The one who looked ready to crack was someone no one expected—Baruss.
That's right. The same boy who had once bullied Rai, just like the rest of the elite crowd. The one who'd mocked him on day one, who'd told him straight to his face that he didn't belong. But the truth? The truth was far more complicated than that.
Baruss's fist clenched tightly at his side as a memory surged up—his first glimpse of Rai on that day.
Back then, he didn't look at the boy with hatred or scorn. Not even contempt.
No... what he really felt was pity. Maybe even... concern.
Everyone else in the room—Rose, Harchell, Kromus, Shelly—was far too focused on Rai and Gale's recovery to notice it: the cold, scornful stares of the elite still lingering like a shadow across the infirmary.
But Baruss saw them.
He always did.
And now, for the first time in a long while, he'd had enough. His jaw tensed. He was seconds away from raising his voice—ready to speak out against every smug, unbothered face in the room.
Then... a soft hand rested gently on his shoulder.
He turned. It was Lara.
Her touch was light, but her presence had weight. She had seen the anger boiling inside him.
"I know you're a good boy, Baruss," she whispered softly. "Kind. Noble. That's why this stings. But don't get emotional over things that don't matter to Rai."
Her voice was calm, reassuring... the kind of voice that didn't need to be loud to be powerful.
"These people... their opinions don't faze him," she added, offering a warm, knowing smile. "So don't let them faze you either."
Baruss gritted his teeth. For a moment, his frustration fought to stay, but her words sank deeper than expected.
He let out a slow breath, relaxing his fist, and returned to his usual composed stance—quiet, but no longer simmering.
Leviticus was quietly pleased to see the mood in the infirmary begin to lighten. Genuine smiles had begun to return—small, tentative, but real. The weight that had crushed the room earlier was now giving way to something softer, more hopeful.
Of course, the elitists remained as they always were: detached, indifferent, muttering amongst themselves, clearly unaffected by the emotional tide that had swept through the rest of the room. Their concern remained fixed only on appearances, ranks, and their own self-preservation.
Leviticus and Lara exchanged a glance as they took one final look around. They didn't need to say anything—both were quietly satisfied. Their eyes then landed on Rai, now finally resting, and on Rose, who had at last gathered herself enough to move toward his bedside.
Without a word, the couple turned and began to make their way out, their steps slow and deliberate. But there was one thing no one could ignore.
They left without so much as a word to their own daughter, and rose replicating a similar vibe did not bat an eye towards her parents.
That question lingered in the air like smoke. No one dared say it aloud, but it was etched into every silent glance exchanged among those who noticed. Still, out of respect—or perhaps discomfort—no one pried. They looked the other way, pretending not to see what had just happened.
Meanwhile, Chimalma and Pragaya were already locked in a heated conversation.
"Are you out of your mind, Master?" Chimalma snapped, her voice seething with ferocity and frustration. "Did you honestly think through what could've happened if Rai hadn't awakened at the very last second? Or what could've happened in the infirmary? If he wasn't who he is… he'd be dead right now!"
Pragaya, arms casually crossed over his chest, let out a hearty laugh, seemingly unfazed.
That was a mistake.
Chimalma looked about ready to erupt, but before she could, Lara and Leviticus arrived on the scene. Lara quickly stepped in between them, her voice soft yet commanding.
"Alright, alright—Chimalma, you of all people know how Pragaya is. I'm sure he has a very… reasonable explanation for letting things get so out of hand."
As soon as she said that, all three of them—Lara, Leviticus, and Chimalma—turned in perfect sync, shooting a unified glare at Pragaya.
Their expressions screamed one thing: Talk. Now.
A single bead of sweat trickled down Pragaya's temple. He swiftly wiped it away, composed himself with a deep breath, and clasped his hands behind his back.
"I had faith," he declared with absolute conviction.
The response was met with a shared, unimpressed stare of epic proportions.
The three stared at him silently, judgment practically radiating off their faces.
Pragaya shifted awkwardly, the corners of his lips twitching in discomfort as he realized they weren't buying it.
"...That's it? That's your big explanation?" Leviticus muttered, deadpan.
Pragaya cleared his throat, glancing left and right like a student caught without homework.
"...I really had faith?"
The silence that followed was suffocating… until Chimalma let out an exasperated sigh and turned away. Lara covered her mouth to suppress a laugh. Leviticus simply rolled his eyes.
And Pragaya? He stood there awkwardly, doing his best to pretend the humiliation didn't sting.
Pragaya let out an awkward cough, then straightened his back. This time, his voice carried a seriousness that silenced the air. "Frankly, I'm a bit disappointed... that none of you seem to understand my point of view." He sighed.
Chimalma, still facing away from him in frustration, glanced over her shoulder with a sharp side-eye. Leviticus and Lara paused their chuckles, their expressions growing more attentive.
Pragaya continued, "Do you not realize who Rai is? What he's capable of? How he's already saved all of us?"
Chimalma spun around. "Yes, of course we know, Master! That's exactly why we have to protect him—!"
But Pragaya cut her off again. "Since when?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, since when did you—did any of you—become so great as to think you could protect Rai?"
A heavy silence settled. No one had an answer. Something deeper tugged at their thoughts—something uncomfortable.
Chimalma spoke again, a slight tremble in her irritation. "You talk like Rai isn't just a 12-year-old boy."
Pragaya didn't miss a beat. "Rai could be an ant, and he'd still move mountains. All we have to do… is have faith."
Leviticus stepped in, trying to bridge the divide. "Father, I understand your stance. But we have a responsibility—"
Both Lara and Chimalma nodded in subtle agreement. But Pragaya wasn't fazed.
"And that gives you the right to doubt him, does it?"
Leviticus tried to respond. "That's not wha—"
"Let me remind you who I am," Pragaya interrupted, his voice rising with quiet power. "Sure, I may not be at my peak anymore... but I'm still not someone to be dismissed. And Rai?"
He placed a hand on his chest with pride.
"Rai is greater than everything in this Grand Continuum."
The words landed like thunder. Chimalma, Leviticus, and Lara just stood there, unable to disagree... yet unable to shake the gnawing thought that if they weren't cautious, everything they'd worked toward for years could come crashing down.
Still, Pragaya held firm.
"I understand your fear. But if you truly are who you claim to be... then you should know—" he stared at each of them, unwavering, "—that it's a disgrace to ever doubt Rai."
Chimalma stormed off toward the infirmary, her boots striking the stone floor with purpose. Frustration burned in her chest, but even she couldn't deny that Pragaya's words carried some weight. Still, that didn't make it any easier. The image of Rai lying lifeless, cold and unmoving, twisted in her gut like a blade. The thought that he could've been lost forever—it made her stomach churn.
Leviticus and Lara, sharing the same quiet unease, exchanged a knowing glance before turning to head outside. There was still much to do, and they needed to ensure the relief operations were proceeding as planned. The wounded had to be tended to. Order had to be restored. But even as they walked away, their thoughts lingered on the boy in the infirmary.
Pragaya, now alone, calmly made his way toward his office, hands clasped behind his back. But just as he turned the corridor, he spotted a figure standing in the shadows—Kromus.
He'd been listening.
Pragaya didn't break stride. He simply walked past, offering no acknowledgment. But Kromus stepped forward, halting him.
"When are you going to let me in on what's really going on here, Master?" Kromus asked, his voice low but laced with restrained urgency.
Pragaya paused. He turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable. Then, with a calm but firm tone, he answered, "In time, Kromus. For now… have patience."
Kromus didn't like the answer. His brows tightened, his fists clenched. But his respect for the old master ran deep, deeper than his frustration. He let out a breath and nodded—reluctantly.
Without another word, he followed Pragaya down the hall, the two disappearing into the quiet of the master's wing.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the academy was bathed in a quiet, golden light. It had been a day full of battles—none of which had been truly won. Gale and Rai remained unconscious, their bodies still and breath steady under Chimalma's careful watch. The relief efforts, at long last, seemed to be nearing completion. With the aid of restoration magic, much of the physical damage to the once-stunning academy had been swiftly reversed.
Rose and Harchell lingered at Rai's side longer than the others, reluctant to leave, but were eventually urged away so he could rest. With hope in their hearts that he would awaken soon, they stepped out quietly. One by one, Baruss, Mammoth, Sylvia, Lorenzo, and the deans—Shelly and Luthor—filed out and returned to their respective dorms, the tension of the day still lingering in their expressions.
In the end, Gale and Rai were left under Chimalma's protection—no one could put their minds at ease more than the woman who had brought a boy back from the dead.
Elsewhere in the Headmaster's office, Pragaya and Kromus sat in quiet focus, monitoring the magical surveillance of the academy's halls to ensure all students had returned safely and that order had been restored. Their concentration was interrupted by a sudden knock at the door.
"Who is it?" Kromus called, his voice sharp and cold. "It's well past curfew. You should be in your dorms."
A deep voice answered from the other side. "I need to talk to you both. It's important."
Pragaya raised a brow, then sighed, clearly not eager for a late-night conversation. Still, something in the voice told him it wasn't just idle curiosity. "Come in," he said simply.
The door creaked open.
From the shadowed hallway stepped a broad figure, shoulders square, face serious. It was Mammoth. His usual calm strength was still there—but it was accompanied by something else. A deep unease clouded his eyes. He hadn't come on a whim. He couldn't sleep. Not with the questions clawing at his thoughts.
And now, he stood before them, ready to demand answers.
There was only one question tormenting his mind.
Unlike the others, Mammoth wasn't satisfied with vague reassurances and half-baked answers. His towering frame stood still, his expression heavy, but his voice calm and firm as he looked Pragaya straight in the eye.
"Tell me, Headmaster… who is Rai? And how was he able to use magic?"
His tone wasn't angry. It wasn't accusatory. It was distressed—genuinely pained. He wasn't just unsettled. His heart was aching. He needed to know—had Rai merely toyed with him during their duel? Had everything he felt, everything he believed about that moment... been a lie? And most of all, what was that shift in presence—that terrifying change—when Rai ascended?
Kromus silently watched, arms crossed, but clearly curious how Pragaya would respond.
Pragaya studied Mammoth's face. This wasn't a boy throwing a tantrum. This was a warrior seeking clarity. A proud heart trying to make sense of something that shattered his understanding. And Pragaya understood something clearly—this young man would not accept evasion or riddles. Not this time.
So, he made a decision.
He would tell him.
Something only Kromus had known until now.
Pragaya walked slowly over to the tall windows of his office, gazing out over the academy grounds. The fading twilight reflected in his eyes as he spoke.
"What Rai used… wasn't magic."
Mammoth stiffened.
"At least not the kind you and I know. Not the kind born from mana… from the light of the eyes. You've been taught that the brighter the glow, the stronger the magic. That your eyes are the source of your gift. But Rai's eyes… they never glowed. Not even once."
He turned back toward Mammoth, his expression unshaken, voice calm but heavy with meaning.
"And yet his power rivaled the greatest magians in this academy."
Mammoth took an instinctive step back, the weight of the implication hitting him like a sledgehammer. His breath hitched as his mind raced. Kromus turned to Pragaya, his voice cautious.
"Master, are you sure it's alright to tell him this much?"
Pragaya placed a firm, steadying hand on Kromus' shoulder and nodded.
"If I were to hide the truth now, I'd be greatly disrespecting the young man standing before us."
Kromus gave a solemn nod. He respected Mammoth too—and if his master believed the truth was deserved, then he would not stand in its way.
Mammoth, still stunned, processed what he had just heard. More than anyone else, he understood the gravity of this. This wasn't a small detail—this was world-altering. If such information were to spread unchecked, the consequences could be catastrophic.
He swallowed hard, his voice slightly trembling.
"Headmaster... please. Tell me it's not what I'm thinking..."
Pragaya stepped closer, his eyes solemn yet unwavering.
"My boy, you're not wrong. What you witnessed from Rai wasn't ordinary magic."
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle before continuing.
"It was a mutation. A rare one. One that allows him to mimic another person's magic—in this case, yours."
The weight of those words was so monumental that it sent a shiver down Mammoth's spine. Why was this such a big deal? In this world, where power is determined by the strength of one's magic and the glow of their eyes, the implications were enormous. Society, ruled by the Four Great Clans and, above them, the Elmag, thrived on one core principle: a person's magical abilities, as reflected in their eyes, determined their status.
There had been countless cases of even the most destitute families—those who had been invisible to society for generations—suddenly rising to prominence. All it took was a child born with eyes overflowing with magic, whether it was a rare combination of elements or pure elemental power. As long as the eyes burned brightly with mana, that person would be respected, regardless of their background.
But there was one glaring exception to this rule: mutations. Even if someone's eyes were overflowing with magic, if that power couldn't be traced back to one of the Four Great Clans, it was regarded as worthless. Take Allseer, for example. His eyes shone with abundant power, capable of appraising anyone he laid his gaze upon, yet he was still looked down upon by society. His ability, though potent, was considered unnatural—freakish—and therefore dismissed. The reason for this prejudice was simple: it all boiled down to the future.
When two people from the Fire Clan have a child, that child will inevitably inherit fire eyes. The same holds true for the Water, Earth, and Wind Clans. Even if the parents possess a combination of elemental powers, their child will inherit one or more of the parent's abilities, or a pure form of it. This predictability—the certainty of magical inheritance—is what ensures stability in society. A child born of powerful parents is almost guaranteed to be powerful in their own right, and the magic flowing through their eyes will shine brightly.
However, there's a dangerous variable when it comes to combinations. If two individuals with mixed elemental abilities have a child, the chances of a mutation increase, and mutations are the most feared of all. If a child is born with a mutation, not only do they lose their potential for greatness, but their family's status is also obliterated. The moment a family's bloodline produces a mutated child, the future of their entire lineage is tainted. Regardless of how many children are born afterward, all of them will carry the same fate of mutation. There is no escaping it.
But the true curse lies with parents who possess mutations. Even if their eyes brim with power, there is no guarantee that their children will inherit any magical strength. In fact, the likelihood of two individuals with mutations, or one mutated and one normal, producing a child with overwhelming magical power is almost nonexistent—one in a hundred million. The future, in this case, is a gamble. And in a world where status and power reign supreme, this uncertainty is unacceptable.
For that reason, those born with mutations, no matter how powerful their magic, are always looked down upon. The world sees them as a risk, an unpredictable variable in the otherwise orderly hierarchy of magical society.
Mammoth was terrified.
Mutated beings weren't just looked down upon—they were treated as threats to Magian society. The truth was chilling: if individuals with extreme mutations were allowed to procreate freely, the entire foundation of the magic-based world would collapse.
And so, this cruel and calculating society resorted to something unthinkable.
Those born with mutations that couldn't be traced back to any of the Four Great Clans—especially those with powers seen as too deviant, too disruptive—were dealt with in the harshest way possible. They were sterilized.
Stripped of the ability to have children.
Their bloodlines were forcibly ended to prevent the spread of mutations, to preserve the purity of clan-based magic, and to maintain the current world order—no matter how unjust it was.
Pragaya gently placed a hand on Mammoth's shoulder. "You see now, son... you understand."
Mammoth gave a quiet nod. The truth had sunk in, heavy and unrelenting. And yet, one question still gnawed at the back of his mind—Rai's sudden change in personality. It wasn't just the power that confused him. It was the way Rai moved, spoke, and stood. That wasn't just a mutation—it was like a different person had taken over entirely.
"Headmaster... why did his stance change all of a sudden?" Mammoth finally asked, brows furrowed. "It was as if... he wasn't Rai anymore."
Pragaya turned away, walking back to the large window. The last hues of twilight spilled across the marble floor like soft firelight. His voice was calm, but tinged with unease. "That young man is a mystery even to me," he admitted. "Even I wrestle with those questions. Why did he awaken at that moment? Why did his personality shift so drastically? Why was his strength so... overwhelming?" He paused. "All of these haunt me too. But in time, we'll find our answers. Until then, I suggest you get some rest."
Mammoth nodded once more, though his eyes were distant. He couldn't get that image out of his head—the way Rai stood against Zaass before Ariel became Lilith. That aura… that overwhelming presence. It wasn't the same clumsy, childish Rai he had come to know. It was something... greater. Something ancient.
Still, there was no point dwelling further. The truth would reveal itself in time, as all things do. He gave a polite bow to both Pragaya and Kromus, then turned and left the office, walking quietly back toward the dorms.
But not everyone found peace that night.
Kromus remained silent, but his eyes were sharp with thought. Unlike Mammoth, Kromus had caught something during the battle—Pragaya's words. He remembered them clearly. That moment when Rai clashed with Zaass and something changed.
"That is Rai," Pragaya had said.
Not this is Rai. Not Rai has changed. No—it was said with certainty, as if the boy they knew was the façade... and this was the real one.
Kromus's mind raced with questions he dared not speak. Not yet. Not while Pragaya was clearly unwilling to divulge anything more tonight.
For now, all he could do was wait. But he made a silent vow—he would uncover the truth.