After Augustus finished speaking, silence poured into the headmaster's office like a slow, heavy tide. The tall windows framed the glowing skyline of Eldoria—towering spires of crystalline stone, suspended channels of light, and the drifting silhouette of sky-bridges weaving across the dimension's twilight horizon.
Even the portraits of the former headmasters—etched in shimmering arcane ink—seemed to quiet themselves. Their painted faces, each imbued with a fragment of the consciousness they held in life, watched him with an attention that felt almost physical.
They were imagining the world he had described.
A world Eldoria *could* have become.
A world where magic wasn't stagnant tradition, but organized progress. Where arcanists could extend their lives, shape new laws of reality, conquer illnesses, expand dimensional travel, and perhaps one day transcend mortality itself.
"Impressive," said **Phineas Blackwell**, a former headmaster whose portrait hung closest to Augustus. His voice carried the weight of an old aristocrat. "Only someone of noble lineage could conceive a future so refined and glorious."
Across the room, **Headmistress Derwentshire**, depicted in an elegant violet robe, shot him a withering glare. Phineas ignored her, of course. He always did.
Augustus only smiled faintly.
"Nobility?" he echoed. "In the world I imagined, lineage would mean nothing. Nobility would be earned—through achievement, contribution, and mastery. Families with exceptional mages would rise, yes… but only if each generation proved itself."
"That is a… harsh redefinition," Phineas murmured, though a hint of pride remained. At least noble families would still *exist* in this hypothetical world.
Other portraits murmured with approval.
Only **Headmaster Alastair Cavendish**, seated across from Augustus in the real world, remained silent. His silver eyes watched Augustus like an appraiser studying a relic centuries older than it claimed to be.
Finally he spoke.
"Such a civilization couldn't rise peacefully," Cavendish said. "The restructuring you propose—war, loss, upheaval—would be inevitable. And even then, great power corrupts even greater minds. The temptation to misuse what you describe would be overwhelming."
He leaned forward, fingers interlaced.
"And what of the mundanes? They exist beyond our dimension, but their influence bleeds through the barriers. How do they fit into your grand design?"
Augustus set down his teacup gently, the porcelain clicking softly against the wooden desk.
"The mundanes," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "They are the reason I abandoned everything."
Every portrait froze.
"Abandoned?" Phineas sputtered, momentarily forgetting his arrogance. "You—a prodigy of dimensional theory and strategic sorcery—simply *gave up* your aspirations?"
"I did," Augustus said quietly. "Completely."
The shock rippled across the room. Even the shimmering ink of the portraits flickered.
Cavendish, however, only watched him more closely. Augustus had used the past tense earlier—*had imagined*, *had planned*—and the headmaster had not missed it.
Augustus exhaled slowly, expression calm.
"Perhaps you will understand if I explain my reasoning. Do you mind hearing my complete view of Eldoria's future?"
Cavendish gestured for him to continue.
Augustus folded his hands.
"I believe a conflict with the mundanes is inevitable."
The room tensed.
"And it will not be initiated by us. The mundanes, for all their lack of magic, possess a relentless drive toward technological advancement. Their science progresses every year. Their understanding of physics, energy, and dimensional theory grows despite them not even realizing other realms exist."
He gestured toward the window, where Eldoria's night sky shimmered like a glass ocean.
"To mundanes, dimensions are just theories. Hypotheses on chalkboards. Stories in fiction. They speak rhetorically of parallel worlds, thinking themselves imaginative…"
His smile sharpened.
"Meanwhile, *we* live in one."
Several portraits shifted uncomfortably.
"They will discover us eventually," Augustus continued. "Not through magic, but through their machines, their data, their ceaseless curiosity. And when they do, fear will follow. Then conflict."
Phineas scoffed. "Even if that were true—what does it matter? Eldoria's magic is superior. A few spells and we could seize their governments, their armies—"
"No," Augustus interrupted, his voice still calm. "It wouldn't work. Not anymore."
Phineas bristled. "You underestimate sorcery."
"Do I? Or do you underestimate them?"
Augustus met his gaze, unblinking.
"They outnumber us billions to one. They innovate faster than we can catalogue. They have weapons capable of reshaping landscapes, machines that see farther than our divinations, and networks that spread information faster than any messenger spell."
He leaned back, eyes thoughtful.
"And our greatest 'innovation' in the last two centuries? A stabilization core that allows interdimensional travel without disintegration—useful, yes, but hardly a civilization-redefining achievement."
The portraits fell silent.
Phineas, visibly frustrated, tried again.
"Then you believe magic will fall? That Eldoria is doomed?"
Augustus shook his head.
"No. Quite the opposite."
Even Cavendish's expression flickered with surprise.
"After losing such a war," Augustus said softly, "wizards would be forced to evolve. Forced to innovate. Forced to adapt. Tradition would finally break. Eldoria would rise from the ashes—stronger, wiser, unified."
He lifted his teacup again.
"It is because I foresaw this… inevitability… that I renounced my own ambitions of reshaping Eldoria myself. The future cannot be molded by one man. It must be forged by necessity, not desire."
A soft rustling came from the desk. Nyx—the headmaster's black cat who had been napping unnoticed—yawned silently, stretched, and leapt down, padding out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him.
Cavendish watched the cat leave, then returned his gaze to Augustus.
"You abandoned your ambitions," he said slowly, "and yet you stand here seeking a position of influence. To teach. To shape minds."
"To guide," Augustus corrected. "Not command. Not rule."
The headmaster nodded slowly.
"Then what is your true purpose here, Augustus Breakspeare?"
Augustus looked out at Eldoria's shimmering horizon, at a world suspended between dimensions, potential, and fragility.
"To ensure," he said softly, "that when the inevitable comes, Eldoria has at least a few who are ready."
The headmaster observed him for a long, weighted moment.
Then he spoke.
"Welcome to Eldoria Academy, Professor."
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