Principal's worry

Meanwhile, back in the Principal's Office, hidden high within the oldest and most secluded tower of Silver Blade Academy, Principal Duldor—known in his youth as the "Dual Silver Blade" for wielding twin curved swords in his legendary duels—still sat hunched over an avalanche of papers, parchments, and folded reports that nearly buried the dark oak of his ancient desk.

His shoulders slumped in relief as he penned his final signature, the inky flourish curling across the bottom of the last assessment record.

"Finally… these damn evaluations… If I read one more exaggerated claim from a swordsmanship teacher bragging about his students cutting melons, I'll exile myself to the wilderness…"

With a heavy breath, he leaned back into his creaking high-backed chair, eyes drifting toward the arched window where twilight bled crimson into the skies of Silver Blade City.

He rubbed his temples and muttered again.

"Mmm… the final step of the assessments tomorrow… students and teachers, everyone pushing forward… hah… and then the Chief himself will come, won't he?"

He tapped his knuckles lightly on the edge of the desk. "Baron Helmdurn… Baron of the Black Vale… a True Noble…"

The title rolled off his tongue with a curious blend of admiration and suspicion. "Our city's never had one of those, no… not even during the last border war… and now, amidst whispers of those Fear Beings crawling near the outer regions…"

His fingers stroked the sharp, silver-gray beard on his chin—short, but dense like a metal brush. "Why would a Baron be so interested in our younglings now, eh? What is it… support? Charity? Nonsense. Nobles never move without cause. Not unless there's something to be gained. Especially not near the frontier cities…"

Duldor's mumbling grew into a slow, stream-of-consciousness mutter, almost hypnotic in rhythm.

"Other Stage One Territories already had their turn… Silver Blade's next… mm… those reports from Iron Dew Academy… only two passed. And Scarlet Rift? No passers. Not one. It's getting harsher… more refined… no more quantity, only quality…"

He paused, squinting at the last sheet of student reports.

"…and yet, in Room 33, the bottom-feeders remain… the failure teacher… what was his name again… ah yes… Nolan…"

He furrowed his brows.

"...Nolan. That young fool… the one I signed off on to avoid more paperwork. A walking mishap. Assigned to the worst batch of students. That mess of delinquents and strays. That Calien boy. The Sharpsnout girl. And that glass cannon from Highoak family…"

The principal scratched his beard thoughtfully. "What happened to them again? I haven't had a report in hours…"

With a grunt, he reached under his desk, pulling out a dust-covered crystal ball.

A faint hum vibrated through the wood as he placed it at the center of the table. His fingers glowed faintly with a thread of refined mana.

"Let's see what my Spying Crystal says about Room 33…"

He whispered a brief chant—"Veritios K'run"—and pressed two fingers to the crystal's surface. A shimmer flickered. The air above the orb distorted—

—but nothing appeared.

Just black.

"…Huh?" Duldor blinked. "What's this now?"

He leaned forward, tapped the orb again, adjusted his mana flow. "Room 33. Nolan. Come on, you blasted rock…"

Blackness. Absolute.

"No projection? No response? That… shouldn't be right…"

He reset the crystal. Whispered the chant again.

Nothing.

"Hmm? That can't be… maybe interference? No… this is the Principal's crystal. Refined with five elder-tier scrying enchantments…"

He poured more mana in. Increased the density. A low hum reverberated through the floorboards.

Nothing.

Still black.

"Why isn't it working!?"

He stood up suddenly, robe flaring as he slammed both hands on the desk. "No classroom should be able to resist this! Not even with anti-magic cloth over the walls! I personally built this office for oversight!"

Grumbling, he went into a flurry of tests. He adjusted the mana flux ratio.

Changed the incantation length. Swapped from Tier 1 to Tier 3 scrying methods. Pulled out a mana-conductive silver ring and used it as a channeling artifact.

Still.

Only black.

"Ugh! Don't tell me the crystal is cracked… no… no, no, no…"

He picked up a small hammer and gently tapped the side of the orb. Then cast a diagnostic rune into it. The orb pulsed blue.

Fully functional.

"It's working?!"

More incantations.

This time, three simultaneous connections.

Parallel threads. He forced more mana in. A bit more than necessary.

Sweat beaded at his temple.

Still nothing.

"It's not the orb… then…"

He sat down, deep in thought. Rubbing his temples. Pacing.

Then, with a burst of irritation, he tried another room.

"Fine. Let's see… Room 17. Professor Vail's class."

The orb shimmered. A projection appeared.

Students sitting in silence. Some meditating. Others training illusions in small, confined circles.

"Hmm…"

Room 5.

Room 12.

Even the kitchen.

Each time, clear. Vivid.

Then again—Room 33.

Only black.

"…Why? Why only that one…?"

Then, something in his old memory clicked.

A conversation from earlier. A casual warning he had dismissed like the rest of Professor Granfire's ramblings.

"That Nolan… keep an eye on him. He might be one of the Grimms…"

Grimm.

Duldor stood still.

"…a Grimm? A cursed lineage… necromancer blood… born from those who delved too deeply into the veil between life and death…"

His mouth became dry.

"If that's true…"

He grabbed the orb again and whispered a deeper incantation.

One not used in years.

A tracer spell—meant to track mana movement across locked scrying barriers.

He cast it.

The room darkened.

The orb glowed red—and then snapped.

A thin crack formed across its surface.

He dropped it. Took a step back.

"No… no ordinary mana user could resist that…"

Not even Initial Mana Specialists.

Not even peak ones.

He stared into space, eyes narrowed.

And then… fear.

Real, cold fear.

Someone had blocked the Principal's view.

Someone inside the Academy.

Someone… like Nolan.

"…If he really is a Grimm…"

He clenched his fist. "Then not only are those students at risk… but the entire third floor…"

His head whipped toward the sword rack in the corner.

He stood. Walked across the creaking floorboards.

Picked up the twin silver blades—the same ones he used in his younger days.

The weight settled in his hands like old friends.

His body pulsed with mana. Years of discipline returned in a rush.

He moved toward the door.

Flung it open.

And then, like lightning—

He sprinted.

Faster than anyone his age should be able to.

His cloak snapped like a banner behind him, boots slamming across the ancient tower stone.

"I hope…"

He whispered, breath ragged.

"…I hope I am wrong."

…

Meanwhile, inside the game's dilapidated world, where flickering street lamps cast long, eerie shadows and the sound of broken glass underfoot was constant, Nolan stood still on the cracked pavement of the second floor's main corridor.

The air was thick with static hum and decay, and the scent of corrupted mana filled his nostrils—putrid and metallic.

Ahead, the infected shuffled forward, eyes glowing faintly with that signature reddish hue, and some drooled stringy bile as they let out intermittent, distorted growls.

Nolan smiled like there was no tomorrow.

That kind of smile that wasn't madness but confidence, the kind that told the world it would break before he did.

He exhaled slowly, stretched his shoulders back, and turned his head slightly toward the blank sky of the digital realm.

"Students," he said out loud, voice calm, hands in his coat pockets. "You still there?"

Silence.

No response.