Re:Crafting in Another World
Chapter 110: Declaration of War

Chapter 110: Declaration of War

Archmage Mandira leaned against the chair frame, her fingers tracing the edge of a mana-infused crystal embedded in her locket which was a cataylst she used for her magic sometimes.

She closed her eyes, letting her thoughts spill out in a quiet monologue, as if speaking to the air itself.

"A servant boy," she began, her tone half-amused, half-curious. "Handsome enough, I suppose, with those sharp cheekbones and that quiet confidence in his eyes. Not the sort of face you’d expect from someone scrubbing floors or fetching water for a barony. No, Young man, you carry yourself like a man who knows far more than he lets on. The way you speak—measured, precise, with just a hint of wit that doesn’t belong to a servant. The way you move, as if you’re always aware of everything around you. It’s... intriguing."

She paused, her lips curling into a faint smile. "And then there’s that strange energy signal I felt from the assassin incident. Oh, I haven’t forgotten that. The air crackled with something unnatural and otherwordly, something that wasn’t quite mana, but close enough to make my skin prickle. The wards around the academy didn’t react to it, and he is skilled enough to hide it from us."

She knew only half of her intention were finding out the full details about Princess Maria’s assassination attempt. Other half she was curious what and how these alien energy signals came.

Mandira opened her eyes, her gaze sharpening as she recalled the evidences she’d gathered.

She sighed, stepping away from the window and pacing slowly across the room, her robes whispering against the floor. "I tried to assess you, you know. As an archmage, I can measure someone’s mana level with a glance. It’s not a perfect system—mana doesn’t tell the whole story. A knight with barely a spark of mana could still cleave a mage in two if they’re skilled enough. I’ve seen it happen. Mages who rely solely on mana readings to judge their opponents... well, they don’t last long in a real fight. A highly skilled warrior could challenge even the most powerful mage and come out on top. Mana’s just one piece of the puzzle."

She stopped, her fingers drumming lightly on her staff. "Your mana, young man... it’s low. Barely a flicker, really. By all accounts, you should be unremarkable. Weak, even, in the eyes of a mage. But I know better than to trust that alone. There’s something about you that doesn’t add up. Are you dangerous? Or are you something else entirely? A hidden gem, perhaps, or a wolf in servant’s clothing?"

Mandira’s thoughts drifted to the other students involved in the incident, particularly Christina, who had just left her office after a tense interview. The girl had been nervous, her eyes darting to the door as if she couldn’t wait to escape. Mandira chuckled softly to herself. "Poor Christina, caught in the middle of all this. She’s got potential, that one, but she’s too earnest for her own good. She doesn’t even realize she’s surrounded by troublemakers, espeically Princess Maria."

Her gaze flicked to the two students still lingering in the room: Young Master Daniel and Young Lady Famina Aluvare. They sat across from each other at the long table, Daniel’s brow furrowed in thought, Famina’s posture impeccable as always. Mandira’s lips quirked upward. "Those two... always plotting, always maneuvering. Daniel’s got that spark in his eyes, the kind that promises trouble. And Famina, oh, she’s as sharp as a blade, managing everything with that effortless grace of hers.

As principal, I should probably be concerned about their little schemes, but..." She shrugged lightly. "I’m not. They’re motivated, ambitious. That’s what makes this academy thrive."

Mandira adjusted her robes, smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle, and ran a hand through her slightly violet hair. "Time to take my leave," she said aloud, her voice carrying a note of authority that filled the room.

She turned to Famina, her expression warm but professional. "Lady Famina, you’ve done an excellent job managing these interviews and student council work. The students look to you, and you’ve handled it with the poise I’d expect from an Aluvare. Well done."

Famina inclined her head, her emerald curls catching the light. "Thank you, Archmage Mandira. I only did what was necessary."

Mandira’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

She turned to Daniel, who was still lost in thought, his fingers tapping restlessly on the table. "And you, Young Master Daniel. You look like you’re scheming something. Don’t think I haven’t noticed."

Daniel started, his dark eyes meeting hers. "Archmage, I’m just... thinking about the future of our nation as always," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Mandira laughed softly. "The future, is it? Well, keep your scheming within the academy’s rules, or you’ll have me to deal with." Her tone was teasing, but there was a warning beneath it.

She knew Daniel was a troublemaker, but he was the most talented student they had—and that’s exactly why he was the student council president and no one else. She couldn’t blame him for being that way; it always ran in their family.

As she looked at Daniel, a memory stirred, and her expression softened. "You remind me of someone. Sir Juno Marciel, back when we were students here. Same blonde hair, same mischievous glint in his eyes. He was always stirring up trouble, too. I wonder what that man’s up to these days."

She murmured the last part to herself, almost as an afterthought, her mind drifting to old memories of the academy’s wilder days. Juno had been a force of nature, charming and reckless, much like Daniel. Shaking her head, she pushed the thought aside and straightened as she prepared to leave.

"Keep an eye on things, both of you," she said, her voice firm but kind. "And keep up the good work! You can get my approval after selecting someone for the student council,"

Famina nodded, her expression unreadable. "Of course, Archmage."

***

The room was suffocatingly still, the only sound piercing the silence was the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, each tick like a drumbeat counting down to something inevitable.

Sir Juno stood motionless before Lady Cassandra, his presence as heavy as the silence. His silver armor gleamed under the chandelier’s light, but it was his eyes—cold, calculating, and unblinking—that commanded the room. They bored into Cassandra, dissecting her with a precision that made her spine prickle. He hadn’t spoken yet, but the pressure was already unbearable.

Cassandra remained seated in her velvet-lined chair, legs elegantly crossed, fingers resting gently on the carved armrests. She wore her best mask—graceful and composed—but sweat glistened along her brow, betraying the effort it took to remain still under his gaze.

"Oh... you mean the new servant boy, Shennong?" she said lightly, letting out a small, controlled laugh. Her voice was smooth, but her heart was pounding against her ribs. "Whatever for?"

Juno didn’t answer. Instead, he raised a gloved hand and made a subtle gesture to Maron sitting like a log.

Sir Maron Vendal—usually the picture of military pride—now looked like a broken man. His face was ashen, his uniform disheveled, and his hands trembled violently as if struggling to stay attached to reality. He walked like a man returning from the edge of death, every step a silent scream of trauma.

Cassandra’s smile twitched, just slightly.

"I’ve heard some... intriguing stories about the boy," Juno said at last, his voice calm, yet laced with something sharp and dangerous—like the glint of a blade just before it strikes.

Cassandra tilted her head in a manner that would have looked innocent—if not for the tension in her jaw. "Oh? And what sort of stories are we talking about?"

Juno’s lips curled into something that might’ve been called a smile, though it held no warmth.

"That the Baroness has taken quite a liking to him. That he is... unusually competent. And also..." He paused just long enough to let the weight of his words settle. "That shortly after his arrival, Baron Jamie Percival fell mysteriously ill. So ill, in fact, that the physicians are calling it a miracle he’s still breathing."

For a moment, the mask slipped. Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. But her smile remained frozen, like porcelain. "I am fond of him. He works hard, doesn’t complain, and gets things done. Surely you don’t suspect I had anything to do with Jamie’s condition. That would be quite the accusation, Sir Juno."

"Would it?" Juno replied, almost wistfully. "But no, of course not. I would never officially accuse a noble lady of such a crime." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Not without proof."

His words struck like an arrow. Cassandra remained silent, but her fingers gripped the chair’s arms just a little tighter.

This man isn’t just a swordsman. He’s a predator.

"I assume Shennong is still within your service?" Juno asked, his tone deceptively casual.

"He’s in the capital," she answered slowly. "Serving as my daughter’s personal butler. If you’d like, I can summon him back to speak with you."

Juno turned, the tails of his coat shifting like a shadow.

"No need," he said over his shoulder. "I’m heading to the capital myself. I’ll speak with him there... directly."

He took two steps toward the door, then paused. Without turning, he added, "One more thing. This dungeon that’s recently appeared nearby... curious, isn’t it? You may want to keep your house in order, Lady Cassandra. Crows tend to gather where corpses are expected."

And with that final note—sharp and cold as a guillotine’s drop—he stepped out of the room. Sir Maron followed, his gait still unsteady, eyes never meeting Cassandra’s.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Cassandra remained still for a long moment, the silence now thick with the residue of danger. She finally stood and walked slowly toward the balcony, each step deliberate, like someone trying to hold control over a rapidly unraveling situation.

Outside, the wind whispered through the trees. She watched Juno’s retreating figure as he mounted his steed and rode into the distance.

That man... he’s not just trouble. He’s a storm in human skin.

Just then, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. A presence—subtle but undeniable—was behind her.

Her breath caught. She spun on her heel.

"Who’s—"

Her voice died in her throat.

Standing in the doorway was Yenissa.

But she was not the radiant vision Cassandra was used to. The succubus’s usually flawless skin was pale, her lips tinged blue. Blood trickled from a deep gash at her side, staining her lavender dress a vivid crimson. Her once-proud wings hung limp behind her, feathers tattered and torn.

"Yenissa!" Cassandra’s voice cracked with horror.

The succubus took a step forward—and collapsed.

Cassandra rushed to catch her, arms encircling the injured woman before she could hit the floor. Yenissa’s body was frighteningly cold.

"What happened?! Who did this to you?"

Yenissa’s eyes fluttered weakly, lips barely moving. "It was... that man... Juno..."

Her voice was no louder than a whisper, but every syllable rang in Cassandra’s ears like a death knell.

Cassandra held her tightly, heart racing. A terrible realization surged through her.

This wasn’t just politics anymore. It wasn’t about baronies or rumors.

This was war.

And when Shennong found out what had happened to Yenissa—his Yenissa—there would be no safe haven for the one responsible.

Blood would answer blood.

And the storm Juno thought he controlled... would turn on him.