School Transmigration: I, Chosen as the Saint by Dragons at the Start-Chapter 242 --Backlash

"Why are you speaking again? Didn’t I tell you not to blabber?"

"I wasn’t blabbering, and besides, Your Highness, you said not to speak out of turn in front of National Preceptor Blois, right? But the National Preceptor hasn’t arrived yet. I was merely following Your Highness’s instructions!"

Armando, resigned, said, "Alright, alright, alright, listen carefully now. From this moment on, do not utter a single word. Do you understand?"

"But, but, won’t that be the death of me?"

"Do I need to lose my temper for you to obey?"

"Of course not, certainly not."

Armando glared at Marwan, who promptly shut his mouth.

Armando and Marwan waited in the hall for a while longer.

Impatiently, Armando remarked, "This National Preceptor Blois really knows how to put on airs, making me wait for so long. Don’t you think he’s being too much, Marwan?"

Armando waited for Marwan to respond, but noticed after some time that Marwan hadn’t said a word.

Annoyed, Armando said, "Now, Marwan, you dare to slight me? I’m asking you a question. Why aren’t you responding?"

Turning to look at Marwan, Armando saw his face was beet red, struggling to speak without making a sound.

Armando thought to himself: What’s gotten into him? Why is his face so red? He couldn’t be having some sort of attack, could he?

Immediately, Armando went over and grabbed Marwan’s wrist, asking with concern, "What’s the matter? Are you feeling unwell somewhere?"

At that moment, Marwan internally cursed: I’m not sick! Wasn’t it you who told me not to talk? And now you’re asking if I’m sick. If I don’t speak soon, I might indeed suffocate.

The more Armando questioned Marwan, the redder Marwan’s face became, leaving Armando perplexed by Marwan’s growing anxiety.

He wondered what Marwan wanted to do but couldn’t figure it out, especially since Marwan was usually quite talkative.

It was odd to see him unable to speak; perhaps, he thought, Marwan’s usual verbosity was a cover for his inability to speak when unwell.

Armando had an epiphany, realizing Marwan must be ill.

That explained a lot, like how such a peculiar character had managed to survive and even thrive in the officialdom, securing a lucrative position.

Perhaps others simply didn’t bother arguing with him out of pity for his condition.

Guilty for scolding him earlier and forbidding him from speaking, Armando understood his mistake.

Realizing it was his own prohibition that kept Marwan silent, Armando smacked his forehead and said with an apologetic smile, "You can speak now.

I’m allowing you to speak.

You’re free to say whatever you want; no one will restrain you."

Marwan looked at Armando, his eyes questioning, "Can I really speak now?"

Armando nodded in affirmation.

Marwan seemed to seek further confirmation, as if asking, "Am I truly allowed to speak?"

This time, Armando didn’t just nod but explicitly encouraged him, "Go ahead, Marwan."

Marwan let out a sigh of relief, "I was nearly suffocated."

Seeing Marwan’s complexion return to normal, Armando shifted the topic to avoid further embarrassment, "Marwan, what do you think National Preceptor Blois is up to? Why hasn’t he come to meet us yet? Is he taking me lightly?"

"Yes, Your Highness! The National Preceptor is indeed putting on quite the airs, making us wait this long without showing up. It’s a clear slight to Your Highness!"

At this time, the steward was also in search of his master.

He headed to the study, finding no one there.

The steward knew if the National Preceptor wasn’t in the study, he should check if the oil lamp was still on the desk.

The National Preceptor had instructed him that if the lamp was gone, it meant he wasn’t in the study, and the steward could look elsewhere.

However, if it was still there, he was to shout out the report loud enough for the National Preceptor to hear from across the wall opposite the bookshelf.

The rationale behind this peculiar directive was beyond the steward, leaving him to wonder if the National Preceptor had somehow burrowed into the wall.

Despite his confusion, the steward always followed these instructions to the letter, fearful of the consequences of disobedience.

He was well aware that the National Preceptor was far from a merciful man.

Noticing the absence of the oil lamp on the desk, the steward proceeded as directed to the specified wall.

He shouted towards it, "Master, the Crown Prince is waiting for you in the hall! They haven’t found anything."

Every time he yelled at the wall, the steward questioned his sanity.

But what else could he do?

After calling out several times, he left the study.

This wall wasn’t ordinary; it concealed a passage leading to an unknown destination.

The steward’s voice traveled through a special mechanism embedded in the wall, reaching the far end of the secret passage.

This passage ended in a spacious underground chamber, its walls adorned with various carvings.

At this moment, in the underground chamber, National Preceptor Blois, adorned in a bizarre garment sewn from crow feathers, was pacing circles around a coffin crafted from crystal.

He was murmuring something under his breath, emitting strange sounds.

The scene in the basement was eerie, resembling a large crow cawing incessantly around a coffin, a sight both horrifying and unnerving.

Upon hearing from the steward above in the study that the Crown Prince was waiting for him in the hall, Blois became anxious.

The ritual had already begun and could not be arbitrarily halted without risking backlash.

Blois thought desperately: How could this be happening so soon? They shouldn’t have finished inspecting that fake ledger already.

What am I to do now?

Halting the ritual wasn’t an option, as completing it would take more time than he had.

If he delayed further, and if suspicion was aroused, leading to the discovery of this chamber’s secrets, it would ruin his plans.

Yet, stopping the ritual now could provoke a dangerous backlash, threatening his life.

How was he to navigate this predicament?

Such rituals required undivided attention, and Blois’s concentration was clearly disrupted.

Suddenly, Blois spat a mouthful of blood onto the crystal coffin, and the blood was absorbed by the crystal, signifying a bad omen.

Blois realized, "This is backlash," and with a wave of his left hand, he emitted a burst of purple light.

In the underground chamber, where National Preceptor Blois, clothed in a bizarre garment made from crow feathers, circled a crystal sarcophagus endlessly while muttering incessantly, producing eerie sounds.

The scene was unsettling, reminiscent of a giant crow circling a coffin, screaming ominously.

Upon hearing from the steward above that the Crown Prince was waiting for him in the hall, Blois became anxious.

The ritual had commenced and couldn’t be halted abruptly without risking backlash.

Blois thought desperately, "How could this be happening so soon? They’ve already gone through the fake ledger that quickly? What should I do now?"

Continuing the ritual would take much longer than he had.

If he waited to finish before meeting them, suspicions might arise, potentially revealing his secrets and ruining his plans.

Yet, halting the ritual now could lead to dangerous backlash, threatening his life.

Such rituals demanded undivided attention, and Blois’s concentration was clearly disrupted.

Suddenly, he spat blood onto the crystal coffin, which absorbed it immediately.

Realizing the backlash had begun, Blois conjured a burst of purple light with a wave of his left hand.

The chamber walls, carved with various demonic faces, began to ooze blood, trickling down grooves in the walls and pooling at the base of the crystal sarcophagus.

The sarcophagus, seemingly sensing its prey, quivered slightly as it greedily absorbed the blood seeping from the walls, or more precisely, drawn into the corpse within.

As the sarcophagus greedily absorbed the blood, Blois seized the moment to employ his most powerful witchcraft to counter the backlash emanating from the sarcophagus.

His ceremonial robe of black crow feathers shattered and fell away as he spat out mouthfuls of blood, furious at the interruption.

The ritual, which required rare herbs gathered with great difficulty, was disrupted, and worse, it had caused backlash.

If not for his thorough preparations, he might have been dead.

Cursing under his breath for the interruption and grateful for his foresight, Blois lamented the waste of materials and the need to gather them again.

After sitting cross-legged to recover his energy for hours, Blois finally felt revitalized and returned to his study.

"Someone, fetch me a change of clothes," he commanded.

A maid, waiting outside the study, hurried to fetch a garment from Blois’s bedroom upon hearing his request.

"Your clothes, master," she announced.

"Come in," he allowed.

The maid pushed open the door to the study and walked in to find Blois standing there naked, waiting for her to help him dress.

Blushing, she approached Blois to assist him.

Noticing Blois’s emaciated body, marked with streaks of blood, and his pale face carrying an expression of anger, the maid, scarcely daring to breathe, carefully helped him into his clothes.

Suddenly, Blois asked, "What is your name?"

The maid replied, "I am called Bessi."

"Oh, have you ever been involved with anyone inappropriately since you came to my residence?"

Embarrassed by the National Preceptor’s question, Bessi answered shyly, "No, I remain untouched."

Blois’s mouth curled into a slight smile.

As Bessi finished dressing the National Preceptor and was about to leave, Blois stopped her, "Come to the study tonight, and tell no one, or you will regret it."

Bessi, initially startled, then blushed deeply before responding, "Yes."

"Good, you may leave now."

Blois, looking at his reflection in the mirror, smirked coldly.

Dressed now, it was clear that Blois had once been a handsome young man.

However, his dedication to witchcraft had left him gaunt, making his appearance somewhat unnerving.