NOVEL WEB Chapter 204: Raised Well
The air was thick with tension after Lady Margan's words. The professors sat in their designated seats, their expressions solemn, while across from them, the nobles occupied the other side of the circular table.
Among them was an elderly man dressed in fine blue robes, his neatly trimmed goatee giving him an air of formality. He gripped a black walking stick, though it seemed more for appearance than necessity. His sharp, piercing eyes carried a hint of lechery, making Damon uneasy.
'Didn't realize his old man was a literal old man,' Damon thought dryly.
This was Flick Fayjoy, Marcus's father and the head of the Fayjoy family. Marcus was far from his youngest son—Flick had many children, some still in their infancy. His reputation was sordid; he had acquired numerous wives and mistresses through both legitimate and illegitimate means. Worse still, rumors spoke of him fathering illegitimate children with maids and commoners he had forced himself upon. Damon didn't need to know him personally to see what kind of man he was.
His suspicion was confirmed by the way Flick's eyes occasionally flickered toward Lilith's chest.
'What a pig… no wonder Marcus turned out the way he did.'
Next was a young man with striking red hair, dressed in light armor with a longsword at his waist. He had the demeanor of a warrior, though his expression remained calm and composed.
Reinhardt Ambridge—older brother of Rein Ambridge. If he was anything like his sibling, then they likely shared the same magic attribute. Damon made a mental note of it.
Beside him sat a woman in a yellow gown adorned with floral patterns. Heavy makeup covered her face, as though she were trying to flaunt her wealth.
Media Bonaire.
She was the representative of the Bonaire family. More importantly, she was the paternal aunt of Lark—one of the nobles Damon had killed.
Next was a middle-aged man with thick sideburns and a burly, muscular build. His tailored outfit barely contained his frame, and Damon had the distinct feeling that one wrong move might cause his clothes to tear.
Fallan Tatarstan.
The father of Malcolm Tatarstan. Like his son, he carried the presence of a warrior, one used to solving matters with brute force.
A short distance from him sat a woman with pale skin, her presence carrying the faint scent of flowers. She possessed elf-like ears—a telltale trait of the fae.
The head of the Garnier household.
Despite her delicate features, she was Malcolm Garnier's biological mother. Yet, she bore little resemblance to him.
And finally, there was Lady Margan.
Unlike the others, she had already reached her own conclusions. Damon could tell from the unwavering determination in her eyes.
All these people were gathered for one reason.
Because he had killed—and devoured—their children.
But in his defense, they had been his oppressors first. He had sworn never to show mercy. Every debt would be repaid in full.
Yet, before he could act on those convictions, he had to survive this trial.
The nobles sat stiffly in the conference room, their knights and servants waiting just outside the doors. But they weren't concerned. Aether Academy wouldn't harm them—not directly, at least. And even if the academy did want them dead, escape was a fool's dream.
Lady Margan's eyes lingered on Flick Fayjoy, her expression betraying a deep-seated grudge. It was their first time meeting, yet she already looked at him as if she had known him for years.
Damon remained impassive.
'She probably already found enough evidence to tie everything to Marcus…'
He was certain.
The moment she had all the proof she needed, she would explode.
As for him, all he had to do was react accordingly.
Greetings were not exchanged.
These people had come seeking retribution—or, at the very least, something beneficial to ease the sting of their losses.
Kael rose to his feet. As a professor from a well-recognized noble family, he carried both authority and credibility. Having him speak first was the most logical choice.
He cleared his throat.
"As of the evening of the 15th day of Hektos, the remains—or lack thereof—of the student Lark Bonaire were discovered in the forest within Aether Academy grounds. Alongside them, we found claw marks belonging to what was initially believed to be a monster."
He waved his hand, activating a display in the center of the table.
A projection flickered to life—deep claw marks gouged into the earth, stained with blood.
The nobles watched intently, their expressions unreadable, while the professors remained composed. They had already seen this evidence before.
"After extensive investigation, we determined that these claw marks did not belong to any known monster," Kael continued. "At first, we suspected a breach in the academy's barrier… however, that was not the case either."
The display shifted, revealing a sequence of images and records as Kael detailed the chain of events—the tragic deaths that had unfolded, one by one, claiming nearly all of Marcus Fayjoy's companions.
The only one unaffected among them was Xander Ravenscroft.
As the professor spoke, the projections began revealing damning pieces of evidence. First, the strange and erratic shifts in Marcus Fayjoy's behavior. Then, the written accounts found in his own room—journals filled with ramblings about his supposed divine mission, his conversations with God, and his belief that he was an apostle sent to "save" his friends by purging them.
The final, chilling entry in his journal declared his own ascension:
I am the Great Apostle.
The tension in the room thickened.
The nobles' expressions shifted subtly as the pieces fell into place. They were drawing their own conclusions—not because the academy was accusing Marcus, but because the sheer weight of the evidence left no room for doubt.
The most noticeable reaction came from Flick Fayjoy.
His face darkened, his fists clenching as the damning proof against his son continued to mount.
Kael hadn't even reached the final details yet—Marcus's death and the condition in which the evidence was found—when Flick finally snapped.
He surged to his feet, slamming the table with enough force to rattle the crystal and documents upon it.
"Preposterous!" he roared. "My son would never—I raised him well!"
A sharp, biting voice cut through his outburst.
"Which one of your sons?"
Lady Margan stood, her finger leveled at him, her gaze filled with contempt.
"One of the too many to count?"