Seeing Nolan frozen in silence, Granfire's lips curled into a subtle smirk.
Slowly, steadily, he began pacing the classroom. Click. Click. Click.
Each measured step echoed, his confidence swelling as he basked in control.
He moved like a man who had already won.
"Let me ask you something," Granfire said at last, his voice calm, precise, like a lecturer addressing slow students. "Why are Mana Specialists important? Why do we even exist? What is our purpose?"
He paused, scanning the room.
No one answered.
The students sat frozen—some shifting uneasily, unsure whether to respond or simply endure the show of dominance.
"Let me enlighten you," Granfire continued, placing a hand to his chest as if reciting sacred scripture. "Long ago—before any of you were born, before even the founding of Silver Blade Academy—the Archmages of this realm made a grave mistake."
He spun sharply on his heel, pointing to the far wall as if casting an image into the air.
"They hungered for more. More power. More knowledge. In their ambition, they tore open a gate to a higher plane. A realm far beyond their understanding. There, mana existed in its rawest, purest, most volatile form."
His voice dropped, the room seeming to dim with it.
"When that mana poured into our world, it wasn't a gift. It was a curse. Magic spiraled out of control. Spells turned deadly. Enchantments unraveled and lashed out at their creators. The air itself grew thick and unstable. Trees twisted into monsters. Gentle beasts became nightmares. Forests turned into places of terror."
Granfire paced again, letting the silence weigh heavy.
"Knights who forged mana into their bodies shattered from within. Mages meditating on mana cores lost their minds—or exploded. Temples burned. Towers collapsed. Cities crumbled. The world teetered on the edge of ruin."
He stopped and tapped the blackboard softly.
"And then… from the ashes… they rose."
His tone shifted—low, reverent.
"The Mana Specialists."
He gazed upward, as if giving silent thanks.
"They weren't conquerors. They weren't kings. They could have been. But they chose instead to become guides. Saviors. They didn't defeat the chaos with force—they studied it. Understood it. Stabilized it. They found patterns in the madness. And with that knowledge, they taught others how to survive."
His voice rose now, passionate and sharp.
"Through relentless research and sacrifice, they developed methods to isolate and purify mana—to separate it from that foreign realm's influence. They taught Knights how to anchor their bodies. Taught Mages how to steady their minds. Taught people how to live again. Without them—without us—the world would have fallen."
He turned to face the class fully, arms spread wide.
"That is what it means to be a Mana Specialist. We are not just teachers. We are architects of stability. Guardians of knowledge. We are the reason civilization still stands."
Several students clapped—hesitant, but moved by the weight of Granfire's words.
Others nodded, clearly impressed.
One even rose halfway from his seat, as if ready to pledge loyalty on the spot.
Others had cheered.
"Sir, I didn't know that great teachers like you had that kind of story…"
"Teacher Granfire, were you our saviour too?"
"Teacher Granfire was our saviour."
Nolan had been speechless; why had it felt like he was some sort of dragon villain in that classroom?
What did I do wrong?
He had avoided teaching because he had no idea about being a Mana Specialist.
Was that really his fault?
Suddenly, Nolan's composure changed and his eyes glinted into displeasure.
Granfire let the applause fade before continuing.
"So understand this," he said quietly, narrowing his gaze on Nolan. "To be a Mana Specialist isn't about holding a title. It's about shouldering a responsibility so heavy that only the most capable can bear it. That is my highest calling… So Nolan, are you sure you want to waste the future of these promising students?"
The class fell silent again.
It became so quiet that someone could drop a needle and you would hear it clearly.
Then—cutting through the silent reverence—a calm and serious voice rang out.
"Are you saying I can't teach them?"
Granfire flinched, as if struck. His head turned away from students and snapped toward the sound.
Nolan stood now. Arms crossed, face unreadable.
Granfire could feel an unsettling calm and steady aura around Nolan.
He could feel that something changed, like Nolan wasn't the same man from moments ago.
No hesitation. No cracks.
There was a quiet gravity in his stance that unsettled Granfire even more.
For a split second, Granfire blinked—thrown off balance.
But he gathered himself quickly.
"I didn't say that," he replied slowly, eyes narrowing. "But let's be honest. What have you taught? Every student under you has dropped out, failed, or stagnated. No growth. No progress. Just… wasted time. So.. here I am… Willing to take the responsibility—your responsibility."
"And?" Nolan shrugged. "They didn't pay me."
Granfire blinked. "What?"
"No payment no knowledge," Nolan repeated evenly. His eyes didn't waver. "Learning isn't free. If someone wants to grow—if they want to contribute to society—they must pay. In gold. In service. In sweat. You know the saying, Granfire: a student who gets everything for free learns nothing. Correct?"
The class froze.
Tipping a teacher they like is the students' privilege, and no teachers are allowed to force them to pay.
One student gasped audibly.
"You're saying… you refused to teach them because they didn't give you a tip? But aren't you already paid by the Academy?" Granfire asked slowly, as if testing whether he'd heard correctly.
"Well, I am," Nolan answered, unflinching. "But those are different. The Academy paid me to come, and the students' job was to pay me to teach them."
Granfire's jaw flexed. A vein pulsed at his temple.
The air grew heavy.
Shameless… you need to become a teacher to be a permanent resident of Silver Blade City, and you act like they owe you!
Shameless.
So shameless.
Some students looked horrified.
Others simply stared, stunned into silence.
But Nolan stood there, unmoved—calm, unapologetic, as if he'd merely stated a law of nature.
Granfire inhaled deeply, jaw tight. He forced a slow breath through his nose.
"Nolan," he said evenly, voice taut, "your… philosophy is noted. But let me remind you where we are. This is not a merchant's hall. It's a school. These students aren't here to fill your purse."
"Then they're in the wrong place," Nolan replied flatly.
Another vein surfaced on Granfire's forehead. His lips twitched—caught between a snarl and a smile.
He inhaled sharply again, forcing composure. Barely.
His voice, when he spoke next, was low and deceptively calm.
"So you're not going to teach them?" he asked, gaze sliding toward the rows of silent students. "Is that what I'm hearing?"
Nolan glanced lazily at the class, then gave a casual shrug. "They paid. I won't waste their time."
The tension in the room thickened like fog.
Granfire's eyes twitched. His fists clenched behind his back.
"The test tomorrow," Granfire said tightly, "is the willpower trial. A randomized test set by the principal himself. I trained them for it. Taught them how to harden their hearts, resist despair. With more time, I can guarantee they will pass."
Nolan leaned back against the wall, arms folded. His eyes swept across the class—slow, steady, dissecting.
He didn't speak right away. Let the silence stretch just long enough.
Then, with a faint narrowing of his eyes, he said, voice dry—
"What willpower? They look like frightened kittens."