The morning after the "Wedding Apocalypse" looked less like an academy campus and more like a post-apocalyptic theme park.
The once-proud Royal Magic Academy stood—or rather slumped—like a drunk noble with a hangover.
The central tower, which had survived demon invasions, dragon sieges, and one thousand years of magical storms, now tilted at a 37-degree angle, humming ominously as if daring gravity to finish the job.
The alchemy department? A black crater, bubbling like soup. A lone homunculus crawled out of the pit, looked around, and muttered, "Nope," before diving back in.
The library? It's weeping literally. The enchanted shelves sobbed ink and parchment scraps, wailing like widows at a funeral. A librarian tried to hush them, but the shelves only screamed louder.
The cafeteria? Combusting hourly. Every sixty minutes, without fail, a tray of lasagna would spontaneously ignite and detonate, showering the ruins in marinara shrapnel.
