The auditorium smelled of polished wood, expensive perfume, and faint traces of incense. It was the kind of air that made one feel both suffocated and important at the same time.Leo, sat in the front row with his arms crossed, his matte-gray prosthetic hand resting on his notebook. The faint whir of its mechanisms was the only sound he acknowledged, a small comfort amid the hum of feigned civility around him.
Exhibition Day. Another year, another parade of rich parents, city officials, and starry-eyed students who thought their minor talents could impress the world. Cross had seen it before, year after year: the same pomp, the same pretentious displays of half-understood magic. He had been asked to judge a research presentation, a duty he despised. Not because judging was beneath him—far from it—but because the work he was expected to evaluate often involved flashy demonstrations with little thought, padded with borrowed ideas and poorly understood magical theory.
He shifted slightly in his seat, adjusting the lapel of his coat. The lights reflected off the polished surface of his prosthetic, and he caught the faintest glimpse of his own face. Sharp gray-blue eyes. Unimpressed. Skeptic in a world that demanded belief. That was him.
And then he saw him. Ethan Vale. Blond, arrogant, and glowing with the kind of confidence only wealth and a trace of innate talent could buy. Leo remembered the hallway confrontation from a few days ago, remembered the lecture where he had dismantled the student's arguments with nothing more than logic and observation. Now, Ethan was standing there in a suit two sizes too small, gesturing at a holographic projection, smiling like the world had finally acknowledged his brilliance.
'Ironic, isn't it', Leo thought. The same student who failed to understand the difference between mana density and flow patterns now acts as if he has discovered the secrets of the universe.
Ethan's voice carried smoothly through the auditorium, the practiced inflection of someone who had rehearsed every word. "Our research definitively proves that only those with a direct connection to Manastructure can truly comprehend the intricate mechanics of magic. It is impossible for someone… without powers… to grasp the nuances. Isn't that right, Professor Cross?"
The laugh that followed was a ripple of tension, nervous and polite. Leo felt a familiar tightening in his chest. Public challenges were always worse when they came from privileged children, backed by parents who treated influence as armor.
'I should walk out. Say nothing. Let him bask in his own ignorance for a few minutes before it collapses. But… no. Not this time.'
His gaze fixed on Ethan, unblinking. Calm. Measured. The kind of calm that makes a man like Vale realize he has underestimated his opponent.
"Mr. Vale," Leo began, his voice cold but precise, the kind that cuts through the chatter like a scalpel, "your presentation suffers from a fundamental flaw. Your data set mirrors a study published by the Arcane Bureau two decades ago. The patterns you claim as novel have already been documented. Mana-flow, urban or otherwise, remains consistent across environments."
Ethan's smirk faltered, subtle but enough for Leo to notice. His parents shifted, almost imperceptibly, in their seats.
Leo continued, undeterred. "Furthermore, several conclusions attributed to your team were drawn by Dr. Aris Thorne in his seminal research on localized mana-field anomalies. A rather glaring oversight, unless your definition of research is merely to repackage existing work and claim it as your own."
A wave of genuine laughter rippled through the auditorium. Not forced or nervous. Genuine. Parents, officials, students. They were witnessing the collapse of the illusion Ethan Vale had carefully constructed.
Leo leaned back slightly. Satisfaction did not taste sweet—it was sharper, a validation of logic in a world increasingly enamored with spectacle. He could see the blood drain from Ethan's face, the rigidity of his parents, their silent fury. Influence and wealth had a limit, after all.
It struck him then, as he watched the facade crack, how fragile the world around him really was. These parents, these officials, these self-assured students—they thrived on appearances. Logic, reason, integrity—they were optional, sometimes inconvenient. And yet, for one brief moment, it all faltered.
The presentations ended, applause fluttered in polite bursts, and Leo was called to the principal's office. Robert Kane, all tailored lines and artificial warmth, did not waste words.
"Professor Cross," Kane said, voice smooth but distant, "your approach… while noted… is incompatible with the school's vision."
Leo did not need to translate the euphemism. Fired. Discarded. Not for incompetence, not for failing to deliver, but for refusing to kneel before arrogance wrapped in privilege.
A small smirk curled on his lips. Good. Perfectly logical. Expected.
He gathered his belongings in silence, the soft whir of his prosthetic hand the only sound in the empty office. He paused at the doorway, looking back at the long corridors, the polished floors, the banners proclaiming achievement and success. There was no anger in his gaze, no bitterness. Only recognition. The world valued illusion over substance, spectacle over truth.
And that was about to change.
Leo stepped out into the fading sunlight, the air carrying the faint scent of autumn and smoke from the city beyond. He inhaled deeply, feeling the quiet thrill of freedom. The school had been a cage, gilded and polished, but still a cage. Now, the gates closed behind him not as a failure but as a choice—a release from the absurdity of a society that prized magic over reason, birthright over intellect.
I will not waste another second playing their game, he thought. Not here. Not for them.
And yet, beneath the calm, a pulse of curiosity stirred. Something vast was coming. Something beyond petty rivalries and political maneuvering. He could feel it, a subtle shift in the patterns, the whispers of mysteries just beginning to coalesce.
A world of questions awaited. Questions that logic could dissect, puzzles that no privileged family could buy or inherit. And in that world, Legnus Cross, skeptic and observer, would finally be where he belonged.
He walked away from the school, each step purposeful, his mind alive with calculations, possibilities, and the faint, thrilling anticipation of the unknown. The auditorium, the parents, the hum of false civility—all of it belonged to the past. Ahead lay chaos, revelation, and the challenges that mattered. He smiled softly to himself. Finally, he was free.