Magic Academy's Bastard Instructor - Chapter 242: Summit [5]
Chapter 242: Summit [5]
Vanitas stood on the stage and allowed his gaze to sweep across the auditorium before glancing toward the corner of the hall.
Standing there were Cassandra and Silas. In front of them were two professors. One of them was presumably the Professor Lena Cassandra had mentioned. The other was a stranger to Vanitas, though he hardly needed an introduction.
Was confirmation necessary? No, not in the slightest.
Cassandra’s abilities might not have been fully proven yet, but Vanitas didn’t doubt Silas. The boy had moved through noble society and the university like a ghost, as Vanitas’s left hand.
Ezra, meanwhile, maintained the public front of the university as his right hand. Those two, who had once opposed him at one point, had somehow become indispensable.
These students, who had once cursed him behind closed doors, had grown into some of his most valuable assets.
“You may begin, Marquess Astrea.”
Vanitas nodded once the panelists signaled for him to begin.
This was not a thesis defense, nor was it a competitive event, but a stage for the brightest minds of the current era to demonstrate their work, a standard meant to inspire the younger generation and remind them what true scholarship looked like.
“What I will present today is not a spell, nor a formula,” he began. “It is a hypothesis drawn from history, recorded anomalies, and the gaps that conventional theories have failed to explain.”
He tapped the diagram behind him. Lines stretched outward like a spider web.
“This is what I named the String Theory. The core argument is simple. Reality does not consist of a single line of time, but countless strings extending across dimensions. Each string carries its own world, its own flow of events, and its own version of us.”
Students leaned forward. Professors exchanged looks. Scholars from the six towers furrowed their brows. Even Soliette and Elsa observed him with curiosity.
“To simplify,” Vanitas continued, “imagine the world not as a straight road, but as an entire continent of roads running beside each other. Each one is a world that mirrors another, sometimes closely, sometimes vaguely. In one, you may be a scholar. In another, you may be a warrior. In another, you may not exist at all.”
It was such an unconventional topic and so far removed from standard metaphysics that it bordered on absurdity. Disapproving looks were already forming among some of the older professors who despised anything that challenged established doctrine.
“Common belief paints reincarnation as a cycle of death and rebirth within the same world. But the evidence suggests otherwise. It is entirely possible that what people call reincarnation is a resonance between two selves living in different strings.”
Confusion spread through the audience. Vanitas had predicted that long before he stepped on stage. They were not ready for this sort of theory. And that was fine.
“For example,” he continued, “there are cases where people encounter someone who resembles an individual from another era. Their mannerisms, habits, and even their way of speaking appear identical. Some people hastily conclude reincarnation. However, the more accurate explanation is that their souls coexist on separate strings that lie too close together.”
Someone in the crowd started raising their hand, but eventually lowered it. The professor realized he couldn’t even form the right question.
If a topic was difficult to understand, then forming a question that actually led to an answer became even harder.
“But of course, there are outliers during observation. The commonfolk call them doppelgängers. Scholars dismissed them as coincidence. And when similarities grew too ridiculous, faith branded them as heresy.”
He paused. Silence filled the hall.
“Yet if we consider the existence of multiple strings, then these cases are not heresy at all. They are proof. If the human mind can be broken down into components and create another self under pressure, a split personality, then why not the universe? Why not reality itself?”
A single thread split into two, then three.
“Every choice we regret. Every path we did not take. Every memory we tried to forget. Every life we could have lived. Perhaps none of it vanished. Perhaps it continued elsewhere. Lived out by another you, in another string.”
Vanitas gestured with his hand like a poet.
“And if that is so, then the self that stands here today is both proof and paradox. A person who should not exist, yet does. A deviation from the string he was meant to follow.”
He clasped his hands behind his back.
“Any questions?”
The auditorium remained silent. A few hands tried to rise upward, but none rose high enough to be seen. Many wanted to ask something but could not find the words.
Others clashed with the implications of what they had heard. The idea that they did not exist alone. The possibility that their choices were reflected across countless threads.
The terrifying thought that another version of them might already be living the future they desperately wanted.
“Marquess.”
The one to raise a hand was Elsa.
“Yes, Headmaster?”
Elsa lowered her hand.. “Your hypothesis suggests that individuals existing across different strings may resonate with one another. If so, does that imply the instability you mentioned earlier is not merely theoretical? That the borders between certain threads may be thinning?”
The students murmured. Some sat straighter. Even the professors raised a brow, because this was no longer an academic question, but about the safety of their world.
Vanitas nodded slowly. “That is one possibility. When two strings draw too close, phenomena such as shared memories, identical individuals, or mirrored disasters may occur. What we interpret as déjà vu, prophecy, or even divine revelation may simply be the bleed-over of information from another thread.”
“Then is it accurate to say that the individual standing before us, by your own admission, is such a phenomenon?”
“Accurate enough,” Vanitas answered. “A life that should not have existed, yet persists. A deviation created through the fracture of a string.”
This time, even Soliette reacted. “Then what causes such a fracture?”
For a moment, Vanitas said nothing. He looked over the audience who looked at him with such sharp curiosity it could pierce right through him.
“When an unbearable memory is rejected. When a choice is too overwhelming. When a mind breaks and tries to escape the unbearable. Reality may split to accommodate the divergence.”
Elsa pressed further. “And what becomes of the original?”
“That depends,” Vanitas answered. “Some threads merge again. Some sever permanently. Some collapse. And some… continue quietly without noticing they have lost a piece of themselves.”
A student raised their hand before putting it down again, too overwhelmed to speak. Another opened their mouth, then closed it. No one could articulate questions for a theory that challenged the very foundation of their existence.
Vanitas didn’t appear bothered in the slightest. On the projected slate behind him, a new theoretical branch was filled with equations and symbolic notations that resembled ancient glyphs more closely than modern calculations.
To many scholars, it bordered on unreadable. To a good portion of the room, it bordered on madness.
Someone had finally raised a hand.
Of course, it was Maximillian.
“What exactly is the basis for this thesis? Where did you gather such data? Are those formulas even credible? Or are you simply drawing conclusions from nonsense with no empirical backing?”
“That is a reasonable question,” he said. “A theory without foundation is nothing but fantasy. However, String Theory does not rely on fiction. Its basis lies in accumulated anomalies observed throughout history.”
Vanitas turned, gesturing to the diagrams.
“Cases of individuals exhibiting memories that were never lived in this world. Cases of uncanny resemblance beyond mere physical features. Patterns of congenital mana signatures appearing twice in a single generation, despite no shared ancestry. These are documented across multiple towers.”
The audience fell even more silent. Even Maximillian lowered his hand a little.
“As for the formulas,” Vanitas continued, “they were never designed for interpretation through conventional magical calculus. They model dimensional interference, and each variable represents signatures across potential threads.”
His gaze swept across the seated scholars.
“If you evaluate them using traditional mathematics, then of course they will look like nonsense. They were not created for that.”
“….”
“But if you assess them through science mapping, an approach already proven viable by researchers many of you claim to be beneath you, then the equations fall into place consistently.”
A few professors flinched at the implication. Modern science, a field often dismissed by traditional scholars, had, in this moment, been acknowledged on equal footing with magic.
For many in the room, that was harder to swallow than the theory itself.
Vanitas waited for the silence to settle before he spoke again.
“Whether you accept it or not,” he said, “the data aligns. And if your pride cannot keep up with the advancement of methodology, then that is no fault of the theory.”
“This is heresy,” Maximillian declared. Several professors nodded in agreement.
Vanitas didn’t look fazed. He simply clasped his hands behind his back and regarded Maximillian with calm disinterest.
“Heresy,” Vanitas said, “would imply I claimed this is truth. But I never did. It is a theory. A lens through which one may view phenomena that traditional academia has failed to explain. If that alone is enough to brand it heretical, then I fail to see how this institution ever reached the top to begin with.”
A few students stiffened. A couple professors frowned. Soliette’s lips twitched, suppressing a chuckle.
Maximillian opened his mouth again, but Vanitas continued first.
“The Scholars Institute preaches discovery. Yet the moment a formula does not fit in its tiny box, you call it heresy. You stick to calculus written centuries ago by people who had never conceived dimensional interference. And you sneer at science because it is studied by those you deem beneath you.”
A few hands slowly dropped back into laps.
“Tell me,” Vanitas said, “what is more heretical? Proposing a model that explains the unexplainable, or refusing to see beyond what you already know because it would wound your ego?”
Maximillian froze. His mouth hung open, yet no sound came out.
Vanitas turned his gaze to the audience.
“This theory will not be solved today. Nor do I expect any of you to accept it blindly. But the next era of scholars will not be built by those too afraid to question the world they live in.”
To the next generation of mages, this was a seed meant to bloom.
Even if he couldn’t prove his theory within his lifetime, even if the truth remained maddening and incomplete, there had to be someone in the future who could.
There had to be someone who could give meaning to the unanswerable questions that tormented him.
Because if not, Vanitas knew he would lose his mind trying to understand the reason for his existence.
The reason why reality itself seemed determined to make him suffer in every lifetime.
The reason why he had lived as the Archmage Zen and Chae Eunwoo and now as Vanitas Astrea, holding on to memories that did not belong to this string.
“If challenging your worldview is enough to shake your faith in reality, then perhaps your understanding of it was never strong to begin with.”
No one dared to refute him.
Not even Maximillian.
Vanitas turned his gaze toward the side of the hall where Cassandra and Silas were. The moment his eyes landed on them, the two professors in front of them flinched.
He raised a hand slightly in their direction.
“Professor Lena,” he said. “Do you have any questions?”
Professor Lena froze. “P-Pardon?”
Silence fell over the auditorium. They sensed something was off, though they couldn’t place it.
“You were frowning earlier,” he said. “Surely, you must have had something to say.”
“Y-Yes? What? N-No, Marquess. I—I wasn’t—”
Her voice cracked. Cold sweat formed at her temple. The male professor beside her paled as if he were the one being accused.
“Then allow me to ask something else.”
The temperature inside the hall seemed to fall all at once.
“How many cultists are in this room?”
Professor Lena stiffened. The other professor beside her blinked, confused, turning as if to ask what he meant.
“Ah—”
Splatter——
Before Professor Lena could even process what was happening, the man beside her burst apart. His body had been reduced to a pool of blood.
Vanitas lifted his head a little and tilted it.
“So, how many?”
To every hidden cultist sitting among the greatest minds of the continent, to those who thought themselves clever enough to blend in, he would find them one by one.
As long as Vanitas was in the room, none of them were safe.
