Chapter 3

That night, I stayed awake until dawn with my eyes wide open.

The spot on my chest burned by the experiment tightened in waves, like someone twisting a screw right through my ribs. I huddled under the blanket, repeating to myself over and over:

Win the championship.

As long as I win the Magic Scroll Championship, everything will get back on track.

No matter what Alexander thought, no matter how those people mocked me—the championship title was stamped by the Council; it was a fact no one could erase. As long as I stood on that podium, they would have to acknowledge me.

Clinging to this thought, I held on until the pitch-black sky outside turned pale.

Early in the morning, I sprinted to the workshop with my scroll tube.

The stone corridor was still holding the chill of the night. The workshop door was half-open, and the guard room was empty. I didn’t pay much attention to it—everyone was busy the day before the finals.

I rushed to my workstation and reached for my familiar wooden cabinet.

It was empty.

The scroll tube was lying neatly in the corner, but inside... it was empty.

My heart slammed heavily against my chest with a muffled thud. My fingers frantically checked under the desk and the surrounding storage compartments—nothing. The scroll I had spent half a month preparing for the finals was gone.

I practically bolted to the door, bumping right into the duty apprentice who was walking in yawning, hair a mess and reeking of perfume and alcohol from last night's party.

"Who entered the workshop last night? My scroll is missing," I demanded, grabbing his sleeve.

He shook his arm off in annoyance. "Who knows? Everyone went to the party last night, who would stay here to guard the door?"

"Aren't you on night duty?" I stared at him. "You had the keys, the workshop door—"

"The door was left open," he interrupted impatiently. "You competitors act like you own the place. I'd be an idiot if I missed the party for your scrolls."

A metallic taste rose in my throat. "So you left the door wide open and went to have fun?"

"If you lost it, just draw another one," he rolled his eyes, scanning me up and down before muttering, "You're just a piece of trash with a half-broken magic core anyway, so demanding."

"What did you say?" I heard it clearly, but forced myself to ask.

"Nothing." He shrugged, bypassing me heading to the guard room. "Hurry up and draw a new one, you can't win anyway."

My fingers clenched into fists, my knuckles turning white.

Getting angry now was pointless.

Time was ticking.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to turn back to the workstation. Pressing my hands against the edge of the desk, my fingertips digging into the cold wood.

Redraw.

There was no other way.

I rolled out a blank backup scroll. The injured magic core in my chest was forced to accelerate—magic squeezed through ruptured conduits, sluggish and scalding. Every time I channeled the energy, it felt like forcibly tearing open old wounds.

Mirror array, layer it on.

Stabilization circuit, draw it stroke by stroke.

Magic-conduit band, simplify it.

Calibration runes... My vision went black for a moment; I had to compress the complex multi-layer calibration into the safest, simplest form, abandoning my delicate variations.

My fingertips went numb, the pen nearly slipping from my grasp several times. I gripped it tightly, my wrist bone aching from overexertion. The runic ink left slightly jagged lines on the scroll—compared to my usual work, it was a hastily assembled mask.

But I had no choice.

Three days later, on the final day of the tournament, I finally completed the scroll.

When the last stroke fell, my breathing was a mess. My chest felt like an iron brand was searing it, hurting so much I shivered.

It wasn't a perfect scroll.

But it would work.

I rolled it up. My fingers trembled, and it took me two tries to tie the seal strap. Then I rushed to the academy's tournament division and submitted it.

When the examining official checked my scroll, he looked at me strangely. My chest was hurting so badly that I had no energy to ask what was wrong. I just finished the submission process and left quickly.

After leaving the office, I threw myself into the Library Tower, wanting to avoid both Alexander and Vivienne. I just waited for the results.

But I never expected that before the results were announced, a notice that plunged me into hell would be released.

On the afternoon seven days later, the first floor of the Library Tower suddenly erupted into an uproar.

Someone ran up the stone steps, shouting, "Look at ScryNet! Something insane happened in the Magic Scroll Championship!"

My pen paused on my paper.

A bad premonition crawled up my spine.

I closed my book and went downstairs.

The large Scrying Screen in the center of the hall had been switched to the public channel. Its blue and white light washed over everyone's faces, twisting their expressions.

On the screen was a comparison of two incredibly similar scroll structures.

On the right was Vivienne's tournament scroll.

But the scroll on the left was highlighted in a red box, with the title:

[Plagiarized Winning Work in the Current Tournament]

[Plagiarist — Elena]

I recognized my stolen scroll at a glance.

But the tournament committee had labeled me as the plagiarist!

Arrows in the announcement pointed stroke by stroke from right to left, and cold analytical text hovered in the air:

“Main array structures highly overlap.”

“Mirror pattern deviation error is within the allowable range for imitation.”

“Stabilization circuit layout similarity: 91%.”

Below was a magnified line of red text:

[Suspected of plagiarizing the Whitmore family's original structure. The Championship Committee has intervened for investigation.]

Comments flooded the bottom of the screen like a torrent:

[That Mudblood Elena has some nerve, daring to plagiarize from the Whitmores!]

[And she copied it so roughly, what a disgrace.]

[So the so-called 'scroll genius' was just tracing the eldest miss's work?]

Laughter exploded in the hall, then hushed into excited, malicious whispers.

"I knew it. Since when did the slums produce geniuses?"

"Steal a little, make up an underdog story, sells perfectly."

"Poor Lady Vivienne."

Soon, following the name on the screen, all those gazes landed on me.

"She's right here," someone whispered, tossing their gaze at me like a rock. "The plagiarist, Elena."

Instantly, everyone's attention locked onto me.

Some held contempt.

Some held schadenfreude.

Even the forced "pity" seemed to say: See? This kind of thing was bound to be exposed eventually.

Standing beneath that light, I felt as if I had been skinned and thrown onto a dissection table, left to their judgment.

The pain from the core in my chest rapidly intensified.

Coldness seeped from my bones, crawling up my spine, to the back of my neck, to my scalp. The voices around me faded away, leaving only that flashing line of red text on the Scrying Screen.

Plagiarism.

I opened my mouth, but my teeth were chattering so faintly I couldn't even form a single sentence of defense.

In that moment, a terrifying fact became crystal clear to me:

Vivienne had stolen my scroll and framed me as the plagiarist.

And all my hard work, all the runes I stayed up all night to draw, were buried in this instant by the single word "plagiarism", sealed tight with cold wax without even room for a struggle.