Internet Mage Professor-Chapter 52: Inspection

Nolan’s face twisted into an expression that could only be described as slow, dawning despair. He had been found out.

The grinning Chief, with his hands calmly clasped behind his back and eyes full of deceptive warmth, had seen through it all. Nolan felt it in his bones. That grin wasn’t admiration. It was amusement, curiosity—and above all—recognition. He knew.

"Oh shit," Nolan muttered under his breath.

His knees almost gave in. He staggered a half-step back.

"Oh no. Oh no no no no!"

His thoughts spiraled. He knows who I am. He recognized me. That old bastard definitely recognized me!

Flamire Family... The name surged in his head like a curse. The same family that had painted a target on his back. Dozens of territories had Nolan’s face on wanted posters, though never with a clear photo—just descriptions and traits. But the Chief of the Mana Knights? He didn’t need a poster. He only needed memory.

If he gets one word out to the Flamire family... Nolan was done. Game over. Captured. Shackled. Dragged back to a life he had spent every waking moment escaping.

Nolan’s mouth went dry. Why now?

On the upper deck, Granfire was observing silently. For a moment, he tilted his head, puzzled. In all the time he had known Nolan—and granted, that wasn’t long, but enough to witness his signature smugness, shameless boasting, and maddening antics—this was the first time he saw the man sweat. Not figuratively. Nolan was actually sweating. And twitching.

Granfire narrowed his eyes, intrigued. What on earth is shaking him like this?

His gaze drifted to the Chief. But the old man was no longer looking at Nolan. His focus had returned to the arena below. Whatever he had noticed about Nolan... he was deliberately keeping quiet. Granfire didn’t miss that.

Below, Calien now stood in front of the still cage, his body relaxed, expression unreadable.

The Chief’s voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd: "Let the student proceed. I believe in his ability."

That simple statement held a quiet weight, as if declaring not only trust in Calien, but in the judgment of the man who trained him. The entire atmosphere shifted again.

The noise around the arena stilled. Every breath, every heartbeat waited.

Calien approached the cage once more. He didn’t run, nor did he speak. He simply raised the Pathogen Knife, held it steady in his grip, and—without flair—plunged it straight into the creature’s head.

And then—nothing.

No sparks. No explosion. No pulse of dark energy. Just a dull thud as the blade sank in and stayed—unlike the previous sword, which had phased through the monster like it was liquid.

At first, the creature snarled and convulsed, its tentacles jerking with violent anticipation, as if it was ready to lash out in a final, vengeful frenzy. But... it never got the chance.

It flopped.

That was the only word for it. The monster’s entire body simply lost form, like a balloon leaking air. It collapsed into itself, tentacles twitching once... twice... and then still.

A Mana Knight from the Black Vale Territory jumped from the platform, landing with a heavy thud. His eyes scanned the creature’s body with disbelief. free𝑤ebnovel.com

"It’s... dead," he muttered. "How? That’s not possible. It’s dead. That was an unkillable—!"

Shock flooded the stands.

"He killed it!"

"He really did it!"

"That’s the Silverhart family for you!"

"The protector bloodline—of course he could do it!"

"The youngest son of the Silverhart! With a single strike!"

Cheers erupted like a wave crashing across the courtyard.

Students, nobles, and soldiers alike began to chant Calien’s name. But they didn’t forget the man who stood behind him—the one who had prepared the boy for this exact moment.

Their gazes shifted. Slowly. Collectively. Toward Nolan.

Who was still trying not to throw up from the panic of being found out.

He blinked, looked around, and realized everyone was staring at him like he had just unveiled some secret revolutionary technique from ancient scrolls.

Calien broke through the praise, his voice clear as day, even without shouting.

"Teacher Nolan!" he yelled. "I killed it!"

He raised the now-glowing knife in triumph. "But it was boring! Can we go back to class? These assessments suck!"

Nolan’s jaw went slack. This brat...

Then, before anyone could respond, the Chief raised a hand.

"Check the knife."

Two Mana Knights stepped forward immediately.

Calien furrowed his brow. "Hey—teacher Nolan gave that to me. It’s mine."

"We’ll return it," one of the knights assured him. "We just need to examine it."

The knife was carefully taken and handed to a third figure approaching from the far gate of the arena.

A man clad in deep blue robes walked with an aura of intelligence and mystery. His hair was neatly parted, and his eyes glinted with the sharpness of a scalpel. An alchemical insignia—one recognized across all territories—rested on his chest: Master Scholar of Black Vale.

The Chief greeted him. "Alchemist. Your thoughts?"

The scholar adjusted his glasses, his voice crisp. "Permit me a moment."

He held the knife under a glowing lens conjured from arcane sigils, then sniffed the edge. He tapped it, rubbed a drop of its faint residue between his fingers, and even licked the flat of the blade lightly.

Gasps rippled through the spectators. Did he just lick the cursed knife?

The Alchemist ignored them.

"Fascinating..." he murmured, gaze focused. "The blade’s construction is... chaotic. There’s no elegance. It’s as if the ingredients were piled together like food scraps in a compost heap."

He cleared his throat and began his analysis.

"This knife contains a mess of materials, most of which contradict each other in normal forging. I detect... traces of rusted magebone, fragments of Arcane Sludge, powdered soul bark—unrefined, mind you—and... what is this... oh, someone mashed a sliver of Calming Lilliflare petal into the resin... with no filtration process whatsoever."

He flipped the knife.

"There are acidic remnants from a Parasite Wyrm’s saliva. Traces of soot from Ember Rats. Sticky mana from low-level slime spores. A cracked Mana Core? Was this core even charged when fused?"

He turned toward the Chief, baffled.

"I’ve never seen such... careless stacking of components. No bonding agent. No purification rituals. No sealing spell. Not even an alignment to match elemental behavior. It’s like... it’s like someone dumped leftovers into a bowl, stirred it with a cursed spoon, and just hoped for the best."

The crowd chuckled nervously.

The Alchemist wasn’t done.

"There’s also ambient disease mana—possibly synthetic. Strange. It doesn’t come from any recognized alchemical recipe. There’s a corrupted vine extract tangled in the core, an almost invisible trace of human fear essence, and—by the gods—is that... expired Troll fat?"

He gagged.

"But somehow..." He looked at the knife again, this time almost reverently, "somehow... this terrible, incoherent mess... actually works."

The Chief leaned forward. "What killed the creature, then?"

The Alchemist went silent for a long beat. Then he sighed.

"There are too many conflicting ingredients. Too many wild cards. But... if I had to guess..." He lifted the blade again. "I believe the sliver of Calming Lilliflare petal—though improperly fused—managed to retain its natural properties. It has a rare psycho-spiritual effect that disrupts beings with rage-based feedback loops."

He tapped the knife again. "In short, it likely forced the creature’s mind into a pacified state—shutting down its corrupted berserker instinct. Without that core emotion, the creature... simply collapsed."

The crowd was stunned. Even the Mana Knights looked baffled.

The Chief’s eyes narrowed.

"Calming effect?" he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else.