Internet Mage Professor-Chapter 117: Are you sure?

As the sun dipped lower into the horizon, casting long slashes of gold and rust over the rolling plains, the retinue under Chief Varros’ command began to slow their pace.

Their horses, though sturdy, had been marching since dawn with barely a moment’s respite.

Dust clung to their boots and cloaks, and the rattling wheels of the carriages groaned like weary men.

Then came the signal.

Chief Varros raised a gloved hand. "Halt."

The command echoed down the column. Knights reined in their steeds with practiced grace, banners fluttered to a stillness, and the carriages creaked to a gentle stop.

Varros, clad in a flowing black officer’s coat embroidered with the insignia of Black Vale, turned his steed toward the rear of the convoy.

He tapped his horse’s flank, riding at a steady trot toward the last few carriages—smaller, well-furnished, and guarded by knights bearing the markings of different minor noble houses.

As he neared, several attendants standing outside the lead carriage quickly stood at attention. One of them stepped forward with a hurried bow, recognizing him immediately. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com

"Chief Varros," the young man greeted, his voice crisp but overflowing with reverence. "An honor, as always. The students are resting inside. Shall I announce your arrival?"

Varros dismounted without a word and handed his reins to a nearby squire before giving a nod. "No need. I’m only here to ask a few things. How’s the travel?"

The attendant straightened his posture and beamed, almost too eager to speak.

"Oh, Chief Varros, it has been remarkably smooth under your leadership. Truly, a model of discipline and efficiency! The roads of Black Vale are in far better condition than those of the Western Ridge.

"We had only one wheel loosen slightly but your craftsmen repaired it within minutes. The food distribution was on time, as always. The squires brought freshly boiled water each night and the horses are responding better to your regiment’s feedstock than what we usually purchase from the Elmroot Route.

"Also, the children are very comfortable—Erik and Selin especially—Selin said, and I quote, ’This is the first time I’ve ever had soft pillows on a military march.’ Truly, this entire journey has been a masterwork of logistic coordination!"

Varros blinked slowly. "I meant... are they holding up? The travel—are they tired?"

"Oh! Oh yes, yes of course," the attendant scrambled to correct himself, bowing again.

"Yes, Chief. A little fatigue but nothing serious. Ruvin was feeling a bit motion sick this morning, but we administered a mild mana tonic, and he’s better now.

"Calien and Erik have been practicing sword formations in their downtime, though we’ve limited it to light drills to preserve energy. The young masters are mentally sharp and emotionally sound, sir."

Another attendant jumped in from the side, bowing. "Chief, if I may, they even spoke of your tactical decisions with admiration. Calien said your defensive column arrangement during the mountain pass crossing was—"

Varros raised a hand, chuckling faintly. "Enough. I only needed a short answer."

"Yes, sir!" they chorused, nodding with almost military synchronization.

Varros stepped back and glanced at the resting area the knights had begun forming. "Good. Once we’ve rested here tonight, we’ll continue west. You’ll be entering a Fourth Star Territory soon. The capital’s Academy is open for enrollment this season."

The group of attendants stirred. A few gasped softly, clearly not expecting such a privilege to be within reach.

But Varros wasn’t finished.

"I need to warn you," he said, voice lowering with gravity, "you think it’s difficult to enter a First or Second Grade Territory’s school? You haven’t seen anything yet. A Fourth Grade Academy—Fourth Star Territory—isn’t merely a step above.

"It’s a leap across a canyon. Most people never even see the front gates. That level of institution is meant for children of Archdukes, Royal Lineages, Elemental Cult houses, or gifted eccentrics who were born with awakened cores.

"You’ll be among students who can cast Tier 4 magics by age fourteen and win sword duels against full knights by sixteen."

He gestured out toward the lands beyond, as if painting a picture none of them could see yet.

"In First Grade Territories, if you have decent mana, you’re respected. In Second Grade, you’re measured by bloodline. In Third Grade, you’re compared by how many spell matrices you’ve memorized since the age of ten.

"But in a Fourth Grade? Everything is stacked against you unless you’re chosen. The trials aren’t just rigorous—they’re soul-deep. I’ve seen noble children break their own fingers just to match tempo during the Trial Dance of Flame.

"They throw people out if they don’t have elemental affinity readings above the national average."

There was silence.

Not even the wind dared interrupt him.

He glanced at the faces of the attendants—nervous, swallowing, some already doubting.

"Are you all truly sure?" he asked, eyes narrowing. "Are your students ready to walk into that storm? You could easily take them to a Second or Third Grade Academy first. Give them time. Training. Let them climb slowly. There’s no shame in that."

The silence lingered.

Then, the first attendant, older than the others, stepped forward and bowed deeply. "With all due respect, Chief Varros, we are sure. The young masters have talent. And more than that... they have resolve. They’ve seen death. They’ve lost comrades. And they chose to rise. They chose to chase the highest peak, no matter how far."

Varros’s brows lifted slightly, his gaze lingering on the speaker.

Another attendant chimed in. "Selin said she doesn’t want safety. She wants greatness."

Then another. "Ruvin said if he must die on a battlefield or during training, then let it be beneath the banners of the strongest Academy."

One by one, they all took turns affirming their students’ intentions. Their voices were steady, even when nervous. Their loyalty was clear. Even when they stuttered or spoke with reverence that bordered on groveling, the fire behind their words was unshakable.

Varros looked them over, studying each face.

"Hmph," he muttered at last. "Very well."

One of the attendants, trying to strike while the iron was hot, cleared his throat. "Chief Varros... If I may, we can conduct a test. A private one. I believe some of our young masters may even pass the thresholds for Baron-level schools. Perhaps even territories like your own, Black Vale."

There was a pause.

Then laughter.

Several knights nearby burst into deep, hearty chuckles. Some clapped their gauntlets together. Others shook their heads in mock disbelief.

"Pass into a Baron’s academy from a countryside brood? What’s next—one of them hatching a divine beast?" one knight joked, grinning ear to ear.

"I bet the Ruvin boy can’t even outdrink a merchant’s brat," another added with a wink.

"Test them later," one more chuckled. "Let’s see if they can survive the ride first."

The attendant flushed red but held his tongue, bowing with humility.

Varros, still wearing a rare smile, was about to offer a few words when he noticed something.

His expression fell. His lips stiffened.

The other knights noticed too.

The air shifted.

The horses grew uneasy, snorting and stepping in place. The trees whispered without wind. The breeze died.

And then... silence.

An unnatural silence.

All heads turned.

And there, at the edge of the hilltops, across the tree line, in every direction, shadows began to rise.

Dozens.

Then hundreds.

A thousand.

Not men. Not soldiers.

Shapes.

Figures that didn’t move like humans. Eyes that shimmered with malevolent intent. Blades that gleamed even before the moonlight touched them.

Encircling.

Closing in.

The laughter stopped. Swords were drawn. Magic sigils lit up.

Chief Varros stepped forward.

His voice low, deadly calm.

"Form defensive walls."