Dark Magus Returns - Chapter 1467: The Weight of Defeat

Chapter 1467: The Weight of Defeat

After hearing Kayzel’s faint words of surrender, Raze made his decision. There was no longer any point in dragging things out. Why should he continue fighting someone who had already admitted defeat, who had lost both his pride and his will to resist? He turned and began walking away, each step measured and unhurried, leaving Kayzel lying on the ground in silence.

In Raze’s mind, the fight was already over. He had achieved what he had set out to do. Kayzel had been broken, not through one overwhelming spell, but through humiliation, through the repeated reminder that no matter how fast he was, no matter what magic he tried to use, he would always end up flat on the floor. Raze had forced humility into him, but that wasn’t the only reason he had acted this way.

The truth was, he had another goal entirely. Raze wanted to anger Ibarin.

Up in the high principal’s platform, Ibarin had been forced to sit and watch as his prized student, his shining star, was dismantled piece by piece. Every failed strike, every humiliating throw, every desperate attempt only to be crushed again, Raze wanted all of it to grate on him, to dig into his composure until he couldn’t take it anymore. Raze’s aim was simple: push Ibarin so far that he would descend into the arena himself.

If that happened, then Raze would finally get what he wanted, an excuse to stand face-to-face with the Grand Magus in front of the entire arena.

But it hadn’t worked. Ibarin remained where he was, unmoving, stone-faced. He had not intervened, had not lost control. So the opportunity was lost… for now. Raze told himself he still had time. The tournament would last two more days. If his plan failed today, he would find another chance to provoke him before it was over.

Confusion stirred elsewhere. The announcer of the event, who had been watching nervously, hadn’t heard Kayzel’s weak, trembling surrender. All he could see was Raze walking away, leaving the fight behind. For a tense moment, the announcer actually considered saying that Raze had forfeited. That would have been the natural conclusion if a fighter simply walked away.

But then he remembered everything he had just witnessed, the impossible speed, the utter dominance, Kayzel being thrown around like a doll. To declare Kayzel the winner now would be laughable. It would ruin the tournament’s credibility. The announcer’s pride and reputation were on the line as well, and so he made the only choice that wouldn’t make him look like a fool.

He raised his voice with finality.

“And the winner is, Raze, from Wilton Academy!”

At first, the response was hesitant. A few claps here and there, scattered, uncertain. But then, as the reality sank in, the applause grew. Louder, stronger, until it erupted into thunderous cheers that shook the arena itself. The crowd’s roar echoed from wall to wall, the sound of thousands of voices filled with disbelief and exhilaration.

It was an upset. A monumental one. And it was more than just a victory, it was a spectacle greater than anything the spectators had expected.

In the wake of this, the atmosphere of the tournament shifted. Before today, everyone had assumed Central Academy’s victory was all but guaranteed. But now? Wilton Academy had claimed the first three major events, one after another. The impossible had become possible. And for the first time, no one in the stands could confidently place their bets on Central Academy’s success.

Kayzel, meanwhile, finally stirred. His limbs ached, his head throbbed, and shame weighed on his shoulders heavier than any wound. Slowly, he dragged himself upright. His eyes remained fixed on the floor as he staggered down the hallway, each step echoing louder than the last. When he returned to the Central waiting area, the silence hit him harder than any blow Raze had dealt.

He had expected anger. He had expected ridicule. He had braced himself for George’s scornful voice saying I told you this would happen, mocking him for his arrogance. But none of that came. Instead, the other students said nothing. They didn’t scold him, they didn’t berate him. They simply watched as he lowered himself into a seat, and then they let him sit there in silence. The weight of their disappointment was heavier than any words.

Over in the Wilton dorms, the mood was entirely different. The students returned buzzing with energy, filled with a rush of pride that they could barely contain. They longed to celebrate, but even in their triumph, they knew they had to be cautious. Even with the masks concealing their identities, walking the halls in celebration would draw too much attention. It was better to keep their joy private, at least for now.

So, behind the safety of their doors, they let themselves rejoice. They laughed, they clapped, they congratulated Raze and Liam. Questions poured in, about how Raze had done it, how Liam had held his own. The two of them deflected, skirting the truth without giving away their secrets. But one thing was obvious: whatever Raze had planned to do today, he had not finished it. Which meant there was still something waiting in the days ahead. Something bigger.

As for Central’s students, the aftermath was grim. Once the Light mage had tended to their injuries, and once the guests had left the stands, they remained behind on the field. Their bodies lined up in a row, one after the other, heads lowered in shame.

Then he appeared.

Descending from the air, Ibarin landed before them with his hands clasped neatly behind his back. His presence was suffocating. His mana leaked out in waves, pressing against their chests, weighing on their lungs until it felt like they couldn’t breathe. Just standing in front of him felt like being crushed beneath an invisible mountain.

He hadn’t spoken a single word since the match ended. He hadn’t addressed the other principals. None of them had dared to speak to him either. Now, his eyes scanned the line of his students. One by one, he locked gazes with them, his stare sharp as a blade. When his eyes settled on Kayzel, the boy instinctively wanted to look away. But fear froze him in place. He was certain that if he broke eye contact, Ibarin would strike him where he stood.

“All of you,” Ibarin finally said, his voice deep and merciless, “will use the pills tomorrow. You tried winning with your own strength, and you failed. Central Academy has no use for failures. If you do not win tomorrow… then do not bother coming back.”

The command was final. There was no room for negotiation, no room for excuses. And with that, Ibarin’s body rose, lifted on currents of wind magic, until he disappeared into the night sky. The suffocating weight of his mana faded, leaving the students gasping for air as though they had been drowning.

If he had remained even a moment longer, it was clear he might have lashed out in anger, casting a spell against his own students.

Kayzel clenched his fists, shame burning hotter than his wounds. As he stared up at the place where Ibarin had stood, his mind replayed the words he had heard earlier in the match.

Did I hear him right? he thought, his chest tightening. That student… did he really say he wanted to face the Grand Magus?

The thought left him more unsettled than the defeat itself.

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