“By the way,” Olivia announced with a sudden, somber gravity. “I want to tell you something in regard to your brother, but you have to promise me that you won’t do anything.” She fixed Michael with a firm stare, the quiet in her gaze a stark contrast to her usual flippant exuberance. The hush in her voice caught his attention immediately, making him straighten from where he leaned against one of the battered desks. Behind her, Orland shifted slightly, as though already sensing the oncoming tension.

  Hearing that it concerned Robert, Michael’s thoughts raced. A flood of memories rushed in—his older brother’s kind smile, patient voice, and an insatiable curiosity that led him toward the knights’ academy rather than the rigid ranks of the Mercy guild. Their father had once called Robert “soft,” yet begrudgingly acknowledged his prodigious magecraft. To Michael, Robert was anything but weak; his quiet strength and endless fascination with science and technology felt like a breath of fresh air in a family so often consumed by power struggles and pointless politics.

  “What do you mean?” Michael asked, an uneasy knot already forming in his stomach. “What’s going on?” A faint quiver of alarm threaded through his words, though he tried to keep his composure.

  “Just go along with her,” Orland sighed. He tucked his phone into his pocket, folding his arms across his chest in a gesture that spoke of concern more than defiance.

  “Fine,” Michael clicked his tongue, forcing himself to relax—at least outwardly. However, the fine lines on his forehead betrayed his mounting unease.

  “Well, good enough for me,” Olivia said, shrugging her shoulders. The usual sparkle in her eyes dulled, replaced by an earnestness Michael rarely saw. “So, I’ve been keeping an eye on your brother, you know, just to make sure he’s okay. And well, I saw some kids beating him up behind the school the other day.”

  At that revelation, an almost tangible shift gripped the air. Abruptly, a dense magic—dark, crushing, and unrestrained—saturated the room. The temperature seemed to spike; both Olivia and Orland felt the air tighten, pressing on their chests and shoulders like a vice. The windows rattled in their frames, while the old sofa groaned under the intensifying pressure. Even the dusty curtains overhead seemed to bow inward, as though succumbing to an invisible force.

  “Woah, woah, woah. Calm down, Michael!” Olivia exclaimed, her voice catching slightly, betraying the flicker of fear that crossed her features.

  She raised her palms, attempting to placate him, but the sudden outburst of pressure suffused the space, thick and suffocating. She glanced quickly at Orland, who responded with a sharp, almost imperceptible nod, readying himself to intervene if needed.

  “Who did it?” Michael demanded, his words resonating with a low, almost feral undertone.

  His eyes flared, pupils contracting and then flooding with an unnatural red hue. A swirl of intangible power played across his form—residual arcs of energy crackling around his fingers like static discharge. That small pulse alone made the overhead light flicker violently, causing the ancient blackboard to clatter as it lightly vibrated against the wall.

  “Hey, you promised not to do anything,” Olivia countered, her voice rising in alarm. She could feel the edge of Michael’s magic pricking at her senses, like barbed wire strung too close.

  “I lied,” Michael snarled. His voice didn’t even bother hiding the trembling rage that mounted in his chest. A terrifying silence followed that admission, broken only by the soft rattling of a desk leg scraping against the floor.

  An internal storm roiled within him. The thought of someone laying hands on Robert—gentle, inquisitive Robert—twisted his heart into something fierce and cold. Michael’s mind seethed with possibilities: maybe the bullies were powerful themselves, exploiting Robert’s reluctance to harm others, or perhaps a cluster of manipulative students had orchestrated a scenario where he couldn’t fight back without repercussion. Either way, the burn of vengeance was already setting his blood on fire.

  The oppressive aura redoubled, pressing so heavily on Olivia’s chest that she almost wheezed for breath. Even Orland’s unwavering calm began to show cracks; he tensed, subtle muscle shifts visible in his jaw and brow as he prepared to subdue Michael if it came to that.

  Suddenly, a door burst open. A man in a white lab coat rushed in with brisk urgency. He was of average height and build, sporting large round glasses perched on a nose slightly reddened by the cold outside. His dark hair, thinning at the crown, appeared unkempt, as though he had been too absorbed in his work to bother with a trim. Clutched in one of his hands was a beeping handheld device, its high-pitched alarm bouncing off the chipped walls of the Chill Room.

  “I sensed traces of intense magical energy! Is everyone okay?!” he exclaimed, scanning the small gathering with wide eyes. The professor’s breath arrived in small puffs—he must have sprinted here—and his glasses fogged briefly from the abrupt temperature change. As if in direct response to his intrusion, the suffocating aura Michael had been exuding moments before dissipated like a storm dispersing under a sudden burst of sunlight.

  Suddenly, the device in the professor’s hand stopped beeping altogether. He looked down at it, frowning with puzzlement. Tiny lights and readouts blinked, indicating that whatever spike in mana the machine had been monitoring had vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

  “It’s gone,” he mumbled, tapping the side of the device with a light rap of his knuckles, as if doubting its reliability.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “Oh, it’s just you.” Orland sighed, recognizing the man. A subtle wave of relaxation passed through Orland’s posture.

  “Professor!” Olivia leaped up from her spot, all traces of her earlier intensity replaced by a gleeful grin. She approached the newcomer with fluttering steps. “Do you want some tea?”

  “Sure, Olivia, my dear,” the man replied, a hint of pink rising to his cheeks as he tried to collect himself. “You’re always so welcoming.” He cast a quick glance around the disheveled classroom, lowering his guard now that he realized there wasn’t an active threat.

  “Who is this guy?” Michael wondered aloud, his earlier anger replaced by healthy curiosity. He tucked his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight to one leg.

  “Oh, how rude of me,” the professor said, his expression brightening with a polite smile. He moved toward Michael, extending his hand. “My name is Professor Jeremiah Staton, a part-time teacher here at the Royal Academy and the full-time head of research and development in Compound 15. And who might you be?”

  “Michael Mercer,” Michael replied, returning the handshake.

  “Mercer, huh? Sure sounds familiar. Have we met somewhere before?” The professor asked, squinting at Michael as if trying to place a memory.

  “No, no. I’m sure we haven’t,” Michael smirked. Though he masked it well, a flicker of tension rose in his stomach at the notion of being recognized. He felt a gentle nudge in his mind recalling all the times he’d navigated precarious obligations between the knights and his own family. He caught sight of Olivia standing behind the professor, a finger to her lips in a conspiratorial gesture. The silent message was clear: keep your real identity—or at least your exact background—on the down-low.

  “Strange, I could have sworn…” the professor began, but then trailed off. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “I actually came here because this device of mine picked up an irregular flow of mana coming from this room. I half-expected it to be some sort of mana crystal going haywire or something like that. I never expected you kids to be here.”

  He lifted his contraption, a compact, box-like object adorned with blinking lights and a short antenna protruding from the top. A small display listed arcane readings in real-time, now reading zero or near enough to it.

  “A device that can detect mana.” Michael murmured, his brow furrowing as he observed the invention. “Does such a thing really exist?” He leaned closer, noticing a scuffed screen that periodically updated with small waveforms. The possibility of being monitored by such technology made him uneasy; images of the knights, father, and potential misuse of this tool flashed across his mind.

  “Why of course it does,” Professor Staton said, puffing his chest slightly with pride. “This thing can detect almost any raw mana as long as it has a constant signature. It’s actually quite similar to how demons sense each other—after all, it’s made based on their input. I call it Ordinus!”

  “Oh, and where did you get such a thing?” Michael wondered, his voice distant. He could almost hear the gears in his mind spinning, imagining how a wide distribution of these devices could track contractors, or even quell uprisings before they began. The ramifications were enormous, not just for him and his siblings but for the fragile balance that kept various factions in check.

  “I made it myself,” the professor announced proudly, puffing his chest a little more.

  “Professor’s pretty smart, huh?” Olivia chimed in, grinning at Michael over the professor’s shoulder.

  Her earlier flamboyance returned in a blink—her light-grey eyes glinted with that unrestrained admiration she often wore when discussing someone’s talents.

  “By the way, are you a student here?” The professor asked, turning back to Michael with renewed curiosity.

  “Not quite,” Michael replied, recovering a composed tone.

  “So, you’re planning to join?” the professor pressed, eyes shining behind thick lenses. The question rolled out more like a hope than an inquiry.

  “Well, I’m not sure yet.” Michael flashed a mild, noncommittal smile. His mind churned, torn between the allure of a structured setting that might help him harness his unorthodox abilities more effectively and the constraints of family obligations. He looked at Orland and Olivia, recalling how they thrived in this environment.

  Immediately, Olivia leaped up, clinging to Michael and grabbing his hands. “Oh please, please, please Michael! You’ve got to join. Imagine just how much fun we’d be able to have together!” She spoke in a rush, her enthusiasm bright as a sunbeam breaking through dark clouds. Her voice wavered with playful desperation, as though picturing all the escapades they could orchestrate if he were around more often.

  “That would be pretty fun,” Orland added, a rare smile curving his lips. The stoic facade he usually wore softened for a moment, revealing genuine warmth.

  Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a loud alarm went off, blaring all across the academy halls. The shrill sound reverberated down long corridors, bouncing off the high, vaulted ceilings and the stone columns that supported them. Every flickering overhead light seemed to sharpen in the intense, pulsing red glow emanating from the emergency bulbs set into the walls.

  “What’s that?” Michael asked, his heart thudding in his chest as he instinctively straightened.

  There was a moment’s pause in the Chill Room; the novelty of the red-alert lighting made the worn chairs and scratched desks appear unnaturally stark, like a sepia photograph tinted with warning.

  “Not good,” Orland growled, instantly on guard. A subtle tension rippled across his shoulders, and his posture shifted from casual ease to readiness, his fingers flexing unconsciously.

  To the side, Olivia’s usual playful demeanor dropped. Her eyes went razor-sharp, scanning the room as though assessing the quickest route out.

  “The academy is being invaded,” Olivia stated, voice calm but carrying a distinct edge of urgency.

  Any further banter or conversation ground to a halt. Even Professor Staton, momentarily stuck fiddling with his mana detector, spun around, his round spectacles reflecting the angry red glow.

  Without warning, Michael’s phone started buzzing inside his pocket. The generic ringtone—an afterthought in most situations—suddenly felt deafening in the hush of panic that fell over them. He dug it out with swift, slightly shaky hands, pressing it to his ear.

  “I’m listening,” he answered, voice edged with apprehension.

  “Nia—she’s been kidnapped.” Alex’s voice crackled over the line, laced with desperation and fear. Even the faint static couldn’t hide how ragged his breathing sounded, nor the frantic beat of adrenaline that practically pulsed through the speaker.