I CHOSE to be a VILLAIN, not a THIRD-RATE EXTRA!!-Chapter 140: Gossiping Grandpa

The moment the old man spoke, the air between them thickened.

The once warm and nagging grandfatherly demeanor melted away, replaced by an unyielding presence—a strict teacher, not to be trifled with.

His darkened gaze fixed on Ashok, unblinking, steady, filled with a silent warning.

Gone was the casual ease of their conversation; in its place, a subtle yet unmistakable sense of confrontation emerged.

There was a reason for this sudden change.

The Academy was no ordinary institution—it functioned like a vast, intricate machine, upheld by three dominant Departments that ensured its continued existence:

The Blacksmith Department, the Maintenance Department, and the Medical Department.

Though their names seemed ordinary, almost misleadingly simple, their contributions were nothing short of monumental.

The Blacksmith Department's purpose extended far beyond the mere forging of weapons.

It was responsible for the creation of everything within the Academy's walls—every facility, every structure, every innovation.

In the most literal sense, one could say that the Academy was built by the Blacksmiths, piece by piece.

Beneath its vast umbrella, numerous specialized divisions flourished, including the Alchemy Division, responsible for complex transmutations;

the Scribe Division, which recorded and refined magical inscriptions; and several others dedicated to the art of creation.

Equally vital was the Maintenance Department, the silent guardian of the Academy's vast ecosystem.

It held dominion over every structure forged by the Blacksmiths, ensuring their continued functionality.

Whether regulating the floating island's stability or fine-tuning the Academy's temperature, every detail fell under its jurisdiction.

Like its counterpart, it housed several divisions—the Teaching Division, responsible for educating and mentoring;

The Magic Division, overseeing arcane advancements;

The Security Division, tasked with the defense and regulation of the Academy's perimeters and several other division.

Like the Blacksmith and Maintenance Departments, the Medical Department's responsibilities extend far beyond mere healing.

It serves as the silent safeguard of the Academy, ensuring that everything—

From the facilities regulated by the Maintenance Department to the creations forged by the Blacksmith Department—remains safe for both students and staff.

Their oversight is absolute; every structure, every innovation, every mechanism must pass their final scrutiny.

They are the last line of defense against potential hazards, meticulously examining everything from the meals served in the cafeteria to the purity of the bathing water.

Nothing escapes their vigilance, for even the slightest oversight could lead to unforeseen consequences.

This is the reason why influential figures could send their future Talents from the all over the World to the Academy without caring about their safety.

The Academy hadn't maintained its reputation for nothing. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

Among the Academy's ranks, only the Heads of these three crucial Departments hold the esteemed title of Senior Teacher.

Their authority stands equal to that of the Dean himself—a balance of power rarely challenged, yet universally acknowledged.

When the three Heads unite in unanimous agreement, their decision carries the same weight as the Dean's own ruling.

Perhaps most significantly, the Three Heads possess the power, through collective accord, to remove and replace the Dean of the Academy—

A possibility that exists in theory but has never once occurred in the institution's long and storied history.

Hamiel, as one of these three formidable figures, wielded significant influence.

A Gold Pass granted by him was not limited in scope; it carried weight across all the minor divisions under the Blacksmith Department's jurisdiction

The old man narrowed his eyes, his mind racing with questions.

Why would Hamiel grant such a valuable thing to a mere brat—one who had just stepped into the Academy?

And more disturbingly, how did this boy, this newcomer, know his identity as the Head of the Maintenance Division?

While it wasn't exactly a closely guarded secret, it also not common knowledge.

A senior student—perhaps a third or fourth-year might easily know it, but a first-year possessing such awareness was an anomaly, one that hinted at something far deeper than simple curiosity.

Ashok, however, remained unfazed under the old man's scrutinizing gaze.

He met the piercing stare with absolute indifference, as if the weight of the man's authority had no significance in his world.

"This information will cost extra," Ashok stated, his voice devoid of hesitation, his expression unreadable.

The old man's lips pressed into a thin line. "I am in no mood for jokes," he said, his voice colder now, edged with something more than irritation.

And then, without further warning, the atmosphere shifted.

The Old released his Mana pressure, the pressure of an S Rank. Though the old man still held back, mindful of the fact that he was dealing with a student, the sheer weight of his power was undeniable.

Yet, to his growing astonishment, Ashok did not flinch.

Did not stagger. Did not even blink.

He stood firm, his stance unshaken, his breathing calm—an unmovable figure amidst the suffocating energy.

Mia, who was in the midst of dealing with the students in the Weapon Arts Section, sensed the disturbance immediately.

Her sharp instincts recognized the signature of the mana pressure, and she chose not to interfere.

She knew precisely who it belonged to—and while she was tempted to intervene, she had a faint suspicion about who might be on the receiving end of it.

Ashok exhaled slowly, his expression unwavering.

"I am also not jesting," Ashok said, his voice commanding.

'Ho! Now, what is this?' The old man mused internally, his sharp eyes studying the unwavering figure before him.

'A new student standing firm against my mana pressure, speaking without even the slightest tremor. Marvelous! Truly marvelous! Just what kind of mental strength does this brat possess? It seems the dwarf's eyes are still sharp.'

Though the thought lingered in his mind, his face remained unreadable—his expression stoic, his posture unchanged.

He was another who, like Mia, mistook Ashok's Blessing for sheer mental fortitude.

After a brief pause, he finally spoke.

"How many credits?" The question was simple, measured.

Ashok met his gaze, "Credits? Do you truly believe that such information is worth merely credits?" His voice carried an edge, not in defiance, but in quiet confidence.

The old man narrowed his eyes slightly.

"What do you want?" His tone was more cautious now.

"I will tell you how Teacher Hamiel gave me the Gold Pass—along with the truth about your identity— just for a Diamond Pass of the Maintenance Department."

The old man scoffed, shaking his head in dismissal. "Just a Diamond Pass!? Just?"

His voice was sharp now, laced with disdain.

"Get lost! I'll figure it out myself."

His eyes returned to normal, the weight of his mana pressure dissipating as if it had never been there.

With a flick of his wrist, he placed Ashok's ID card atop the two pieces of Art Manual, then waved his hand in a shooing gesture.

The old man had already registered the Art Manuals, and his demeanor shifted once more.

The strict teacher melted away, and in his place, the familiar presence of the nagging old grandfather returned, as if the previous tension had never existed.

He had found Ashok capable enough—resilient, unshaken by pressure—and that was enough.

Truthfully, the old man had never been overly concerned about how Ashok had discovered his identity.

It was bound to come to light sooner or later.

If anything, he was certain that some blabbermouth among the third or fourth years had let slip the information.

It wasn't as though his position was a deeply held secret; it simply wasn't common knowledge among new students.

But there was one undeniable fact—had Ashok flinched under his oppressive mana pressure, the old man would have made sure to spill everything out of him.

The old man, having taught at the Academy for over a century, adhered to a simple belief: Talent is everything.

If one possessed talent within these walls, then almost anything could be overlooked—rules could bend, exceptions could be made. The Academy thrived on its prodigies.

Ashok was well aware of the old man's philosophy, and he played his hand accordingly.

This wasn't just about gaining favor—it was about strategic positioning.

He had no intention of ingratiating himself with every single teacher in the Academy; that would be a waste of time and effort.

If he could instead win over the Senior Teachers, those whose authority rivaled that of the Dean, then he wouldn't need to concern himself with the Dean at all.

For someone like Ashok, who had maximized his affinity points with every significant character in the game, maneuvering within the Academy's web of influence was not even a challenge.

"Are you sure?" Ashok asked, his tone neutral, yet laced with quiet amusement.

"I am hundred percent sure! Get lost!" the old man barked, waving him off dismissively as he reached for his newspaper.

Ashok didn't move.

Instead, his next words sliced through the air like a well-placed dagger.

"And here I thought I would tell you how I rejected Teacher Hamiel's offer of being his Inheritor."

The old man froze, his fingers hovering over the newspaper before he could flip it open.

In the game, gaining major affinity points from the character required precise knowledge.

Each had their own peculiar interests— for instance Hamiel was drawn to those who possessed deep knowledge of metals and blacksmithing, the knowledge of dwarven Tongue was a bonus.

While this old man had a far more… indulgent preference.

Gossip.

For someone who had lived for centuries in the Academy, the old man had developed a fascination with Academy gossip—especially when it involved the other teachers.

Nothing piqued his interest more than the whispered rumors that circled through the halls.

And now, Ashok had dangled before him the most tantalizing piece of gossip imaginable.

A student—a first-year—rejecting the offer of becoming an Inheritor to a Senior Teacher?

And among the Senior Teacher. That dwarf.

The old man's eyes twitched, his grip on the newspaper faltering.

"Wait a second… What did you just say?" he demanded, his voice no longer dismissive, but sharp. The paper in his hand trembled ever so slightly.

Ashok's lips curled into a barely perceptible smirk.

The bait had been taken.