt the words like cold pebbles hitting her back. However, she wasn't concerned about it anymore. "You're no longer constantly immitating cold air. That's good."
Hearing that, Cyril stopped in his tracks. Neil, ever supportive, gave her a small, encouraging gesture toward the door. Thanking him, she stepped inside.
Three people were already gathered.
At the center desk sat Felix—calm, composed, effortlessly regal even in his uniform. At the conference table, a half-lidded young man lounged with the air of someone who'd seen everything and cared about none of it: Elliott, one of the secretaries.
And then—
Her breath caught.
At the same table sat a strikingly beautiful girl with golden hair, her quill gliding over parchment in elegant strokes. The girl from the music room.
The flawless pianist whose beauty made the room feel too small.
She didn't spare Lillina even a glance.
Lillina hesitated, not sure if she should greet her or shrink into her seat—but Felix's even voice rescued her.
"It seems we're all present."
Everyone naturally moved toward the long conference table, leaving the head for Felix and the opposite end—next to Neil—for her. Felix nodded gently, indicating the seat.
Once they were settled, he began, "As I explained yesterday, Lady Lillina will serve as our new accountant in place of Aaron O'Brien. We'll begin with introductions. I am Felix Arc Ridill, student council president."
His serenity made everyone else follow suit.
"…Cyril Ashley, vice president," came the next voice, strained with visible doubts. His bitterness was aimed squarely at Lillina.
Elliott lifted a hand lazily. "I already introduced myself yesterday, but I'm Elliott Howard, secretary."
His tone was casual, almost friendly—but his drooping eyes were cool, assessing, too observant.
Then the golden-haired girl finally spoke—without looking up, her voice smooth and distant.
"I am Bridget Greyham, second secretary."
Her folding fan lifted daintily to her lips, signaling the end of her participation.
Finally, Neil spoke again, smiling sheepishly.
"I… I'm Neil Clay Maywood, officer of general affairs. Although, um, I guess I already introduced myself just now. Ah-ha-ha…"
His laugh fluttered weakly in the tension-heavy room, failing to make even a ripple in the atmosphere.
Lillina folded her hands in her lap, heart beating far too loudly. So this was the student council. Her new battlefield.
Elliott exhaled a long, exhausted groan, slumping back in his chair as if the very air had betrayed him.
"Ugh… I'm so done with this," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "We've been cleaning up Thorn's mess for days. And did you hear the latest? Turns out he wasn't just dipping into council funds. He was dabbling in forbidden magecraft, too."
Neil, ever the informant, nodded gravely. "I heard he used the embezzled money to fund his research. Magecraft isn't cheap."
"Was he really that desperate…?" Elliott murmured, brows pulling together. "Where's his family from again?"
"Luben," Bridget replied without looking up, her voice clear and cool.
Elliott's eyes widened with belated realization. "Ah… that explains it. Not a wealthy region. They had nasty dragonraids this year." He gave a soft, humorless chuckle, the corners of his droopy eyes tightening. "Well… that's what happens when you stretch your ambitions too far. You end up crushed beneath them."
Cyril spoke next, arms full of paperwork, voice clipped and stern. "First our accountant, Aaron O'Brien, gets caught embezzling—and now Mr. Thorn. The adviser himself. The council's reputation is practically in shambles. From here on out, we cannot afford a single mistake."
His words dropped into the room like stones, dragging the atmosphere down with them. Silence followed, weighted and tight.
Felix's gaze drifted to Lillian—gentle, warm, grounding in a way she didn't understand. "Cyril's right," he said softly. "Which is why this next part is especially important, Lady Lillian."
Lillian straightened reflexively. "Yes, sir?"
"I'd like you to visit each club leader and introduce yourself."
"Saying hello…?" she echoed, as if he'd asked her to face a firing squad.
Felix nodded, completely earnest. "Our new accountant hasn't debuted yet. For the sake of trust and transparency, you need to meet them all." He handed her a list—page after page of names. Major clubs, minor clubs, every organization in Serendia Academy.
Her stomach plummeted.
More than twenty clubs… more than twenty introductions… more than twenty opportunities to stutter, freeze, or embarrass herself. Her fingers trembled as she held the list.
Then Felix reached out—covering her small hand between both of his, warm and steady.
"You'll be fine," he told her gently. "You look adorable today. Go introduce yourself—with confidence."
The words were kind, but Lillina's anxious brain added its own silent flourish: I braided your hair myself, after all…No, no way he'd say that, she inwardly panicked. He's a perfect prince. He would —
Before she could spiral further, the list was suddenly lifted from her grasp.
Cyril.
He flipped through it briskly, frowning in concentration.
"If you hope to finish this today, you'll need to start immediately," he declared. "I'll accompany you."
The room collectively blinked. Elliott's head snapped up. "You're being very generous today. Dare I ask why?"
Cyril didn't even look up as he answered. "I've watched Lady Lillian's work. I've deemed her competent enough to present as our accountant. That is all."
Lillian just stared at him. What? Him? Approving… me?
This was the same Cyril who had chastised her for having a close relationship with Ricardo, for Felix's offer. She'd been certain he thought she was a hopeless burden.
But he met her stunned gaze with a sharp glare. "You heard me. We're going. Don't tell me you 'can't.'"
Her breath caught. Those words—that night—echoed in her mind. Cyril's voice, strained with pain, fighting to stay upright even as mana ravaged him:
No such thing… as can't… I… I have to live up to…
He had been willing to destroy himself to meet someone's expectations. And now that same person was recognizing her. Her chest tightened, warmth blooming painfully beneath her ribs.
Lillian fidgeted with her fingers, gathering every shred of courage she could scrape together.
"Um… er… I-I-I'll do my besht!"
The last word tripped and tumbled out of her mouth like a wounded sparrow. Her face flushed scarlet as she ducked her head.
But even so—she had said it. And that, finally, felt like a beginning.