Academy’s Undercover Professor-Chapter 224: The Presentation (3)

Altego’s remark was undeniably rude.

In front of thousands of witnesses, he was essentially asking Ludger if he’d truly come up with all this on his own.

Implying that someone else had helped—and that Ludger had taken all the credit.

That was exactly what Altego was suggesting.

From his seat in the upper tier, Auguste stared at Altego.

This was a spontaneous move even Auguste, also a member of the Old Mage Tower’s Elder Council, hadn’t been informed about.

Though both were elders, Altego held a rank slightly beneath Auguste’s. And Auguste now debated whether to intervene.

‘Altego... For him to come out like this, he must have something to rely on.’

Realizing there was a calculated reason behind the move, Auguste chose to stay silent.

Even without his involvement, the reactions from the surrounding mages were loud enough.

“Can an elder of the Mage Tower really say something like that?”

“He wouldn’t say it without a reason. Maybe he caught on to something shady.”

“Either way, things just got a lot more interesting.”

Ludger met Altego’s gaze and asked calmly:

“Elder Altego, may I ask the intent behind your question?”

“It’s exactly what it sounds like. I’m asking whether this research was truly your sole achievement.”

“You’re questioning whether my results are my own?”

“I just found it... curious, that’s all. I mean, we’re talking about a script that countless archaeologists and mages have tried to decipher for centuries. And now a mere 4th-Circle mage claims to have fully translated it? Do you really expect us to believe that?”

Some of the audience began nodding along with Altego’s pointed reasoning.

“Well, when you think about it, it is kind of suspicious. Even if he is a Seorn instructor, this level of result is just... unbelievable.”

“Yeah. He might be a genius theoretician, but suddenly solving what no one else ever could? That’s hard to swallow.”

Doubt spread like wildfire through the audience.

Altego smiled inwardly, pleased at how things were unfolding.

‘Let’s see how you answer this, you arrogant brat.’

He didn’t believe for a second that Ludger had done it all alone.

Even inventing a new type of magic was one thing—but fully deciphering a lost language? That was something else entirely.

Each of those feats alone would be remarkable. But both?

Altego, for all his rigid thinking, always based his judgments on concrete reasoning—his own experience.

He’d lived long and achieved a high rank. He’d seen and experienced much along the way.

And almost always, those events had aligned with his instincts and statistical reasoning.

So, based on precedent, Altego had concluded:

Ludger Cherish had not conducted this research alone.

‘Sure, there have been mages who stood out in one particular field. I’ll give you that. And yes, I acknowledge that you invented a new form of magic. That’s praise-worthy. But to master an entirely different field as well? No chance.’

There were rare exceptions.

Like the man seated in the upper tier, quietly observing the proceedings—Archmage Clinton Rothschild.

A true prodigy who had stirred the world from his youth.

Not just an eagle among chickens, but a phoenix among eagles.

That was how Clinton had reached the 7th Circle—the highest known tier attainable by mankind.

But a genius of Clinton’s caliber was a one-in-a-million case.

There were only a handful of 7th-Circle archmages on the entire continent.

To imagine Ludger Cherish as one of those rare cases?

Altego simply couldn’t believe it.

In his judgment, Ludger was a genius, yes—but just another genius among many.

Not one who stood above even other geniuses.

‘There has to be someone. Someone who helped him with this research. Maybe they’re hiding because they don’t want to be exposed. Or maybe Ludger’s hiding them to take all the credit for himself. Personally, I hope it’s the latter.’

That would make it easier to tear him down.

Still, there was one thing bothering him:

Ludger’s calmness.

Despite the pressure bearing down on him, Ludger remained composed.

Altego narrowed his eyes.

‘He’s not even flinching. Is he truly confident, or just putting on a desperate act of calm?’

His attempts to shake Ludger had yielded no visible effect, which irked him further.

But that was fine.

The more Ludger tried to endure it, the more fun it would be to break him down.

“Professor Ludger. I admit your research is fascinating. But I still find it hard to believe. Could someone really have uncovered all this alone?”

“There’s no reason one couldn’t,” Ludger replied evenly.

“Then why hasn’t anyone else figured it out until now? Are you suggesting their abilities were lacking?”

At Altego’s tenacious prodding, Ludger’s brow creased slightly.

‘He’s trying to dig out a flaw no matter what.’

Even just glancing around, it was clear that at least half the room was being swayed by Altego’s argument.

Understandable.

It was hard to believe that someone so young had accomplished what older, more experienced individuals hadn’t.

You could call it narrow-mindedness—but it also showed that what Ludger had done was extraordinary.

‘And Elder Altego is attacking me because he’s convinced I couldn’t have done it.’

Ludger’s eyes flicked briefly toward one of the upper seats—where the Headmaster sat.

As always, her expression was carefully neutral, revealing nothing.

But her gaze clearly said, You can handle this, right?

Even if she pretended otherwise, she was clearly concerned.

‘I figured something like this would happen anyway.’

He had never expected this presentation to be met with applause and cheer.

Most mages were creatures of their studies—reclusive and often envious.

Some would admire his work with genuine awe.

Others, however, would try to find even the smallest fault, nitpicking just to tear him down.

“Since Elder Altego of the Old Mage Tower is so curious, I will answer you as the presenter. The research is mine, and the Larsil translation was also completed by me alone.”

“And how can you be so sure of that?”

“What’s there to prove? If the research is mine, and you claim it’s not, isn’t it you who should provide the evidence?”

Altego grinned—he’d been waiting for that.

“Then you’re saying, if I ask questions about this, you’ll be able to answer all of them?”

“Yes. Ask as much as you like.”

Ludger immediately realized something from Altego’s behavior.

He had prepared for this moment.

The way he had baited the audience with such confidence—it meant he had a sharp line of questioning ready.

‘And if he’s going to ask questions, he probably won’t do it himself. He must have brought in an expert in the field.’

Just as Ludger predicted—

When Altego gave a slight nod, a man who had been sitting quietly beside him stood up.

A shaft of light from the domed ceiling naturally illuminated him.

“A pleasure to meet you. I am Malroso Grebori.”

He was tall and gaunt.

With curly brown hair and pince-nez glasses perched on his nose, he exuded the aura of a scholar—but also gave off the impression of a venomous snake, ready to sink its fangs into someone.

“I’m a scholar specializing in ancient languages and archaeology. Most recently, I’ve been studying Larsil specifically, and I believe I know more about it than anyone.”

Some of the mages in the hall recognized him.

Ludger did not miss their reactions.

‘Judging by that, he must be a fairly well-known figure in his field.’

Especially given his emphasis on Larsil research—it was clear this moment had been meticulously prepared.

‘So they were certain I’d bring up Larsil. Most likely, a mage from the Old Mage Tower who attended the clinical trial leaked the information.’

Even as Malroso politely greeted the audience, he kept casting glances at Ludger.

And the light gleaming behind his pince-nez was anything but friendly.

It was sharp and cold—undeniably hostile.

The emotion was unmistakable: jealousy.

‘They’ve brought a truly starved hunting dog.’

It was plain as day.

He clearly believed Ludger had stolen the glory that should have been his for deciphering Larsil.

Malroso raised one corner of his mouth into a smirk.

It was the kind of grin that promised he'd soon go for the throat.

Ludger didn’t react to the provocation.

He stood still and simply watched, silently, as the clown made his entrance.

Malroso dramatically adjusted his pince-nez.

“Well then,” Malroso began, “since Mr. Ludger Cherish has said questions are welcome, I’ll humbly pose one myself—though my knowledge is limited.”

“By all means,” Ludger replied calmly.

“You stated that the Larsil language is composed of three different scripts, did you not?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Then, would you be able to translate this sentence for us?”

Malroso raised a magic pen and wrote glowing characters in the air.

The bluish letters formed a full sentence—clearly written in Larsil.

“Since you claim to have translated the entire language, I assume you’ll understand what this means.”

Ludger studied the sentence.

“‘It was a late morning. The meal I hastily prepared was terrible.’ That’s what it says.”

It took him less than three seconds to respond.

Malroso’s smirk widened.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“That’s strange. I’ve studied Larsil extensively, and I know exactly what this sentence means. But your translation is completely different from what I know.”

Malroso sounded almost disappointed.

He had expected something at least comparable—but this? This was so far off, there wasn’t even anything to tear apart.

“The sentence you’ve translated has nothing in common with the real meaning. I swear on my name—you’re wrong.”

The mages in the audience began murmuring.

The hopeful anticipation on their faces withered in an instant.

“This is outrageous. You tried to pull a scam in front of all these people? Did you think so little of the Arcane Chamber?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Ludger replied coolly. “I’ve never attempted to deceive anyone.”

“No? But your translation ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) was incorrect. In fact, the very first word is wrong. Do you even know what this is?”

“Light.”

At Ludger’s answer, Malroso faltered.

“...Correct. The first word is ‘light.’ And the next?”

“Grace.”

His reply came with blade-like precision.

Malroso suddenly felt something was off.

“...What is this? Did you get it right on purpose the second time?”

“I wasn’t wrong to begin with.”

“Excuse me?”

“I gave you the primary, literal translation. That's how the words read at their first level.”

“First level?”

Malroso didn’t understand.

“You seem confused, so allow me to show you.”

Ludger raised his hand.

“If we interpret the sentence at its most basic level, it reads: ‘The light bestowed its grace upon me, but I could not fully receive it.’”

“...!”

Malroso was stunned.

The exact sentence he had struggled to interpret, Ludger recited effortlessly—and even more fluently than he had.

A chill of unease began creeping up Malroso’s neck.

“Why did you say something else the first time, then? Were you trying to make a fool of me?”

“Why would I bother doing something so childish?”

“W-Well...”

“And as I said, that was the first level of interpretation. If there’s a first, then naturally there’s a second.”

“Are you saying... that earlier sentence—the one you gave before—is the second-level interpretation?”

“Yes. And the final one.”

At that, Malroso’s face turned bright red.

“Don’t be ridiculous! The two sentences are completely different!”

“Exactly. That’s why Larsil is so difficult to translate. The people of that time didn’t use language intuitively.”

“W-What are you talking about...”

“Modern linguistics is essentially useless for ancient languages like this. Phonetics and phonology may get you partway there—but analysis through direct semantic construction is practically impossible. Did you not know that?”

What—modern linguistics doesn’t apply?

“Since we’ve come this far, I’ll even walk you through the interpretation.”

Before Malroso could respond, Ludger summoned mana.

The sentence Malroso had written earlier materialized above Ludger’s head—now rendered in crisp, elegant calligraphy.

“The ancients believed that written words held mystical power. So whenever they transcribed speech into writing, they stylized and altered the text—usually twice—to make it more mystical and beautiful. They called this synonymic transformation. Have you heard of it?”

“I... uh...”

“No, I assume not. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have made the foolish mistake of declaring a correct translation to be incorrect.”

Malroso swallowed his words as though pierced through the chest.

Ludger’s gaze carried a contemptuous chill, like one might direct at a pitiable fool.

“In this sentence, the ‘light’ refers to the morning sun. With the word ‘grace’ following it, the ‘light’ no longer means literal brightness, but the benevolent light of the sun—a symbol of blessing. In that era, this indicated the sun itself. And the ‘grace’ refers to the food they were to receive that day.”

The glowing characters above shifted, reshaping into a new sentence.

“If the speaker had outright refused the blessing, the text would’ve said so. But since he ‘could not receive it fully,’ the implication is that the food was bad. In other words, he skipped breakfast.”

Larsil survives only in one written record—a personal journal of a mage.

It contains details of the culture, habits, and mindset expected of mages at the time.

But it also records the mage’s mundane, day-to-day life.

“Th-That’s absurd...”

Malroso turned pale.

The sentence he had labored to decipher—when properly interpreted—turned out to mean... he’d just skipped breakfast.

Altego, who had been enjoying the show from the sidelines, was no better off.

“And so,” Ludger said, delivering the final blow, “the sentence Malroso translated was a throwaway line from the diary of an ancient mage. Since he didn’t know the other two scripts, he naturally chose one of the easier lines to interpret.”

Ludger’s words resounded through the Arcane Chamber.

“So... does that sufficiently answer your question?”