A suffocating, heavy silence choked the Grand Lecture Hall the instant my sentence echoed through the massive chamber. Principal Oswald stared down at me, utterly dumbfounded. Then, Professor Hammel shattered the quiet with a booming, theatrical bark of laughter that rattled the wooden benches of the disciplinary committee.
"Wrong?" Hammel roared, wiping a mock tear from his eye. "You, the absolute dregs of the Faulkner family, dare claim that our curriculum—forged by the kingdom's greatest minds over centuries—is wrong? It seems that black market elixir you swallowed finally liquidated the last few brain cells you had left!"
I didn't grant him the dignity of a glance.
I stood perfectly straight, my posture exuding the icy detachment of a researcher observing microscopic parasites beneath a lens. With deliberate, agonizing slowness, I unclasped my leather briefcase. I withdrew a piece of white chalk and turned to the colossal blackboard behind the podium.
I didn't draw the flamboyant, overly intricate magic circles that the amateurs in this world idolized. Instead, I began to slash the chalk across the slate, writing complex mathematical sequences. I mercilessly deconstructed the standard [Water Bullet] spell into strict matrices of fluid dynamics, pressure gradients, and kinetic vectors.
"The pathetic excuse for a spell you teach to the rabble here consumes 15 units of mana to produce a kinetic pressure barely touching 50 bar," my voice echoed, dripping with a cold, aristocratic arrogance. "Why? Because you pad your circles with decorative runes that serve no purpose other than stroking your artistic egos. You hemorrhage 40% of your energy output in entirely useless thermal radiation."
"Enough of this absolute nonsense!" a sharp voice cut through the air.
It was Elena, a top-ranking student from Class 9, seated in the front row. The proud daughter of a powerful Duke, she rose from her seat, glaring at me with undisguised revulsion. "Magic is the language of the Gods, Professor, not dry numbers scribbled on a board! How dare you desecrate the sacred art with this mechanical drivel?"
I shifted my gaze to her. She possessed sharp, striking features and a haughty demeanor. But to me, through the lens of [Analytical Vision], she was nothing more than an irritatingly inefficient variable in my equation.
"Elena Duval," I stated, my voice flat. "Highly proficient in water-attribute magic, yet crippled by an energy flow efficiency that barely scrapes 60%. Come down here. Show me your 'sacred art.'"
Elena flinched, visibly unnerved by my clinical knowledge of her exact data parameters. But her wounded pride drove her forward. She marched down to the central podium, her chin raised in defiance. "I'll show you what true magic looks like."
She took a stance, violently gathering her mana. A complex, glowing blue circle flared to life before her. It took her four agonizingly long seconds to compress the energy before a massive projectile of water blasted forward, violently smashing into the reinforced training dummy with a deafening crash.
Cheers of awe erupted from the student body. Elena turned to me, her chest heaving slightly, eyes burning with a triumphant challenge.
"Fascinating... if you're auditioning for a circus," I stated, my freezing tone instantly murdering the cheers in the room. "You burned 20 units of mana for a kinetic result that could easily be achieved with 4. You aren't a mage, Elena. You are merely a reckless squanderer of resources."
I raised the piece of chalk and slashed a tiny, hyper-condensed circle on the board. It was utterly devoid of decoration. Stripped down to its bare, razor-sharp geometric absolute.
I raised my right hand. No dramatic chanting. No theatrical gestures. I simply mapped the thermodynamic equation in my mind, funneling it through the First Circle I had stabilized in my chest.
B-B-B-BANG!
A microscopic, hyper-compressed bullet of water erupted from my fingertip. It broke the sound barrier instantly. The projectile didn't just pierce the training dummy—it obliterated its center of mass, continued its terrifying trajectory, and blew a fist-sized hole straight through the academy's reinforced stone wall, exiting into the courtyard beyond.
Dead silence fell over the hall.
Elena stumbled a step backward. Her face, which had been flushed with arrogant pride mere moments ago, drained of all color. Her eyes, previously gleaming with contempt, were now blown wide with raw, unfiltered terror and profound confusion.
I swept my gaze over the rest of the students. There was no respect in their eyes. There was only pure, primal fear of the unknown. They had just witnessed a fundamental law of their reality being casually shattered by the man they called "Trash."
"Mana consumed: 3 units. Cast time: Negligible. Result: Total penetration of the garbage you call a curriculum." I meticulously dusted the chalk from my black leather gloves, slowly looking up at the disciplinary committee with an expression of absolute, towering superiority.
"Now then," I murmured, my voice slicing through the silent hall like a scalpel. "Do you still wish to discuss my expulsion? Or are you simply terrified that I might publicly dissect your utter incompetence in front of these children?"
Professor Hammel was vibrating with speechless rage, his face an ugly shade of purple. And Principal Oswald... the man couldn't even manage to close his gaping mouth.