Dark Magus Returns - Chapter 1468: Lightning’s Grip

Chapter 1468: Lightning’s Grip

When Ibarin left the arena, his steps were sharp, deliberate, and heavy. He did not linger, did not slow down. He headed straight to the main building, to the office that he always returned to when the weight of the world pressed against his chest. The moment he crossed the threshold and shut the door, his composure cracked.

The Grand Magus paced back and forth across the floorboards. Each step was restless, hurried, almost clawing at the ground itself. The air inside the room twisted unnaturally, warping like a mirage. The flow of mana leaking from his body was so overwhelming that reality itself seemed distorted.

If anyone else had been in the room, their vision would have blurred, their stomachs churned, as if the walls and floor no longer belonged to the same dimension.

Ibarin’s rage was rising, boiling, threatening to spill over.

He had restrained himself for too long. Watching the Wilton student, watching Raze, stand against Kayzel and toy with him had pushed Ibarin beyond reason. Every fiber of his being had screamed to strike then and there, to rip the entire hall apart, to slaughter not just the students but every teacher in the room who dared to sit and smile.

And yet he hadn’t. He had held himself back.

But now, within the silence of his own office, there was no one to witness the fury tearing through him.

What do I do? What can I possibly do in a situation like this? His thoughts spun like a storm. He pressed both palms against his desk, head bowing as his jaw clenched tight.

“Who is that student?” Ibarin growled aloud, his voice cracking in frustration. “This has to be impossible… it has to be! Am I losing my mind?” His eyes flared with sparks of lightning. “How can Wilton Academy have so many talented students? Students I have never even heard of! And all of them refusing to join the Central Academy… refusing me. Stronger even than Kayzel…”

His mind returned again and again to the same image: Raze moving faster than the eye could follow, appearing in places he had no right to be. The speed, it gnawed at him, clawed into his pride. He knew Kayzel’s unique trait. He understood it. But Raze? What was his secret?

Gritting his teeth, Ibarin turned his mana inward, channeling his own lightning affinity. Sparks coiled around his legs, surging down to the heels of his feet.

Then, crack!

His body jolted forward. The floor quaked beneath him as he vanished and reappeared on the opposite side of the room, arcs of lightning scattering across the walls.

But his expression twisted. He shook his head violently.

“No… this is not the same.” He clenched his fists, glaring down at his legs. “I can use lightning magic to enhance my speed, yes. But controlling it… directing it smoothly, seamlessly, the way that boy did? Impossible. Even if someone trained for decades, they couldn’t move as flawlessly as I saw.”

Still unwilling to accept, he tried again.

Lightning surged through his body. He dashed forward, cutting to the left, then to the right, forcing himself to change angles mid-movement. Sparks blazed across the floor, gouging black marks into the wood. The raw power left streaks of char and heat in his wake.

But the recoil was brutal. The lightning kicked back into his muscles, biting into his legs, tearing at his flesh. The pain stabbed deep.

“Arghhh! Damn it!” Ibarin shouted, staggering to a stop. His chest heaved with ragged breaths. His voice cracked into madness. “Call for a Light Mage, now!”

A crystal embedded into his desk pulsed to life. With a crackle, it carried his order outward, his command echoing through the halls. He slumped against the desk, fury trembling through his fingers.

What is this? How can this be? His thoughts screamed. What kind of magic did a mere student use? How could he show mastery of lightning in a way I cannot? Me! A Grand Magus!

The Central Academy was the heart of knowledge, the place where all secrets and techniques flowed. For a mere Wilton student to show him something he could not understand, it was an impossibility. A humiliation.

Minutes later, two Light Mages hurried in, their robes glowing faintly with restorative magic. They knelt beside him, channeling their energy into his battered legs. Warmth filled his limbs as the tearing flesh knit back together, the burns sealing over.

When they finished, Ibarin dismissed them coldly. “Go. And keep silent.”

Once alone again, he waved his hand. Mana surged. The burn marks across the floor vanished, the cracked wood restored, the faint smell of smoke wiped away. He returned the office to its pristine state, as though nothing had happened.

At least, on the surface.

The door creaked open.

A man stepped through, robed, his long garments brushing the floor with every step. His hair was as white as his beard, both cascading down in neat waves. His presence carried the calm dignity of age, but beneath it, nerves twitched in his eyes.

Wilton Junior, the principal of Wilton Academy, had arrived.

“Please. Take a seat,” Ibarin said flatly.

Wilton did not dare refuse. The weight of the Grand Magus’s gaze was enough to squeeze the breath from his lungs. He lowered himself into the chair across from the desk, spine stiffening, hands folded tightly together.

“To what,” Wilton began carefully, voice strained with tension, “do I owe the honor of being called by the great Grand Magus himself?”

Ibarin’s lips twitched. “Come now, don’t speak like that.” His voice grew sharp, mocking. “With the way your students are performing, perhaps soon you will be the one called Grand Magus, hmm?”

Wilton forced a chuckle. It was hollow, brittle, a sound more born of fear than amusement.

“You think that’s funny?” Ibarin’s voice cracked into a shout. His eyes bulged, wild. “Is that what you’ve been aiming for? Is that your goal all along, to undermine me? To take what is mine!”

Wilton’s throat tightened. Of course not. His only aim had ever been to guide his students, to bring prestige to his academy, to earn more funding and recognition. His magical ability was nowhere near Ibarin’s, nor did he ever aspire to challenge him.

But the room felt suffocating. The air was thick with unstable mana. If he spoke the wrong word, if he even breathed incorrectly, it might be his last.

“I… I…”

“I SAID ANSWER ME!”

Lightning ripped from Ibarin’s fingers. The blast slammed into Wilton’s chest, hurling him backward. His chair splintered against the floor. He gasped as the current surged through him, his limbs jerking violently.

Before he could recover, the lightning coiled, wrapping around his arms and legs like serpents of pure energy. They tightened, constricting, pinning him to the ground.

Ibarin stood over him, eyes glowing with unhinged fury, lightning snapping between his teeth as if even his words were too volatile to contain.

He didn’t even realize what he had just done.

And worse, he didn’t care.

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