While the question hung in the warm midday breeze, the chilling architecture of Arthur's mind palace rapidly constructed a multi-layered diagnostic tree. The query was not mere small talk; it was a calibrated tripwire designed to map the boy's developmental timeline and verify the lethal threat he posed.
He needed a biological baseline. Across Geenna, the immaterial mana circuits of a human vessel are dilated after the dawn of their thirteenth year. By isolating the exact moment Cyril breached that threshold, Arthur could sever the boy's natural biological reality from the physics-breaking manifestation of his Grade-7 stigmata. If Cyril claimed a standard awakening at thirteen, the alibi of the secluded mountain ascetic retained its structural integrity. More critically, establishing that temporal origin point would allow Arthur to plot a definitive growth curve, mathematically projecting exactly how fast this monster would evolve.
But the biology was secondary. The true objective lay in overlaying Cyril's answer against the three-hundred-year cosmic drought and the Ash Mage conspiracy.
The impending response would validate one of two hypotheses. If the boy's timeline placed his awakening roughly twelve months ago, the date would seamlessly overlap with the dormitory raid and his martyrdom. The "Replacement" hypothesis would instantly calcify into absolute fact. It would prove the Celestial Sun Church had tracked the emergence of their manufactured weapon and orchestrated the assassination the exact second their new pawn became viable. A spike of glacial, absolute certainty pierced Arthur's chest at the thought. Cyril wouldn't be a divine miracle; he would be a living biological weapon purchased with his blood. The Church would be unequivocally branded as the enemy.
Conversely, if the boy claimed to have awakened nearly two years prior, the temporal coordinates would snap perfectly onto Arthur and Cedric's thirteenth birthday. The paradox of the Simultaneous Saints. It would mean the cosmos had genuinely defied its own established parameters, birthing two divine candidates in the exact same generation. The Church's motive would violently shift. They hadn't orchestrated the raid to replace him; they ordered the hit to eliminate the competition. A calculated strike to ensure their deeply indoctrinated sleeper agent held a total, undisputed monopoly over the continent's faith.
Preparing for the worst-case scenario, Arthur locked his logic into extreme hyper-vigilance, calculating for the absolute maximum threat. He refused to look at the boy through the lens of human empathy. Cyril was not a naive village orphan experiencing processed sucrose for the first time. The wide-eyed wonder, the flushed cheeks, the clumsy, euphoric questions over a caramel stick—Arthur clinically categorized every micro-expression as a masterclass in psychological camouflage designed to lower a target's guard. Cyril was a highly indoctrinated, fanatical sleeper agent.
Therefore, whatever words were about to leave the boy's mouth would be a meticulously manufactured script. If Cyril offered a date that carefully skirted his murder, it was a tactical lie meant to create legal and political distance from the assassination. If he provided a date that perfectly aligned with the previous Saint's death, it was a deeply ingrained theological narrative programmed into him to legitimize his divine succession.
Arthur maintained his flawless, brotherly smile, allowing the amber warmth in his eyes to reflect the sunlight. But beneath the pristine surface, his operational parameters underwent a violent shift. If Cyril was indeed an elite operative reciting a script, Arthur had no reason to exhaust his own mental load by closing the gap or suffocating the boy with manufactured intimacy.
He would draw a strict, measured perimeter.
The Academy itself was already the most effective cage imaginable. Submerged in the suffocating, unrelenting spotlight of the Honor Class, surrounded by hundreds of vigilant peers, watchful instructors, and the immense, inescapable security of the floating island, Cyril would be thoroughly immobilized by the social fabric. Broad daylight, public expectation, and the collective worship of his classmates would act as an invisible straitjacket, preventing the boy from ever stepping out of line or deploying holy violence without immediately exposing his true hand. Society would hold the perimeter for him.
And from behind that impenetrable wall of public scrutiny, Arthur would safely orchestrate the entire board—controlling the flow of information, dictating every interaction from the shadows, and maneuvering the Church's living weapon exactly where he wanted him.
Cyril finished the last bite of the confection, rolling the crumpled wax paper between his fingers. He looked up, his soft crimson eyes blinking in unhurried, unclouded sincerity.
"Awaken mana?" Cyril repeated, tilting his head slightly until a few locks of white hair fell across his temple. He scrunched his nose in quiet thought. "What's that?"
The midday breeze drifted over the stone walkway of Sector Six, rustling the leaves of the nearby planters in absolute, undisturbed silence.
Arthur did not move.
The smile remained anchored to his face, perfectly curved and glowing with saintly warmth, but beneath the surface, the entire conceptual scaffold inside his mind violently unraveled.
Every branch of his diagnostic tree snapped. The twelve-month replacement hypothesis, the two-year collision theory, the calculated alibis, the manufactured political scripts—all of it dissolved into empty, meaningless static.
What's that?
For five solid seconds, Arthur's thoughts were completely vacant.
Then, the silence receded, and reason reasserted its iron grip.
Awakening is not an experience that's easy to forget.
It was not a subtle transition, but a violent, irreversible perceptual rupture. The moment raw mana dilated an unconditioned vessel, the entire way a person sensed the world changed so fundamentally that, just as the name suggested, the life lived beforehand felt like a dream—dull, flat, and false.
So he either broke the recorded laws of magic by awakening at such a young age that it happened before memories could even form—which, from what I've seen today, is not so unbelievable—or he doesn't want me to pry further.
Arthur's amber gaze remained settled on the boy, reading the soft curve of Cyril's brows and the unburdened ease in his posture.
That's fine. A cool, resolute clarity fell over Arthur's mind. Like I said, the way I act will not change regardless of his response.
Whether Cyril was an anomaly defying biological precedent or an exceptional actor deflecting scrutiny, the directive was identical. The mask would not slip.
Arthur let out a soft chuckle, casually dismissing the weight of the question with a gentle shake of his head. He gestured forward with an open palm, inviting Cyril to match his easy, leisurely pace down the cobblestone path.
"Don't worry about it too much," Arthur said, his voice bright and disarmingly warm. "The instructors here will teach you about those soon. Not to brag, but I'm Rank One in my year; if there's anything you don't understand about Magic Theory, just ask me."
Their pace slowed as they entered the cold, looming shadow cast down by the quarter-hectometer-high stone walls separating the sectors. The massive masonry rose twenty-five meters into the sky, dwarfing the paved walkway and swallowing the warm midday sun in an instant.
"This is the checkpoint between Sector Six and Sector One," Arthur said, his voice carrying an effortless instructional clarity as he gestured toward the fortified iron gate ahead. "There are four checkpoints around each of the student sectors, sectors one through five. If for whatever reason you need to leave the sector, you probably shouldn't use this one, since checkpoints connecting to Sector Six are especially strict."
Arthur paused, turning slightly to Cyril with an open, virtuous expression.
"Even with me, who passes through several times a day, the guards are still strict," Arthur continued, letting an earnest, altruistic brightness fill his tone. "But anything is worth it as long as it keeps the students safe!"
For a fraction of a second, the warm amber light in Arthur's eyes wavered—an almost imperceptible tremor reacting to the foul, bitter hypocrisy of his own words.
Suddenly, a warm, soft touch enclosed Arthur's left fingers.
Cyril had reached out, gently wrapping his smaller hand around Arthur's. The boy looked up directly into Arthur's eyes, his crimson gaze filled with a quiet, unprompted tenderness—as if instinctively perceiving a wound and attempting to comfort him.
Every combat instinct in Arthur's body flared with lethal, explosive violence.
If your hand had approached at any greater velocity, I would have cut you where you stood.
Not a single ripple of that murderous reflex broke the surface of his skin. His breathing remained rhythmic, his pulse locked, his face radiating nothing but mild, brotherly surprise.
Arthur gently eased his fingers back, letting his hand slide harmlessly out of Cyril's grasp before turning his palms upward.
"How did you know my hand was getting cold?" Arthur asked, a light, teasing chuckle softening his words. "I appreciate the gesture, but, coincidentally, this checkpoint actually requires you to enter with your hands open."
He offered Cyril an encouraging nod, keeping his own empty palms raised in clear view of the gate wardens as the heavy iron portcullis engaged. Together, they stepped across the threshold.