"You… you damn bastard!!!"
Kkang! Jjaeng!
A bottle of black liquid—thick and viscous, sloshing like spilled ink—arced through the air in a violent trajectory. It exploded against the stone wall with a wet, shattering crash, dark streaks running down the ancient masonry like blood from a mortal wound.
The old man currently slamming his fists against the mahogany desk and hurling everything within reach might. To an uninformed observer, he'd seem like a man gone crazy. Someone whose temper burned hot and quick, who lived his life ruled by passion rather than reason.
Those familiar with him knew better.
This was the Dean of the Starcrest Academy, Doran Escaro —a man renowned throughout the Harun Empire for his cool-headedness, his measured responses, his unshakeable composure even in the face of political machinations that would have destroyed lesser administrators. A former Archmage who once stood before enemy battle lines without flinching, who negotiated with dragons and demons with nothing but words and sheer iron will.
Such a man have been reduced to this—throwing objects like a common tavern drunk, his face purple with rage—spoke volumes about the severity of the situation.
"Th-that's just… the bandits used cowardly tactics…" the middle-aged man stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. He kept his head bowed, unable to meet the Dean's eyes.
"They fought without honor, they—"
Jjjaak! Jjjak!
The sound of flesh striking flesh echoed through the office with brutal finality.
"You son of a bitch!! You call that an excuse?!" The Dean's voice cracked with the strain of his fury, spittle flying from his lips.
Before anyone could react, the elderly Dean—who normally moved with the careful deliberation of a man whose joints complained with every step—vaulted over his desk with a speed and athleticism that defied his apparent frailty. His hands found the instructor's collar, and he began shaking the larger man like a rag doll.
The middle-aged instructor's head snapped back and forth with each violent shake, his teeth clacking together painfully. His vision blurred. His sense of balance failed him entirely, and he toppled to the floor, landing hard on the polished wood.
"Die! I said die!" The Dean's voice had gone shrill, breaking into something that sounded almost like hysterical laughter. "My life is over now because of you, so let's die together!!"
"Kkeuk—keuhok!" The instructor could only choke out inarticulate sounds as the Dean descended upon him.
What happened next would have been comical if it weren't so visceral. The frail-looking Dean, still wearing his formal academy robes and pointed shoes, began systematically stomping on the fallen instructor. Each impact landed with meaty thuds that made the watching administrator wince. The Dean's face had gone beyond red into a dangerous shade of purple, veins standing out on his forehead and neck like cords.
The instructor, to his credit—or perhaps his shame—didn't even try to defend himself. He simply curled into a defensive position, taking the beating with nothing but pained groans escaping his lips. No excuses. No pleas for mercy. Just the acceptance of a man who knew, deep in his bones, that he deserved every ounce of this punishment and more.
"D-Dean! Calm down!" The administrator finally found his voice, rushing forward to intervene. His hands hovered uselessly, afraid to actually touch the enraged Archmage.
"You'll kill the instructor! Please, you have to stop!"
"Of course I'm stomping so he dies!" the Dean shrieked, not pausing in his assault. "He should die! Heuk-heuk…" His breathing became labored, each word punctuated by a gasp.
The administrator grabbed at the Dean's shoulder, trying to physically pull him back.
"Dean… please, please calm down for now. If we put our heads together, I'm sure we'll find a breakthrough! There has to be a solution, there has to be—"
"A breakthrough?" The Dean finally paused, chest heaving, looking at the administrator like he just suggested that they should just sprout wings and fly.
"Your head is completely in the clouds… Heok…" He gasped for breath, his aged lungs struggling. "Do you think… Heok—there's anything like that…"
Having spent the better part of half his life sitting behind a desk, poring over academy budgets and enrollment documents, the Dean's body was rebelling against the sudden violent exertion. His heart hammered against his ribs. His vision swam. His arms trembled with exhaustion.
If he had used magic—if the Dean, a former Warmage who had once razed entire battalions with a single spell, had channeled even a fraction of his considerable power—the instructor would have been obliterated. Reduced to atoms, scattered as ashes on the wind, erased so thoroughly that not even his bones would remain for burial.
The fact that it hadn't gone that far was proof that some sliver of reason still remained, buried beneath the panic and fury. Or so the administrator desperately wanted to believe.
"Aaaahh!" The Dean's rage finally broke, giving way to something worse—despair. "Th-this is really the end now. Damn it all… damn everything…"
He staggered backward, away from the groaning instructor, and collapsed into his chair. His hands were shaking so badly he had to grip the armrests to steady them. The anger that had severed his reason was fading, replaced by the cold, creeping dread of reality.
Tomorrow, the grim reapers would come.
The executioners. The Emperor's justice.
Tomorrow, he would die.
-
Starcrest Academy—located in the heart of the Imperial capital—stood as the Harun Empire's largest and most prestigious educational institution. Its towering spires could be seen from anywhere in the city, a constant reminder of its importance, its legacy, its unshakeable position at the center of imperial power.
To graduate from Starcrest Academy was to be marked for greatness. It was nearly impossible to secure any position of significance within the Empire's vast bureaucratic and military apparatus without passing through the Academy. While specialized institutions existed for clergy training, the current Cardinal had studied theology at Starcrest. The Grand Knight Commander? Starcrest alumnus. The Imperial Knights Commander? Also Starcrest. Most celebrated public figures—the heroes whose names were sung in taverns and whose faces adorned recruitment posters—were Starcrest academy graduates.
Young people with ambition, with dreams of rising above their stations, followed in these luminous footsteps. The Academy was their ladder. Their ticket to a better life.
And the Academy's purpose extended far beyond merely producing soldiers and battle-mages. It offered comprehensive education in theoretical subjects, starting with advanced alchemy. It actively cultivated civil servants dedicated to the Empire's administration—bureaucrats who kept the massive imperial machine running smoothly. Studies in public administration, economics, law, diplomacy—all were housed within the Academy's curriculum.
Look upward in any imperial organization, and you would find someone with an Academy education. Consequently, those connected by academic ties carried themselves with exceptional pride. They pulled each other up through the ranks, creating an informal but incredibly powerful network. Promotions based on alma mater had become so entrenched that it was simply accepted as the natural order of things.
The Academy graduates' self-esteem and sense of honor—steeped in a potent mixture of elitism and genuine accomplishment—were like perfectly formed crystal spheres. Flawless. Untouched by any crack or imperfection.
Doran Escaro, the Dean, had thought he would spend the remainder of his life exactly like this. Comfortable. Respected. Secure in his position.
But nothing lasts forever.
Eventually, inevitably, something blew up.