**Chapter 50**
—
The Academy was a kingdom in itself.
With its characteristic isolation from the outside world, the hierarchy among its students was absolute—one’s standing was almost entirely determined by one’s father and the power of one’s noble house.
Even among the scions of the Empire’s most prestigious families, ranks were drawn anew—by title, by faction, by influence—and countless groups rose and fell in an endless cycle of alliances and rivalries.
And in that hierarchy, **Leonard Walter** reigned as the little king of the Imperial Academy.
He was the eldest son of Count Walter—one of the elders of the Red Tower—and the most talented student in the highest division of the Third Circle.
At the age of twenty, he had already reached the rank of a Third Circle Master and stood on the verge of attaining the Fourth Circle. An undisputed elite, destined to pass the upcoming graduation exams with ease.
A man born to tread the Red Tower’s path of triumph, blessed with overwhelming talent.
Count Walter, the *Flameblood Elder* of the Red Tower, had boundless expectations for his son, to the point where even the Academy’s professors bent over backward to appease Leonard.
Under his reign, the Third Circle department of the Imperial Academy maintained a semblance of stable order.
Until that day—when **Dale** invaded *Leonard’s little kingdom*.
—
—
A few days after arriving in the Imperial Capital.
Invited solely for the purpose of “exchange between the Red and the Black Towers,” Dale stood among them—as the heir to the Lord of the Black Tower.
He was seated in an auditorium beside the top students of the Third Circle division, listening to a lecture delivered by one of the Academy’s professors. Young magi, poised for their graduation exams, surrounded him.
It was, in some sense, an utterly surreal sight—a young lord of House Saxen sitting among two dozen noble heirs from the capital’s finest bloodlines.
“…It goes without saying that fire and water are mutually opposing elements.”
The professor, a Master of the Fourth Circle, continued his lecture.
Though only one circle separated teacher and students, the difference between the Third and Fourth Circle was immeasurable.
Many who achieved the Third Circle—becoming formal magi of the Tower—would never reach the Fourth, no matter how long they lived.
Thus, the Third Circle marked the threshold of a true magus; the Fourth, the realm *beyond* that threshold—an achievement that crushed most aspirants against an insurmountable wall.
Beyond that lay the Fifth Circle, where a mage could begin to establish standing within the Tower;
the Sixth Circle was the realm of the Elders;
and the Seventh Circle—of which only a few dozen existed across the entire continent.
Above even them stood the Eighth Circle—the pinnacle of magical attainment, the summit that only five magi in the Empire had reached.
The Crimson Marquis, the Black Duke, and the others—the five Masters of the Five-Tower Order:
Black, White, Red, Blue, and Green.
It was a world that claimed to honor power above all—
yet its power was so often defined by lineage.
“Professor!”
A sudden voice broke through the lecture. A man raised his hand—a striking blond youth whose mere presence drew the room’s attention.
“L-Leonard…!”
The professor blanched the instant he saw him.
“D-Do you have a question, perhaps?”
“Oh, no,” Leonard said with a casual shake of the head.
“It’s just that the lecture’s dreadfully boring. Mind if I take a nap?”
He stretched out his legs over the front desk. Laughter rippled through the classroom.
“B-by all means, go ahead…”
Leonard smirked. “What, the professor of the Red Tower bowing his head before a mere student?”
“W-well, I—”
“Perhaps, Professor, you ought to reconsider your commitment to *our* Red Tower’s doctrine, hmm?”
“I-I’ll take that to heart, yes,” the professor stammered, nodding rapidly.
Watching the exchange, Dale could only stare, speechless. A Fourth Circle mage, bowing and scraping before a student—like a servant before a lord.
And indeed, in the Red Tower’s creed, that was precisely the point.
Even within the Academy, student and professor were not equals. In fact, the professor’s humiliation was *intentional*—a lesson designed to reinforce the Tower’s philosophy: *power rules all.*
The Red Tower worshipped the order born of strength. The Imperial Academy itself was a miniature empire built to drive that truth home—to indoctrinate the Empire’s future elite in the gospel of domination.
The weak lost everything. The strong gained all.
That was the Empire’s creed—**the survival of the mighty.**
“……”
Ignoring the laughter surrounding him, Dale turned his head. His gaze met Leonard’s.
“Well, well, look who it is.”
Leonard grinned broadly, spreading his arms in mock surprise.
“The *Black Prince* himself!”
“……”
“I hear you’ve already reached the Third Circle at your age—and even crushed an Orc Warlord single-handedly!”
Dale gave no reply.
“As expected of the heir to House Saxen!” Leonard crowed, his tone dripping with ridicule.
Dale remained silent. This was not the North.
To the nobles of the capital, House Saxen might be feared—but only as a remote northern duchy. Here, beneath the shadow of the Emperor and the Red Tower, they feared nothing.
They were the Empire’s “proud magi.” They bowed to no one—certainly not to some northern boy, no matter how dark his reputation.
It was arrogance, foolish pride—but could one expect maturity from a twenty-year-old drunk on privilege and power?
‘Children will be children,’ Dale thought.
He could only see Leonard as that—a boy still wet behind the ears.
“People tend to exaggerate, you know,” Dale murmured calmly, turning away.
He ignored the slight twitch of anger that crossed Leonard’s face.
—
—
Magical training always involved practice. And it was during the practical session that trouble began.
“Do… do we really have to go this far?”
“What, you saying you won’t do as I tell you?”
“N-no, that’s not it, but… He’s the Duke of Saxen’s heir—”
Leonard tilted his head with a faint smile. “Exactly. That’s why *you’ll* do it.”
The poor boy swallowed hard and bowed.
Soon, the students paired off to exchange bursts of flame in mock combat. Dale stood at a distance, merely observing—he had no interest in fire magic, nor any need to demonstrate it.
“Professor!”
Leonard called out again, voice bright and mocking. The professor flinched.
“Since the young lord of the Black Tower has graced us with his presence,” Leonard said, smiling too widely, “wouldn’t it be fitting to have a little *magical exchange*?”
Everyone knew what that meant: a duel.
“Ah, but perhaps it would be too dangerous for Lord Dale, hmm?”
“I’ll accept,” Dale said flatly.
The trap was obvious—but he no longer cared. He stood, resolved to teach the arrogant brat a lesson.
“Then—”
“I-I’ll do it!”
A frightened student suddenly raised his hand.
Dale’s brow furrowed. *So that’s their play.*
A cowardly setup—one of Leonard’s lackeys offering himself as a sacrificial stand-in.
“Y-you’re familiar with the dueling rules, yes?” the professor asked nervously.
Dale nodded. Each mage would alternate between offense and defense—a controlled exchange meant to test skill without risk of harm.
“May I forgo the *Life-Point Amulet*?” Dale asked.
The professor blinked. “The… Life-Point Amulet?”
It was a safety charm that shattered upon receiving a lethal hit, automatically triggering a protective shield. Students rarely needed it—professors always stood by to contain accidents.
“If, by chance, someone *dies* during this exercise,” Dale continued quietly, “who bears responsibility?”
“W-what?”
The black coat around his shoulders rippled—shifting like living shadow.
“Are we permitted,” he said softly, “to cast as though we mean to *kill*?”
Darkness pooled at his feet. From it, blades of shadow rose, radiating an icy blue gleam.
“Professor,” Dale murmured, “can you truly stop my strike, if it comes to that?”
“W-wait! Stop, stop at once!”
The volunteer student went white as chalk, trembling violently.
Not everyone shared Leonard’s arrogance. Most feared him—and with good reason.
Even the professor, a Fourth Circle magus, could *feel* it now—the raw, suffocating menace of the Black Prince’s magic.
It was no bluff.
That darkness was real. Deadly.
“N-no, no! The duel is canceled! Canceled, you hear me?” the professor cried, raising both hands.
“What?” Leonard froze. “What did you just say?”
“I said the duel is canceled!” the professor nearly shouted, bowing frantically—not to Leonard, but to Dale.
“Please, Lord Dale—let’s consider the matter closed, yes?”
It was unthinkable. A Fourth Circle master, pleading before a student. But the fear was real.
He knew what that cloak was. What power it held. Even *he* could not stop it, if unleashed.
Should anyone die, the responsibility would be his—and no political shield could save him.
Leonard’s father might be a Sixth Circle elder, but in this moment, **death** was the greater threat.
“Please, forgive this foolishness,” the professor begged.
Dale regarded him calmly, then nodded. “Very well.”
At once, the writhing shadows at his feet vanished into stillness.
Leonard’s fists clenched, trembling with impotent rage. Dale ignored him and turned away.
The shadow-blades slipped back beneath his cloak, leaving behind only the memory of that suffocating malice.
Every student there had felt it—the power of a darkness beyond their comprehension.
And even the proudest among them silently admitted: the tales of the *Black Prince* might not be mere exaggeration after all.
—
—
It was unthinkable.
That same night, in a tavern beyond the Academy gates, Leonard Walter drowned his fury in wine among the red-district women.
“That bastard!”
“Ahhh!”
He kicked and beat the trembling student who had dared to take his place earlier that day.
“P-please, forgive me!”
“Forgive? You pathetic worm!”
*Whack!*
He struck again and again. Even the prostitutes and his peers, pale-faced, dared not intervene.
Leonard Walter—the son of Count Walter, *Flameblood of the Red Tower*, a Sixth Circle sorcerer and Imperial Count.
In this kingdom, there was no one who should have been able to defy him.
But word of that day spread quickly through the Academy.
“Did you hear? The Black Prince’s *shadow blade*—it’s real!”
“Well, he *is* the son of the Black Duke. Maybe he really is the most gifted in the Empire.”
“Leonard couldn’t even face him. Looked terrified.”
“Guess the Red Tower’s prodigy isn’t all that impressive after all.”
“Sure—what chance does he have against the son of a Tower Lord?”
The whispers multiplied. Even the professors who once cowered before Leonard now treated him with unease, their fear reserved instead for *Dale of Saxen.*
“Damn them all!”
He could not bear it.
At twenty, he had become a Third Circle Master, nearing the Fourth—an elite among elites.
From childhood, he’d been hailed as the Empire’s greatest talent. Everyone said so. He had believed it utterly—
until the name *Dale of Saxen* reached the capital.
At eight, he had engraved his first Mana Circle.
At nine, the second.
At ten, the Third.
Year after year, rumors of Dale’s brilliance had spread—
and each one had struck Leonard like a blade, as if denying his very existence.
He had refused to believe it.
It was impossible. It had to be.
It was nothing more than rumor and exaggeration.
A tale spun by gossipmongers.
There could be only one supreme genius of the Empire—and it had to be **Leonard Walter.**
“…It’s me,” he muttered, breathing hard, his body swaying drunkenly.
“I’m the true genius of the Empire.”
He said it again, as if to convince himself.
Desperately, frantically—
clinging to the only truth he could still bear to believe.
