Predestined Encounter (5)
I remained lost in thought long after their voices had faded completely down the hall.
So Charlotte was the patron behind my scholarship all along.
Due to the nature of Lebrant Academy's scholarship system, the underlying reasons for receiving financial aid were rarely disclosed. Sometimes a student simply caught a wealthy patron's eye from a list; other times, a sponsor marked a promising pupil early on, planning to scout them the moment graduation arrived. Because of that, whenever a scholarship was mentioned, I had simply accepted it at face value. With no sponsor ever reaching out to contact me, I had assumed it was granted purely on the merit of my academic grades.
Yet now that I knew the true identity of my patron, an agonizing headache bloomed behind my temples.
...I need to verify this properly first. It could still be a mistake.
"I'm Junon from third-year Class A," I said, stepping up to the administrative counter. "I'd like to check how much tuition I owe for this semester."
"I can check that for you right here. Just one moment, please."
Though I had addressed the clerk directly in front of me, a staff member in the neighboring booth took over the inquiry instead. I clung to a faint glimmer of optimism, hoping that the conversation I had overheard had just been idle chatter, that the reality might not be so complicated.
Unfortunately, my hopeful wishful thinking was thoroughly shattered.
Still... you never know until you see it in black and white.
"You can check your assessed balance right here on this line."
"..."
As if to drive the final nail into my lingering hopes, the clerk gave a pleasant nod. "Mm, your assessed balance for this semester has been completely covered by your scholarship, so student Junon has an outstanding balance of zero."
There was no need to look any further. It hadn't been a misunderstanding, nor had I misheard. It was now an undeniable fact: Charlotte was paying my tuition.
The signs had been there ever since she settled my hospital bills. Even though I had explicitly warned her never to do such a thing again, Charlotte hadn't stopped in the slightest.
"...Thank you for checking."
I offered a brief polite bow to the clerk and turned away.
Dong— Dong—
The bells chimed from the central tower. While the sound announcing the hour rang clear and resonated across the grounds, the thoughts tangled in my mind resembled an hopelessly knotted spool of thread.
Skyrocketing prices this semester. The suffering of the impoverished students. Those desperate kids being funneled toward the Octagon. The resulting shortage of vanguards. The unnatural demonic beasts poised to appear during this period. And... Team Tembris.
I turned each keyword over in my mind, agonizing over my next move. The simplest, most straightforward route was obvious: inform Charlotte about the underground fights in the Octagon. But I couldn't bring myself to do it.
To deliberately reject the easiest answer to a complex puzzle was painful, yet I knew all too well that taking that shortcut would leave me with no way out. If this became the catalyst that tied me back to Tembris...
"No. Things are different now. Phew... Why am I even letting my thoughts wander there?"
I shook my head vigorously, casting away the tempting alternative. Nothing catastrophic had occurred yet; there was no reason to jump ahead of myself. I still had plenty of time, and relying on Charlotte wasn't the only conceivable solution to this problem.
Armed with my knowledge of the future, I could dismantle the Octagon myself—whether by tearing it down, exposing it, or smashing it into dust. If I could keep the vanguard students whole and ready for deployment, the crisis on the front lines would resolve itself. In truth, that was why I had been helping those kids in the first place.
As for Charlotte's patronage, there was no reason to panic over it either. While the underlying motive behind her financial support nagged at me, the remedy was straightforward. Sponsors occasionally financed candidates they intended to scout, but that didn't mean a recipient was powerless to refuse the offer.
"If she's aiming to recruit me, all I have to do is pay her back every copper, plus interest."
Charlotte was a merchant through and through, the shrewd mind governing the Eshrelt Merchant Guild. If I returned every cent she had invested, I wouldn't owe her a single favor. Even if she approached me later claiming her right to scout me, refunding every ounce of her aid would leave her with no leverage to press the matter.
Which meant I had time on that front as well. Until the day I graduated, I simply needed to quietly amass a reserve of funds. In the meantime, what I needed most right now was growth.
"Wait, how long was I standing there?"
Lateness was never a good sign, especially under the current regime.
"I need to sprint if I don't want an earful..."
The easiest path often carried the greatest hidden risks. Steeling my resolve, I cleanly erased the notion of leaking information to Charlotte from my mind.
With the noble factions' overbearing influence reined in across the Academy, the dormant demerit system had been revived with full force. There was no need to scrutinize the fine print; the regulations closely aligned with the Academy's founding ideal of equal opportunity, effectively curbing aristocratic arrogance. Thanks to the looming threat of demerits, noble scions no longer dared to throw their weight around in public halls, allowing the faculty to concentrate purely on their lectures.
"The demerit regulations are hardly lenient these days. Yet seeing someone show up late to a mandatory lecture that only meets once all term suggests the lesson hasn't quite sunk in."
"...My apologies, Professor."
Although the revised school codes had raised a few eyebrows, not a single student had dared boycott the session. Even so... there was still the occasional latecomer.
"Just to be certain, let me ask. Junon, do you have an explanation for your tardiness?"
"I have no excuses, sir. It was entirely my fault."
"An honest admission is acceptable. Remember that three accumulated late arrivals in a single semester result in one formal demerit point. Take your seat."
Once he dismissed me to an empty desk, Professor Muniher unfurled a large illustrated chart across the chalkboard. The diagram depicted the standard positions of the Kenique 6 Formation, a layout every student knew by heart.
"It appears all students of Section 1 have gathered. Before we begin, I suspect many of you are wondering why you are required to attend this lecture at all."
Every student in the amphitheater nodded in unison. If the professor hadn't raised the topic himself, someone inevitably would have voiced the question. This single session on Mana Typology was a mandatory course reserved strictly for those who had successfully manifested a Magic Armament.
Professor Muniher singled out a student in the front row. "You there. What shape did your Magic Armament take?"
"A short baton, sir."
"And what was your originally assigned position?"
"Support... position, sir."
"Mmh. A matching case."
A ripple of subtle confusion swept through the room. Why bother asking something so obvious? In the eyes of the faculty, a student's innate aptitude could be verified with a single glance at their administrative dossier. To interrogate them over positions assigned during their freshman entrance exams without even referencing their records seemed pointless, especially when he had gone out of his way to pin up an illustration of the Kenique 6 Formation.
Then Professor Muniher struck straight at their complacency.
"Following your entrance evaluations, you all simply accepted whatever role was handed to you. But have any of you ever stopped to question why you were assigned to those specific positions?"
"Uh..."
A collective murmur rippled through the hall, rapidly swallowed by a heavy hush. None of them had ever entertained such a question. In their minds, only a single word echoed: Why?
Up until this moment, not a single student had cared to question the underlying criteria. Having exposed the blind spot in their assumptions, Professor Muniher commanded the undivided attention of the entire lecture hall.
"That is precisely why I displayed the Kenique 6 Formation. Though there are six designated roles, if you remove the distinction of effective engagement range, there are in truth only five. Today's one-time Mana Typology lecture exists solely to elucidate that principle."
Nods of understanding rippled through the rows. This lecture was an essential extension of Magic Armament Manifestation Theory, designed to guide the optimal development of those who had awakened their armaments during the recent aptitude trials.
"What you must do is simple. Step forward and channel your mana into these five distinct orbs resting upon the dais. When an orb resonates with your power, take your place beside it. The position corresponding to the reacting orb will reveal your true combat assignment."
What truth was he preparing to impart? What revelation awaited them? Intrigued by the enigmatic methods Professor Muniher always employed, the students rose from their benches and filed toward the front.
One by one, they stepped before the glowing mana orbs, channeling their energy to reaffirm their roles. For the vast majority, their awakened armaments aligned perfectly with the positions dictated by their initial entrance evaluations. Yet it quickly became apparent that this harmony was far from universal.
"Um... Professor. My orb doesn't match my assigned position at all."
"Mine doesn't either, sir."
"I've also been assigned a completely different role."
It wasn't an isolated anomaly. Nearly thirty percent of the class found themselves assigned to positions entirely distinct from their original tracks, and disbelief colored their voices.
Professor Muniher singled out one of the vocal dissenters. "Why do you believe it is incorrect?"
"Because I trained in force-field magic and have served as a midguard ever since enrollment, sir! To suddenly tell me I belong in a support role is..."
"Yes, I imagine it is difficult to accept. Yet your true position is unequivocally Support."
"...Excuse me?"
To settle the dispute, Professor Muniher activated the standard measuring apparatus originally utilized during the entrance examinations. With a flick of his chin, he instructed the student to submit to a re-evaluation. Bewildered, the youth stepped onto the brass plate.
"Whoa, look at that..."
"It really changed...?"
The readout flared with pale light, confirming beyond a shadow of a doubt that his baseline profile matched that of a dedicated supporter. Before the youth could sputter in disbelief, Professor Muniher offered a calm explanation.
"Did you never find it odd? While your fellow midguards manifested wands and staves, your Magic Armament coalesced into a short baton—a tool far more suited to a support specialist."
"Then... all this time, we were..."
"Indeed. You were misled by a critical flaw inherent to standard measuring devices. Until a mage's mana circuits have circulated past a specific maturation threshold, preliminary instruments are incapable of producing precise readings. Do you finally grasp the purpose of this assembly?"
Numbers one through five.
Dubhe, Merak, Phecda, Megrez, and Alioth.
Those five core mana archetypes corresponded directly to the internal tactical designations of the Kenique 6 Formation. This was the true foundation separating combat roles—named after the celestial stars that symbolized the Artena Empire.
Upon manifesting a Magic Armament, a mage's mana profile settled into its permanent classification, allowing them to finally inhabit the position intended for their armament. This odd, single-session lecture had been arranged for the sole purpose of realigning these awakened students with their true potential.
Yet amidst the revelations, one student remained frozen in front of the dais.
"Professor. None of the orbs are reacting to me."
I had infused my mana into all five spheres, but not a single one flickered with resonance. It was an impossible contradiction. I had clearly awakened a Magic Armament, yet apparently possessed no corresponding mana archetype.
"Ah, there is no need to look so troubled." Professor Muniher offered an uncharacteristically nonchalant wave of his hand. The trouble, however, lay in what followed.
"Junon, you belong to the sole exception outside those five categories. You are a Mizar Type."
It was stated with such casual ease that it seemed almost criminal given the weight of the words.
While the rest of the student body might have been ignorant of the other five celestial classifications prior to today's lecture, nearly everyone recognized the term 'Mizar Type.' They were beings spoken of as existing on a completely different scale from ordinary mortals. That terrifying, transcendent distinction was the defining hallmark of the archetype.
The reaction was instantaneous.
"Did you hear that...? He said Mizar Type."
"Junon's a Mizar Type...? Wow..."
"Honestly, looking at what he's pulled off so far, doesn't it kind of make sense?"
Every pair of eyes in the hall snapped toward me in stunned admiration.
"..."
In the timeline before my regression, I had never manifested an armament, leaving me entirely ignorant of such arcane theories. But the name 'Mizar' was etched indelibly into my memories.
After all, the person who had once borne that title was none other than Goden—the stalwart leader of Party Tembris.
"No one enters this world possessing Mizar-type mana from birth," Professor Muniher remarked, a rare, genuine smile gracing his austere features. "It is a nature forged solely through relentless, bloody-minded perseverance. Your unceasing toil is finally stepping into the light."
A second later, applause erupted across the lecture hall.
Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap!
The thunderous ovation echoed off the vaulted ceiling, ringing loud enough to sting the ears. Yet despite class still being in session, Professor Muniher made no move to quell the noise. He shared their sentiment entirely.
No one understood the sheer weight of what Junon had demonstrated better than the very students who had repeatedly tasted failure, despair, and the bitter urge to surrender. The unbroken cascade of cheers proved it beyond debate. This applause was a hymn dedicated to a man who had worked harder than anyone else alive—a long-overdue tribute to someone who had clawed his way up from the absolute bottom through sheer, unrelenting grit.
Me... sharing the same mana archetype as Goden?
Hadn't the mere mention of Goden's name on a bloodsoaked battlefield been enough to rally broken armies? Hadn't his towering presence alone saved countless lives from the maw of slaughter? Could the power of that colossal, unyielding bastion... truly share the exact same nature as my own?
Overwhelmed by disbelief, I couldn't stop myself from pressing the professor once more. "Is it... truly certain, sir? Am I genuinely a Mizar Type?"
It was only natural to doubt. Chuckling softly at my stunned stupor, Professor Muniher reached into his robe and tossed a small object toward me.
"In your case, this will serve as far better proof than those crystal orbs."
I caught the rough stone reflexively. "Professor, what is this...?"
"A mineral known as Arispea. It is physically indestructible; it yields only when infused with pure mana. Yet even if every other student standing in this amphitheater were to pour their combined magic into it at once, it would not sustain a single scratch."
"Pardon?"
If that were true, wouldn't the same apply to me? Sensing my skepticism, Professor Muniher promptly continued.
"However, if you truly harbor the mana of a Mizar Type rather than those standard five classifications, you will be able to shatter it effortlessly."
The professor's challenge was simple and absolute. A stone that remained unyielding against the collective power of an entire cohort could be undone only by the unique resonance of a Mizar Type. Shattering it would serve as definitive, incontrovertible proof.
Gulp.
My throat tightened as I swallowed hard. My hands, slick with nervous tension, trembled more violently than at any moment since my regression.
The suffocating dread of what if it isn't true?
The desperate surge of could it really be?
Those clashing emotions tangled into a single, breathtaking hope: Could I truly...?
My gaze remained riveted to the jagged gray surface of the Arispea. Drawing in a slow, measured breath, I focused my core and pushed my mana directly into the mineral.
Snap. Clatter, roll...
With a clean fracture straight down its center, the two severed halves of the Arispea tumbled across the polished stone floor, offering me their silent, irrefutable answer.