It was a headache that refused to fade, one that crawled behind his eyes and sank into his skull. The vault was gone—vanished like smoke—and unless they recovered the same amount soon, the head would see every one of them executed. The precedent was clear enough: the executive originally tasked with guarding it had already been erased, body and name alike—no, more likely his existence itself was eradicated by the head.

  Now the burden fell to Flowel.

  The basement, once home to the missing vaults, had become his cage. The stone walls were smeared with chalk and ink—messy scrawls that looked desperate. Tables sagged under piles of parchment, and loose sheets littered the floor where he had tossed them in anger. He had even stabbed a few into the wall with his dagger, the paper quivering whenever a draft slipped through the cracks.

  Pit had been brought in to help, but his so-called talents were proving worthless. “You’re supposed to find ghosts in smoke,” Flowel muttered once, shoving aside another stack of empty reports. “Yet you can’t find a single trail.”

  The failure gnawed at him. Every lead unraveled to nothing. Every witness interrogated offered only blank stares and trembling denials. They had combed through the city, cracked knuckles against jaws, split blood on cellar floors. Nothing. Not even the scent of the thieves. Whoever had stolen the vault had been cloaked in something beyond common skills. Similar to [Camouflage]—whatever it was, it mocked him with its perfection.

  Flowel pressed his palms into his temples until his vision swam. He had been over the same board a dozen times, tracing lines between names, but the suspect refused to form. He wanted to smash the ink bottle, wanted to grind the quill to splinters between his teeth.

  Finally, with a long breath, he forced himself to sit at the desk. His eyes caught the sealed parchment lying there. Pit’s handwriting.

  “Another dead end?” he muttered bitterly, though his fingers were already tearing it open.

  The words inside froze him:

  Suri, first year student, copper class. Professors, Principal. Possible Mastermind.

  For a long heartbeat, silence pressed down on him. Then, slowly, Flowel’s lips pulled back into a grin. Thin, humorless, jagged.

  Finally!

  …….

  Principal Light let out a long, weary sigh. The stack of parchments on his desk seemed to multiply whenever he looked away, a mountain of ink and bureaucracy that no amount of sleepless nights could conquer. The past few weeks had been nothing short of torture. Recruiting new academy instructors had been difficult enough, but now he was forced to reach out to silver-rank adventurers as well—someone capable of defending the students and possibly a good mentor. On top of that came route preparations for the northern expedition, ensuring his students had at least a chance of coming back alive to tell their tale.

  He rubbed his eyes, fingers lingering there longer than he should have. He couldn’t even remember the last time he left this office. The air had grown stale, heavy with ink and wax. His gaze drifted to the window, searching for distraction.

  The barrier flickered faintly in his perception—a ripple of detection. Skills. Again. He frowned. Some students must be testing it, hurling spells to measure its strength. It wasn’t uncommon. The academy’s complex of barriers was old, but intricate—layer upon layer designed to keep threats out while letting students pass through freely. Flawed, yes, but resilient.

  Then he blinked.

  A small bird flitted into view—not flesh and feather, but a construct of pure mana. Must be a harmless skill if it's able to go through the barrier. Its body shifted colors like light rippling through oil, both mesmerizing and strange. Clutched in its talons was a scroll glowing faintly with embedded mana.

  It landed soundlessly on the sill.

  Light moved quickly, his heart kicking once in his chest. The moment he touched the scroll, a chill wind pressed through the room as though the wards themselves had opened to breathe. The bird shattered into sparks, leaving only the parchment.

  He unrolled it.

  His eyes scanned the lines once, then again, the words refusing to blur even with his fatigue. The grim weight that settled on his face was immediate and deep.

  This wasn’t mischief. This wasn’t a test.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Someone had gone out of their way to send this message, and if it was true—then everyone outside the walls, every student in the field, might already be walking into death.

  Light stood, chair scraping against stone. His hand clenched the scroll tight.

  There was no time to deliberate. It didn’t matter whether the message was true or not.

  I must tell the king.

  …..

  Kana noticed it the moment the air shifted—mana fluctuating, threads unraveling then tightening again. Beside her, Suri’s eyes glimmered faintly as she whispered her verdict.

  “It’s a barrier skill. One that negates any physical attack.”

  The shimmer confirmed it: a translucent ripple in the cracked wall where their enemies hid. Then it vanished, leaving only emptiness.

  Kana’s fingers loosened from her bowstring. So that’s how it is… She trusted Suri’s judgment without question. Any more arrows would be wasted. The first shot had worked because of surprise—but now? Their enemies had caught on. Outside the barrier, they’d feel invincible. Confident they could swat aside anything she fired. Best to conserve strength. Especially for him—the shadow man.

  Her eyes scanned the field. The enemy [Mage]’s hands pulsed with gathering mana, circles spinning slowly, dangerously. Too much casting time meant only one thing: the spell would be devastating.

  “Roy,” Kana said, low but steady, “Can you try to use it on that guy?”

  Roy frowned, clutching his staff tighter. “Not sure if it’ll work at this distance… but I’ll try.”

  [Raise Undead]

  Kana felt it before she saw it. The mana Roy used was… wrong. Not the smooth, orderly current she was used to, but jagged, scraping, like nails down stone. The corpse of the archer stirred—the arrow hole in his head now a gaping void. Flesh shriveled, devoured by unseen hands, until only a skeleton stood. It lurched forward, skull cracked yet alive with Roy’s will.

  The enemy [Mage], still absorbed in their chant, didn’t notice a skeleton creeping up from behind.

  Meanwhile, seven melee fighters broke through. [Swordsman], mostly. Their stance made it obvious: trained, disciplined, aggressive and equipped with two handed swords. Two among them carried daggers—likely [Scouts] or [Rogues], similar to her class. But it wasn’t the numbers that caught Kana’s eye.

  It was him.

  A lanky man stepped into view. A dagger glinted in his hand, but his face was worse—a mask, or maybe paint, white as bone, smeared crudely across his skin. Red curls framed it, wild and untamed, and his lips—or painted lips—stretched into a grotesque smile that extended beyond the mouth itself.

  Kana’s stomach tightened. He looked ridiculous, absurd even… yet something about him pulled at her memory. Something that made her skin prickle. Why do I feel like I know him? I’ve seen this before.. But this is the first time I see this man’s weird painted mask.

  The [Swordsman] charged. Blades flashed, colliding with Leo and Adam’s shields in a shower of sparks. The two held, disciplined as always. Leo retaliated instantly with [Counter], enhanced by Yuri’s [Enhance Speed]. His strike was sharp, lethal—yet it cut nothing but air. The [Swordsman] danced back, anticipating it as if knowing the skill in advance.

  Then the battlefield tilted. The skeleton reached the enemy [Mage], clawing at him, disrupting the chant. At once, Suri swept her hand through the air. A black wall of illusion erupted, thick and oppressive, blotting the [Mage] from sight and severing the enemy’s line of command.

  “That guy looks so mean,” Rin muttered, pointing toward one of the dagger-wielders.

  Kana followed her gaze. Rin’s skill ignited a heartbeat later.

  [Guilty Torture]

  The man’s knees buckled. He clutched his head as if it were splitting open, a scream tearing through the clash of steel. Kana almost smiled, if she could do that to another enemy then—until she saw Rin’s face. Pale. Beaded with sweat.

  “One’s my limit…” she gasped.

  Kana’s attention snapped back to the frontline. Andel surged to cover Leo, his long lance weapon throwing flurry and flashy strikes. Boris, meanwhile, stood like an unmovable wall, two [Swordsman] hammering at him. He held them both back, each strike of his weapon a thunderclap. He was winning—until the painted man moved.

  Kana’s eyes widened.

  The jester-like figure slid into Boris’s blind spot, dagger flashing in a blur of feints and misdirection. Boris staggered, blood streaking his forearm. The unshakable Boris faltered. Adam tried to push forward to help, but another [Swordsman] cut him off, forcing him back.

  The trap was clear.

  They’re isolating Boris. If he falls, the line collapses. Then they’ll come for the next line which was clearly not designed to engage in close combat.

  Kana drew a long breath, steadying the quickening heartbeat in her chest.

  “I need to help Boris.”