Surviving the Magic Academy With Just Intelligence Stats-Chapter 83: Lets Have Some Fun

Professor Jonathan Brightfield slammed the door of his office with such force that the framed certificates on the wall trembled, threatening to crash to the floor. The meticulously organized space—normally a testament to his obsession with order and hierarchy—was about to witness the unraveling of its master’s composure.

With a feral growl that would have shocked his students, Jonathan swept his arm across his mahogany desk. Inkwells crashed to the floor, splattering their contents across the expensive Xianhua carpet. Stacks of graded assignments scattered like autumn leaves, and his prized crystal paperweight—a gift from a grateful noble family—shattered against the far wall.

"How dare they?" he seethed, his refined accent slipping as rage consumed him. "How dare they?"

His perfectly manicured nails dug into his palms as he paced the length of his office, the humiliation of the day’s events replaying in his mind with excruciating clarity. The students’ faces swam before him—their expressions morphing from deference to disgust in the span of a heartbeat, all because of that damned Rothschild heir’s intervention.

And then Cassandra’s summoning, the public nature of it ensuring that every whisper in the academy for weeks would include his name. The knowing glances, the suppressed laughter, the inevitable decline in his standing among the faculty—it was unbearable.

"I did nothing wrong," he muttered, his voice trembling with indignation. "Nothing! Those filthy commoners should know their place. They should be grateful for the opportunity to breathe the same air as their betters!"

"I was doing the world a favor goddammit!"

In his frenzied state, Jonathan lurched toward an ornate cabinet in the corner of his office. His hands shook as he yanked open the drawer, rifling through meticulously organized files until he extracted a particular sheaf of papers—the comprehensive student records he had taken such pains to compile.

He spread the documents across his desk, flipping through pages with growing intensity, past portraits and profiles of students he had marked for special attention—those who needed to be "taught their place" in the natural order of things.

His finger stopped on a particular page, jabbing down with such force that the paper tore slightly. The portrait stared back at him—a young man with serious eyes that seemed to hold a wisdom beyond his years. The calm confidence in that gaze only fueled Jonathan’s hatred.

"Marcus Turner," he hissed, the name passing through his lips like poison. His finger traced the information beneath the portrait—commoner background, top-level talent, exceptional swordsmanship scores. Each achievement listed was like salt in his wounds.

"This is all your fault," Jonathan whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerous register as he addressed the portrait as if the student stood before him. "You started this. You and your kind think you can rise above your station?" A twisted smile distorted his aristocratic features. "We’ll see about that."

His eyes gleamed with malevolent purpose as he began formulating his revenge. The Rothschild heir might be untouchable, but Marcus Turner was just a commoner—no matter how talented. There were ways to break such students, subtle methods honed through years of practice.

As the sounds of the ranking test beginning were heard from the arena, Professor Jonathan hunched over his desk, plotting the downfall of the student who had dared to challenge the natural order of his world.

…

The descent into the academy’s underbelly began with a door—unmarked and unremarkable—tucked behind a false wall in the infirmary storage closet. Elena slipped through this portal as she had countless times before, her movements practiced and efficient. The nurse’s pristine white uniform stood in stark contrast to the darkness that swallowed her as the door sealed shut behind her.

The tunnel stretched before her, a throat of rough-hewn stone that plunged deep beneath Crono Academy’s manicured grounds. Guttering magical lights cast sickly green illumination at irregular intervals, their glow insufficient to banish the pressing darkness completely. The walls wept with constant moisture—groundwater seeping through ancient stone—creating a persistent, rhythmic dripping that echoed through the passageway like a maddening heartbeat.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Each step carried Elena deeper, the air growing thicker and fouler. The sterile antiseptic scent that clung to her uniform gradually surrendered to something more primal—the unmistakable metallic tang of blood mingled with the musty odor of unwashed bodies and festering wounds. The stench grew stronger as she progressed, a miasma of suffering that would have sent most recoiling in disgust.

Elena’s expression remained impassive, her features set in serious concentration. These tunnels, with their labyrinthine twists and sudden drops, could be treacherous for the uninitiated. One wrong turn could lead to sections that hadn’t been maintained in centuries—places where even the magical lights had failed, leaving only absolute darkness and whatever horrors might lurk within it.

The narrow passage eventually widened, the ceiling rising until the tunnel opened into a vast underground chamber that defied expectations. The space resembled an enormous warehouse, easily spanning the area of the academy’s main assembly hall. Unlike the tunnels, this chamber blazed with light—magical orbs embedded in the ceiling cast harsh, unforgiving illumination that left no corner in shadow.

The stark lighting revealed the chamber’s true purpose in merciless detail. Row upon row of metal cages filled the space, each containing a single occupant. These weren’t conventional prisoners—their emaciated limbs bound with heavy chains etched with glowing runes, bodies displaying evidence of systematic abuse. Bruises in various stages of healing mottled visible skin, some fresh and purple, others faded to sickly yellow. Many bore precise, ritualistic cuts that suggested methodical experimentation rather than simple torture.

Some captives slumped in resignation, barely registering Elena’s passage. Others flung themselves against their bars with feral desperation, eyes wide and uncomprehending. A few tracked her movement with calculating hatred, a dangerous intelligence still burning behind their eyes despite their circumstances.

The nurse navigated between the rows with practiced ease, her footsteps measured and unhurried. Occasionally, a particularly aggressive prisoner would lunge toward her, chains rattling as they strained against their restraints, guttural growls emanating from throats that might have forgotten human speech. Elena paid them no attention, her focus unwavering as she made her way to the far wall.

A solitary metal cabinet stood there, incongruously mundane amid the chamber of horrors. Elena approached and withdrew a small key from her uniform pocket, unlocking the cabinet with a metallic click that seemed unnaturally loud. From within, she removed a sleek black suitcase and placed it carefully on a nearby table.

With clinical efficiency, Elena began to disrobe. Her uniform—the symbol of healing and care—was removed piece by piece, folded with meticulous precision, and set aside. The stark lighting revealed her form, but her expression remained detached, as if she were simply changing outfits after a shift.

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From the suitcase, she withdrew her alternative attire. First came the skintight black bodysuit that clung to every contour, fashioned from a material that gleamed like oil under the harsh lights. Over this, she fastened intricate leather harnesses studded with metal accents, creating a complex web of restraints that served no functional purpose beyond aesthetic intimidation. Her hands disappeared into elbow-length gloves tipped with silver claws at each finger. A domino mask—simple yet effective—concealed the upper portion of her face, transforming her familiar features into something alien and threatening.

The final touch was the whip—a length of braided leather ending in multiple tails, each tipped with a small metal barb that caught the light with malevolent promise. She wound the handle around her palm, the weapon an extension of her transformed self.

With her transformation complete, Elena returned her discarded uniform to the suitcase and locked it away in the cabinet. Then, standing before the polished metal surface of the cabinet door, she pressed her hands to her face, fingers digging into the skin as if kneading clay. The movement seemed almost ritualistic, a physical manifestation of the internal shift taking place.

When her hands fell away, Elena the nurse had vanished entirely. Her previously neutral expression had transformed into something altogether different—lips curved in a flush-cheeked smile that spoke of anticipated pleasure, eyes wide with an unsettling hunger behind her mask. The change was so complete it seemed impossible that this was the same woman who had tended to students’ minor injuries and illnesses just hours before.

The whip cracked suddenly, the sharp sound reverberating through the chamber. Several prisoners flinched reflexively, conditioned responses suggesting this was a familiar prelude. Elena’s smile widened at their reaction, her breathing noticeably quickening. Again and again, she snapped the whip, each crack seeming to fuel her visible excitement.

With deliberate steps that now held a predatory grace entirely absent from her earlier movements, Elena prowled between the cages. She passed several prisoners without a second glance, clearly seeking a specific quarry. Finally, she stopped before a cage somewhat removed from the others.

Unlike the majority of captives, the three occupants of this particular enclosure showed no signs of physical abuse. They sat alert and watchful, their postures suggesting readiness rather than defeat. One man with distinctly Xian features observed Elena with calculating eyes. Beside him, a woman with similar heritage watched with cold assessment. The third captive—slightly older than his companions—maintained perfect stillness, only his eyes tracking Elena’s movements.

Elena recognized them immediately: Akira, Ruohan, and Min-jae—the imperial spies who had been captured by a freshman a few days ago.

"Would you like to have some fun?" Elena purred, her voice unrecognizable from the professional, soothing tones she used in the infirmary. The words hung in the air, laden with sinister promise.

As if responding to her voice, the cage door slid open automatically, magical locks disengaging with a soft hiss. Elena stepped forward, whip trailing behind her across the stone floor, anticipation radiating from her transformed persona.