Chapter 80: Coincidence Is Not Evidence
( Theoran Vale’s POV )
There were few things more dangerous than redesigning an institution that had functioned successfully for centuries.
One of them was allowing twelve senior professors to participate in the redesign.
By mid-afternoon, I had signed twenty-three documents, rejected six proposed amendments, approved four revised schedules, and returned one particularly ambitious request from the Combat Department with the words absolutely notwritten across the first page.
Professor Darius would undoubtedly resubmit it.
Possibly with fewer explosives.
I had learned not to expect miracles.
Outside the windows of my office, the first-year admission results had finally been posted.
Even from this height, I could see the activity in the central plaza.
Students crowded around the announcement boards.
Families gathered behind them.
Some celebrated.
Others were considerably quieter.
One hundred and eighty-seven students.
Five SSS.
Three SS.
Twelve S.
Sixty-three A.
One hundred and four B.
The first twenty required no entrance examination. Zenith automatically accepted anyone possessing S potential or higher.
The remaining one hundred and sixty-seven had earned their places.
I had personally reviewed a considerable number of their examinations.
Not every A-potential student deserved Zenith.
Not every B-potential student failed to deserve it.
Potential measured possibility.
Competence required considerably more.
That distinction was precisely why the next several years were going to be complicated.
I lowered my gaze to the document before me.
FIRST-YEAR PERMANENT CLASS STRUCTURE — FINAL APPROVAL
Five classes.
Five separate residences.
One SSS student assigned to each class as its leader.
No individual overall ranking.
Class performance instead.
The system had caused more arguments among the faculty than anything I had introduced in the past.
That was encouraging.
Changes everyone immediately accepted were rarely substantial enough to matter.
I turned to the final page.
Class One.
Elizabeth Aurelius.
Thirty-eight students.
One SS.
Two S.
Eleven A.
Twenty-three B.
Class Two.
James Vellaroux.
Thirty-eight.
One SS.
Two S.
Twelve A.
Twenty-two B.
Class Three.
Sophie Trohan.
Thirty-seven.
No SS.
Three S.
Fourteen A.
Nineteen B.
Class Four.
Daphne Spinster.
Thirty-seven.
One SS.
Two S.
Twelve A.
Twenty-one B.
Class Five.
Alash Vortex.
Thirty-seven.
No SS.
Three S.
Fourteen A.
Nineteen B.
The numbers were only the most obvious layer.
The actual balancing had required far more.
Attributes.
Core ranks.
Current combat ability.
Academic records.
Support professions.
Temperament.
Leadership history.
Team compatibility.
Even family relationships had occasionally required consideration.
We had not created five identical groups.
That would have defeated the purpose.
We had attempted to create five groups with comparable possibilities.
Whether those possibilities survived contact with fifteen-year-olds remained to be seen.
I signed the bottom of the page.
The ink had barely dried when something changed.
There was no sound.
No mana fluctuation.
No alarm.
No visible disturbance in any of the Academy formations.
Yet my hand stopped.
The quill remained against the paper.
For a moment, I listened.
Nothing.
That concerned me more than an explosion would have.
Zenith Academy had existed for centuries because it took security seriously.
The outer formations could detect spatial intrusion.
The inner wards responded to hostile mana.
The Headmaster’s tower possessed additional protections independent from the Academy network.
My office itself was surrounded by enough defensive formations that forcing entry would require either exceptional preparation or an individual powerful enough that preparation became unnecessary.
Even the royal palace was not more thoroughly protected.
Some would claim otherwise.
They would be wrong.
And yet...
Every instinct I had accumulated across eighty-one years suddenly told me that something dangerous was nearby.
Not approaching.
Nearby.
I slowly placed the quill on the desk.
My mana moved.
Quietly.
No dramatic release.
No unnecessary pressure.
At my age, announcing that one was preparing to fight generally provided the opponent with information they did not deserve.
The cane resting beside my chair shifted slightly beneath my hand.
Then a voice came from behind me.
"You’ve made the office uglier."
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
There were moments when relief and irritation arrived simultaneously.
This was one of them.
I turned.
The Mirage Hermit was standing beside my bookshelf.
No doorway had opened.
No window had moved.
No teleportation formation had activated.
He was simply there.
Long dark hair fell loosely around his shoulders. His clothes were plain enough that most people would have mistaken him for a wandering mage.
He looked approximately thirty.
He was considerably older than I was.
And he was studying one of my shelves with obvious disappointment.
I allowed my mana to settle.
"You could announce yourself."
"I just did."
"Before entering."
"That seems inefficient."
I stared at him.
He ignored me.
I had spent eighty-one years developing patience.
It was unfortunate that certain people appeared specifically designed to test the investment.
My eyes briefly moved toward the defensive formation engraved beneath the floor.
Untouched.
The windows remained sealed.
The spatial anchors were stable.
No intrusion alarms.
Nothing.
I decided not to ask.
There were questions whose answers merely created additional questions.
How the strongest human alive had entered the most protected office in Zenith Academy without activating a single formation belonged firmly within that category.
Instead, I asked, "Why are you here?"
The Hermit removed a book from the shelf.
Looked at the title.
Returned it.
"Still too many books about administration."
"This is the Headmaster’s office."
"Exactly."
I waited.
He eventually looked toward me.
"You wanted me to meet the children."
That changed the conversation.
I straightened slightly.
"You decided?"
"No."
Of course not.
"You crossed whatever distance you’ve been hiding at, bypassed every Academy ward, entered my office uninvited, and you still haven’t decided."
"Correct."
"I see."
"I doubt that."
I chose not to respond.
He walked toward the desk.
His gaze moved over the class documents.
Then stopped.
"These are them?"
"The class assignments."
"I asked about the children."
"You didn’t ask anything."
"I am now."
His eyes moved toward me.
"The files."
I understood immediately.
"The five SSS students?"
"All of them."
"How detailed?"
"Very."
Interesting.
I opened the locked drawer beneath my desk.
Five folders rested inside.
These were not the abbreviated admission reports available to faculty members.
They contained nearly everything Zenith had legally acquired.
Awakening records.
Titles.
Attributes.
Special Constitutions.
Training histories.
Known professions.
Academic evaluations.
Core progression records.
Public combat reports.
Medical qualifications where relevant.
Family circumstances where they affected Academy considerations.
Psychological observations from entrance interviews.
In the case of automatic admissions, evaluations gathered through correspondence and preliminary meetings.
I placed all five folders before him.
He sat without invitation.
Again.
I decided preserving irritation for more important matters was sensible.
The first folder he opened belonged to Elizabeth Aurelius.
He read silently.
Not quickly.
That surprised me.
Most exceptionally powerful people developed an irritating tendency to believe speed and comprehension were synonymous.
The Hermit did not.
He read every page.
Occasionally twice.
"Elemental Sovereign," he murmured.
"Water, earth, fire, air."
"Magic and Intelligence Constitutions."
"Yes."
He turned another page.
"Political education since childhood."
"She is the First Princess."
"That explains the education."
His finger tapped once against a psychological assessment.
"Not the habit."
"What habit?"
"Measuring people."
I said nothing.
He continued reading.
Eventually he closed Elizabeth’s folder.
"She’ll be troublesome."
"Likely."
"Good."
I looked at him.
He had already opened James Vellaroux’s file.
Radiant Spatial Blade Master.
Light.
Space.
Strength and Stamina Constitutions.
Years of sword training.
Military instruction.
Extensive private tutoring.
Second son of Duke Vellaroux.
Fiancé of Elizabeth Aurelius.
The Hermit read several combat assessments.
"He likes direct solutions."
"That is one interpretation."
"It’s the accurate one."
"He is fifteen."
"That is not a defense."
"No."
A faint smile appeared.
"You’ll make an administrator yet."
"I sincerely hope not."
He closed James’s folder.
Sophie Trohan came next.
His reading slowed when he reached the adoption history.
Born common.
SSS Awakening.
Froststorm Valkyrie.
Ice and Lightning.
Agility and Perception Constitutions.
Adopted by Duke Trohan alongside her younger brother.
Her biological parents permitted to reside at the Trohan estate.
The Hermit’s eyebrow rose.
"Unusual."
"Duke Trohan’s arrangement?"
"Yes."
"He has no biological children."
"That isn’t the unusual part."
I waited.
He did not elaborate.
Naturally.
Instead, he continued.
"Her evaluations are comparatively stable."
"She has adapted well."
"Or hides instability differently."
"Possible."
His gaze remained on Sophie’s portrait for several seconds before he closed the folder.
Then Daphne Spinster.
His expression changed almost immediately.
Not surprise.
Recognition of a pattern.
"Orphan."
"Yes."
"Adopted after Awakening."
"Yes."
"Existing biological children."
"An adult son and daughter."
"Who dislike the arrangement."
"The official reports use more diplomatic language."
"Official reports often lie politely."
"They describe familial tension."
"So do diplomats describing civil wars."
I could not disagree.
He continued.
Crimson Gravity Reaver.
Blood and Gravity.
Magic and Willpower Constitutions.
The reports regarding Daphne’s training were exceptional.
So were the notes regarding her interpersonal behavior.
Reserved.
Independent.
Highly self-reliant.
Difficult to pressure.
More difficult to trust.
The Hermit read the last page.
"This one expects people to leave."
I looked at him.
He did not explain.
Again.
Then he reached for the final folder.
Alash Vortex.
For the first time since sitting down, the Hermit became completely still.
Not dramatically.
Anyone unfamiliar with him might have missed it.
I did not.
His eyes remained on the portrait.
Silver hair.
Blue eyes.
An expression of profound disinterest in the photographer.
"What?"
He ignored the question.
His gaze moved down.
SSS Potential.
Aegis Healer.
Healing.
Barrier.
Three Special Constitutions.
Stamina.
Intelligence.
Willpower.
He paused.
"Three."
"Yes."
"That is irritating."
I almost smiled.
"It has caused discussion."
"I imagine discussion is the least useful thing people have done about it."
He turned the page.
Then another.
His eyes narrowed.
"Border service?"
"Training and medical work."
"At his age."
"Yes."
"Beastkin incident."
"Classified portions are excluded."
The Hermit looked at me.
"Meaning you know more."
"Meaning portions are classified."
He returned to the report.
Then came the infirmary records.
Months of civilian medical work.
Healing.
Apothecary practice.
Advanced cases.
Mana disorders.
Poisons.
Chronic injuries.
The Hermit’s finger stopped.
"Interesting."
I leaned back.
"You’ve said more about him than the others."
"Have I?"
"Yes."
He continued reading.
Then reached the behavioral notes.
Frequent sleeping.
Avoidance of unnecessary responsibility.
Unusual resistance to noble attention.
Carries a silver pillow almost everywhere.
The Hermit stopped.
Read the sentence again.
Then looked at me.
"A pillow."
"Yes."
"Everywhere?"
"According to several independent reports."
He glanced back down.
"Is it an artifact?"
"Unknown."
That was the truth.
People had certainly wondered.
No one had found anything remarkable.
No obvious mana signature.
No visible enchantments.
No recognizable runes.
Nothing that explained why Alash Vortex treated the thing as though leaving it behind would constitute a personal tragedy.
Several mages had attempted casual examinations from a distance.
They had learned nothing.
The pillow appeared to be exactly what it looked like.
A pillow.
The Hermit looked at me again.
"Nobody has identified anything unusual?"
"No."
"Has anyone asked him why he carries it?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"He likes it."
Silence.
The Hermit considered that with far more seriousness than the matter deserved.
Then nodded.
"A sensible child."
I stared at him.
"You approve?"
"Of carrying something comfortable?"
"Everywhere."
"If it makes him comfortable, why would he leave it behind?"
There were statements that explained far too much about a person.
That was one.
He returned to the file.
His amusement disappeared as he reached the final evaluations.
"He doesn’t want leadership."
"No."
"So you made him a leader."
"Yes."
The Hermit looked at me.
I folded my hands over the head of my cane.
"The students who want authority are not necessarily the ones who most need to understand it."
"And those who don’t want authority?"
"Sometimes they understand its cost better."
His gaze remained on me.
Then returned to Alash’s report.
"He protects people."
"According to every reliable assessment."
"But dislikes being responsible for them."
"Those are not mutually exclusive."
"No."
For several moments, he said nothing.
The office had become unusually quiet.
Outside, hundreds of students continued examining their futures on the boards below.
Five of them had no idea that the only human ever to reach an SSS core was currently reading their personal files.
I found that mildly amusing.
Eventually, the Hermit arranged all five folders in a line.
Elizabeth.
James.
Sophie.
Daphne.
Alash.
His fingers rested on the desk.
"Five."
"Yes."
"Same age."
"Approximately."
"All SSS."
"Yes."
He looked toward the window.
Fifteen years ago.
I knew exactly what he was thinking.
The unexplained sensation he had described when I found him.
Something changed.
Something opened.
No mana fluctuation.
No spell.
No identifiable cause.
And fifteen years later, five children born around that time entered Zenith with SSS potential.
I had not forgotten.
Neither had he.
"You still think it’s coincidence?" he asked.
"I think coincidence is not evidence."
"Administrator answer."
"Accurate answer."
His mouth curved faintly.
I continued.
"But I also do not intend to ignore it."
"Better."
His gaze returned to the files.
"What do they know about each other?"
"Public information."
"Nothing more?"
"Most have never properly met."
"Tomorrow?"
"Orientation."
He became quiet.
That silence lasted long enough to concern me.
Not because he seemed uncertain.
Because he no longer did.
I knew that expression.
I had seen it once before, decades ago, when he had been asked to demonstrate illusion magic to a group of military commanders.
The demonstration had eventually required replacing part of the training field.
Not because anything had actually been damaged.
Because half the commanders refused to believe it hadn’t been.
"What are you thinking?"
The Hermit stood.
"That I’ll come tomorrow."
I stared at him.
Four months.
Four months of searching.
Weeks following contradictory rumors.
Several false locations.
One mountain I had climbed for no useful reason.
Hours spent arguing with a man who disliked institutions, crowds, noble politics, teaching, administrators, and apparently organized society in general.
"I see."
That was all I allowed myself.
He looked amused.
"You seem disappointed."
"I am exercising restraint."
"Why?"
"Experience."
He nodded as though this were reasonable.
Then turned toward the window.
"Tomorrow during orientation."
"What about it?"
"I’ll tell them."
My eyes narrowed.
"Tell them what?"
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Tomorrow."
I disliked that answer immediately.
"The students should know what?"
"Whatever I decide they need to know."
That was worse.
"You are not improvising during the opening ceremony."
"I haven’t said that."
"You are thinking it."
"You aren’t an illusion mage."
"I am eighty-one."
He considered that.
"Similar advantage."
I stood.
"The orientation has a schedule."
"Tragic."
"Faculty introductions."
"Unnecessary."
"Academy rules."
"They won’t remember them."
"Headmaster’s address."
"That can probably be shortened."
I stared at him.
He smiled.
For the first time since he arrived, I understood that whatever relief I had experienced earlier had been premature.
"You agreed to meet them," I said carefully.
"Yes."
"That does not grant you authority to restructure the orientation."
"I haven’t restructured anything."
"Yet."
He did not answer.
That was not reassuring.
I walked around the desk.
"If you’re planning something, I need to know."
"Why?"
"Because I am the Headmaster."
"That sounds inconvenient."
"It frequently is."
He looked toward the five files one final time.
Then his expression became more serious.
"They have spent five years being told what they are."
I stopped.
"Prodigies."
His gaze moved from one folder to another.
"Future Archmages. Weapons. Leaders. Heirs. Political assets."
His finger touched Elizabeth’s file.
Then James’s.
Sophie.
Daphne.
Alash.
"Tomorrow I want to see what remains when none of those things matter."
There was no humor in his voice now.
That concerned me considerably more than his jokes.
"What exactly does that mean?"
He looked at me.
"Tomorrow."
Then he disappeared.
Not teleported.
Not vanished in a flash.
One moment he was standing there.
The next...
Empty office.
I stared at the space.
No mana fluctuation.
No activated ward.
Nothing.
I slowly looked toward the ceiling.
Then the walls.
Then the defensive formations I had personally reviewed six months earlier.
All functional.
Excellent.
Apparently my Academy possessed the finest security formations in the kingdom.
They simply did not apply to him.
I returned to my desk.
The five folders remained exactly where he had left them.
For several seconds, I considered calling an emergency faculty meeting.
Then decided against it.
What would I say?
The strongest human alive has agreed to attend orientation, I believe he intends to do something, and he refuses to tell me what.
Darius would be delighted.
Selene would blame me.
Both reactions would be justified.
I sat.
Outside the window, the students continued moving toward their new residences.
Tomorrow morning, they expected speeches.
Introductions.
Rules.
Perhaps a tour.
I looked at the five folders.
Then toward the place where the Hermit had disappeared.
I had never believed coincidence was evidence.
I had also lived too long to mistake the absence of evidence for proof that nothing was wrong.
And now the Mirage Hermit had taken an interest in five fifteen-year-olds who should not statistically exist in the same generation.
My fingers tapped once against the desk.
Tomorrow.
I had the distinct impression that our carefully prepared orientation schedule was about to become irrelevant.
I sighed.
Then reached for the Combat Department’s rejected proposal.
Perhaps Professor Darius’s explosives were no longer the most dangerous thing scheduled for the first day.