Ibarin had been waiting alone in his office, the grand chamber dimly lit by several floating crystals that hung in the air. His fingers tapped idly against the polished wood of the desk, then moved to rub at the bottom of his chin as his thoughts churned. His expression was grim, his mind running endlessly through every possibility, every path forward, and every way the situation could be twisted to his advantage. The students had failed.
He had warned them. Again and again, he had made it clear that in life, only those who succeeded could rise up the ladder. Those who failed, those who lost, could not be rewarded. They could not be praised, they could not be uplifted, and they certainly could not remain as representatives of the Central Academy. They were to be the best of the best, proof of his strength as Grand Magus, and yet they had lost in full view of the public. To him, the conclusion was simple and merciless. They were no longer of any use.
