NOVEL WEB Chapter 139: Head of the Maintenance Department
The old man's fingers tightened against the edge of the wooden desk, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to sharp scrutiny.
"Circumstances! Eh! Big words coming from a kid. Just what kind of circumstances could someone like you possibly have?"
His voice carried the weight of skepticism, as if trying to unravel something about Ashok—something that didn't quite fit within the framework of a typical student.
"Shall I take your words as unwillingness to hand over the manual?" asked Ashok.
The old man paused, caught off guard by the sheer lack of hesitation in Ashok's tone. It wasn't the response of someone pleading—it was a direct demand, without fear or doubt.
His gaze narrowed further, and for the first time, he truly questioned something deeper.
"You… Are you truly a student?"
The words hung between them, sharp, challenging.
Yet Ashok's reply was instant—unwavering.
"If not a student, what do I look like in your eyes?"
A test—one that the old man hadn't expected.
He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, before leaning forward.
"See, this is what's wrong with you. What kind of student answers a teacher's question with another question and what's with your way of speaking?"
His voice wasn't angry—it was laden with an observation few had dared to vocalize before.
"There is nothing cheerful about you. No excitement, no nervousness—none of the qualities that every other first-year carries when they walk into this Hall."
A lingering pause.
"And your eyes."
He tapped a finger against the desk, his gaze now piercing, reading into Ashok's demeanor with unnerving precision.
"They hold neither fear nor respect—both of which every other first-year carries when facing a teacher."
His tone dropped lower.
"Instead—you are looking down on your teacher."
Most students would have reacted here, perhaps lowering their gaze, feeling the weight of the words.
But Ashok did not flinch.
Not a flicker of discomfort. Not a moment of self-reflection.
Instead—he dismissed the entire conversation altogether, cutting straight through the tension.
"My Internal Art."
Not a request. Not an argument.
Just an absolute, unwavering statement.
The old man's eyes widened, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face.
A moment ago, he had confronted the student flaws, his unnatural demeanor, his lack of conformity.
And yet—the student had ignored it entirely.
No justification. No explanation.
Only a return to his request, as if the previous conversation never mattered in the first place.
The old man sighed, rubbing his temple, his expression lined with mild exasperation.
"Forget it…"
With a flick of his wrist, a book shot through the air, emerging from the depths of the Art Hall, landing neatly onto the counter before Ashok.
The title etched onto its cover—Mana Inner Flow Method.
Ashok's eyes skimmed over the name, but there was no hesitation in his voice as he spoke.
"Give me the Core Pulse Method."
The old man's brow furrowed, his gaze shifting between Ashok and the manual before him.
"This is the modified version of the Core Pulse Method, created by the Magic Tower ten years ago—perfected for mages. The Inner Flow Method is currently the best mana foundation technique in the world for spellcasters."
There was no doubt in his words—this was the best modernized standard method.
Yet Ashok's expression remained unchanged.
"I know that. Which is why—give me the Core Pulse Method."
The old man exhaled sharply, his irritation surfacing in his words.
"You really have no manners. Don't you know how to accept a teacher's advice?"
Yet Ashok did not yield.
"In terms of modification, the Magic Tower merely adjusted the mana flow—redirecting it more toward the upper body, making it ideal for spellcasters."
His fingers tapped on the top of the Art Manual, as if reinforcing his reasoning.
"Meanwhile—the Core Pulse Method maintains a perfect balance across the entire body, making it far more suitable for pure control rather than spellcasting. I aim for control. Not spellcasting."
The old man sat in silence for a moment. To think he would lose in a Argument to a student.
Even though it was not on the face of old man but he liked one thing about this student that there was no uncertainty, no hesitation—only the clarity of someone who had already determined his path.
With a flick of his wrist, the old man waved his hand, sending out a pulse of mana.
A faint shimmer coursed through the air, weaving between the towering bookshelves before a lone manual drifted forth.
The book landed smoothly onto the desk.
"Mana Core Pulse Method."
For any Mage, their Internal Art was the foundation upon which every ability was built. Depending on its Type and Tier of the Art, a Mage would see variations in:
Spell Power, Spell Casting Speed, Spell Longevity, Spell Control, etc.
This was why countless techniques existed—especially Affinity-based Arts, designed to enhance and reinforce a Mage's connection to their elemental strengths.
In this world, most were born with a single affinity—possessing two or three was considered exceptionally rare.
Yet then—there was Althea.
A Mage unlike any other.
A prodigy of her time—possessing four affinities, a feat unheard of among ordinary practitioners.
Yet even her talent came with its own limitations.
Because possessing multiple affinities meant she could never choose an Affinity-based Internal Art—doing so would strengthen only one, while severely weakening the other three.
While Alina, gifted solely with Fire Affinity, would always surpass Althea in terms of fire mastery, elemental control, and raw firepower, Althea's advantage lay elsewhere.
Her true strength came from versatility—the ability to adapt, to manipulate multiple elements where others could not.
And Ashok?
He possessed no affinities at all.
He cannot rely on elemental prowess.
Which is why Mana Control was the only way.
"Give me your ID card."
His voice was firm, carrying the weight of routine procedure.
Without hesitation, Ashok reached into his pocket, retrieving his ID and sliding it across the table.
The old man picked up the card, barely sparing it a glance—until his eyes fell upon the inscription of the golden hammer on the Id Card.
And then—his breath hitched.
His entire demeanor shifted, his pupils widening as the words etched onto the pass sent a wave of disbelief coursing through him.
"G—Gold Pass of the Blacksmith Department?"
The faint tremor in his voice was unavoidable.
His gaze snapped upward.
Yet Ashok's expression remained neutral, unfazed by the reaction.
"Teacher Hamiel gave it to me."
No further explanation.
But to the old man, this was far beyond ordinary.
"That dwarf never even gave me a Silver Pass, and I've known him for over a century—yet he handed over a Gold Pass to a newcomer?"
His voice carried a sharp frustration, something between exasperation and intrigue.
He leaned forward, his scrutiny now fully locked onto Ashok.
"Tell me—what did you do?"
Ashok then started boasting.
"What's so great about a Gold Pass? Teacher Hamiel even offered me the Diamond Pass. It was me who rejected."
The air stilled.
For a brief second, the old man did not move—his brain struggling to process what he had just heard.
"Y—You are lying."
His immediate reaction—a rejection.
It was impossible.
"I'm sure it's not hard for someone like you to detect whether I'm lying or not."
That was it.
No argument. No attempt to convince him.
Just pure certainty.
And the worst part?
The old man knew Ashok wasn't lying.
His teeth clenched, frustration settling deeper in his expression.
"Tell me—what did you do to get a Diamond Pass offer from that dwarf?"
It was no longer a casual inquiry—it was a command.
He merely shrugged, unconcerned.
"Why should I?"
The old man blinked, his brain halting for a brief second.
Had this student just—refused his words outright?
"You dare—" The old man's snapped carried the weight of irritation, his words teetering on the edge of scolding.
But before he could complete his sentence, Ashok cut in smoothly, his tone sharp yet deliberate.
"Nothing in this world comes for free," Ashok declared, his eyes gleaming with calculation. "And knowledge like this—well, let's just say it carries a hefty price."
The old man stiffened, his wrinkled face barely concealing the flicker of realization.
His fingers twitched slightly, tapping against the wooden armrest of his worn-out chair.
'This student is not a fool' thought the Old Man.
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice measured now, stripped of its earlier impatience.
Ashok leaned forward, "Give me the Gold Pass to the Maintenance Department," he said, his words crisp, precise—a demand disguised as a request.
The old man scoffed, his expression twisting into one of disbelief.
"Outrageous! Do you truly believe your mere words hold enough value for a Gold Pass? Even if they did, I don't have the authority to hand one over."
A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of Ashok's lips.
He tilted his head slightly, the dim glow catching the edge of his expression, making it all the more unreadable.
"You know," Ashok said with deliberate ease, "it doesn't suit a teacher to lie. And tell me—how is it that the Head of the Maintenance Department lacks the authority to grant a pass for his own domain?"
The old man's fingers ceased their tapping.
His gaze darkened, all traces of irritation dissolving into a void of still silence.
The shift was undeniable—the warmth of the nagging elder had vanished, replaced by something colder, heavier.
The air between them grew thick, weighed down by an unspoken intensity.
His voice, when it finally came, was stripped of emotion.
"How do you know that I am the Head of the Maintenance Department?" asked the old man.