Surviving the Magic Academy With Just Intelligence Stats-Chapter 82: The Mad Generation

The marble corridors of Crono Academy’s administrative wing echoed with Jonathan Brightfield’s hesitant footsteps. Each click of his heels against the polished floor seemed to punctuate his mounting anxiety as he approached the ornate double doors of Principal Cassandra Blackvale’s office. His mind raced with possibilities—had she somehow witnessed the commotion in the arena? Had someone reported him?

No matter, he reassured himself, straightening his already impeccable jacket with trembling fingers. I’ve done nothing wrong. Following proper protocol. Upholding academy standards.

The carved wooden doors loomed before him, intricate magical sigils etched into their frame—protection against eavesdropping, he knew. With a deep breath that did little to steady his nerves, Jonathan raised his hand and knocked softly.

No response came.

After a moment’s hesitation, he pushed the door open, wincing at the slight creak of ancient hinges. The spacious office beyond was bathed in afternoon sunlight streaming through tall windows that overlooked the academy grounds. Dust motes danced in the golden beams, giving the room an almost ethereal quality.

Principal Cassandra Blackvale sat behind a massive mahogany desk, her elegant fingers sorting through various documents with practiced efficiency. She didn’t look up at his entrance.

Jonathan’s gaze lingered briefly on her features—the perfect symmetry of her face, the subtle glow of power that seemed to emanate from her very being, the flame-red hair that cascaded in gentle waves past her shoulders. Age had barely touched her, a testament to her formidable magical ability. She was, as always, breathtakingly beautiful, though he would never dare voice such thoughts aloud.

He approached the desk with measured steps, his posture rigid with formality. There were two chairs positioned before her desk, yet he remained standing, hands clasped behind his back in the traditional posture of a subordinate awaiting judgment.

Cassandra continued her work, not acknowledging his presence. The only sounds in the room were the occasional rustling of papers and the soft ticking of an ornate clockwork device on a nearby shelf. What stretched to perhaps a minute felt to Jonathan like an endless purgatory, sweat beading at his temples despite the pleasant temperature of the room.

Finally, without looking up, the principal broke the oppressive silence.

"Do you know why I called you here?" Her voice was melodic yet carried an undercurrent of steel, her attention never wavering from the documents before her.

Jonathan stared at her, puzzled by the question’s simplicity yet terrified of its implications. What kind of game was she playing? Was this a trap? His mind frantically sought the safest response.

He composed his features into a mask of deference and spoke softly, "Is it because of the commotion outside?"

"You tell me," she replied, the brevity of her response more unsettling than any lengthy admonishment could have been.

Fucking bitch! The thought flashed through Jonathan’s mind with startling vehemence, but externally, his lips curved into a nervous smile as he replied, "I will go handle it." The words tumbled out with artificial confidence, a transparent attempt to escape whatever punishment might await him.

At that moment, Cassandra set down her papers with deliberate slowness. She raised her head, her piercing gaze locking directly with his. The full weight of her attention hit Jonathan like a physical force, and he felt a cold sweat break out across his back.

Her eyes—ancient, knowing, calculating—seemed to cut through his carefully constructed facade, laying bare every thought, every secret, every hidden prejudice he’d ever harbored. He stood frozen, transfixed like prey before a predator.

The legends of the "Mad Generation" flooded his mind—that extraordinary cohort of prodigies to which Victoria "The Mad Star" Rothschild belonged. A generation that had produced such fearsome figures as Friedrich "The Golden-Eyed Tyrant" Rothschild and Victoria herself. To have survived in such company, to have risen to prominence among such monsters disguised as humans—what kind of terrifying power did Cassandra Blackvale possess?

"Do you even know what you did wrong?" she asked, her voice deceptively soft yet laced with unmistakable menace.

Jonathan felt as though he might collapse under her scrutiny. His throat constricted, words struggling to form. "I—I acted without hearing out both sides," he stammered, not because he truly believed it, but because he desperately hoped it was what she wanted to hear.

The principal released a weary sigh, her shoulders dropping almost imperceptibly. "This is your last warning," she stated flatly. Then, with finality: "Dismissed!"

Jonathan didn’t need to be told twice. He turned on his heel and practically fled from the office, dignity forgotten in his desperate need to escape her presence. The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow sounded like the sealing of a tomb.

Alone once more, Cassandra leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples in a rare display of fatigue. She was well aware of Jonathan’s prejudices—indeed, he wasn’t unique among the faculty. Many professors harbored similar twisted views regarding class and status. She had allowed such attitudes to persist, not out of agreement but from a calculated indifference to matters that didn’t directly threaten the academy’s stability.

Her intervention today had nothing to do with any sudden moral awakening. No, her motivation was far more pragmatic: self-preservation. If Jonathan continued harassing Ambrose Rothschild’s party members and the boy complained to his mother—to Victoria—the consequences would be catastrophic. Cassandra had no desire to die just yet, not over something so trivial as a professor’s wounded pride.

The principal’s gaze drifted to the window, past the manicured academy grounds to the distant mountains beyond. Her mind traveled back through her memories of the previous week, to that fateful day when Victoria had summoned the Spirit King himself. He remembered the scene before Victoria officially left with the Spirit King. The memory of Victoria floating above them all, her emotionless face, wreathed in otherworldly power, and before she left, she appeared before, whispering something to her ear, her final words before departure echoing in Cassandra’s mind like a half-forgotten nightmare...she sai…(you know the drill)

A/N - lol, it’s not that I’m not telling you this time, it’s just that I genuinely have no idea. I never thought about it, I just put it there in case I have a plot hole later. Do you guys have any suggestions?

This chapt𝙚r is updated by freeωebnovēl.c૦m.