The Royal Military Academy's Impostor Owns a Dungeon [BL] novel Chapter 551

Chapter 551: You Can’t Do That!

"Ghk—!"

The strangled noise escaped from more than one person in the crowd.

Because frankly, they didn’t know how to react.

Who do you call in a situation like this? Who’s in charge? The examiners? The Emperor? A priest?

Was it even legal to witness this? Were they supposed to look away? Clap? Cry?

No one knew. But what Master Mechanic Allan knew—deep in his bones—was that he’d nearly choked on his own saliva after he accidentally looked up.

He hadn’t meant to.

He had sat down determined not to watch this farce. Not a single second of it. He wouldn’t give this circus the honor of his attention. He had better things to do. Like pretending to read mecha calibration charts while ignoring the ridiculous cheers echoing around him.

His plan was simple: tune everything out, zone back in at the end, and report back to House Zorath with a single line summary like: "Yes, it happened."

But then...

Silence.

At first, he didn’t notice.

He assumed it was a natural progression of tuning things out. A sign of his superior focus. Or maybe early-onset tinnitus—either was acceptable.

But then a strange prickling sensation crawled up the back of his neck. The kind of sixth sense honed by decades of mechanical near-deaths and professional grudges.

He frowned. And looked up.

And that was when he saw it.

An ancient.

An actual fossil of a man. One of the master mechanics who had once fallen asleep during a bomb test and lived.

That man, normally slouched and shorter than most stools, was standing.

Feet flat. Back straight. Eyes glassy.

Like he’d just seen his goddess descend from the skies wearing nothing but resonance frequencies.

"???"

For a moment, Master Allan feared the old man had died on the spot. Passed on. Ascended.

But no. The ancient trembled. His mouth opened slowly. Hands lifted—shaking—as if praising the divine.

And then.

The bony finger pointed.

Forward.

To the front of the auditorium.

Master Allan’s stomach dropped. He followed the gesture.

And he saw that.

That scaffolding. That storm of spiritual energy. That—that child. Surrounded by tendrils of light like a cosmic octopus with a blueprint addiction.

Allan’s eyes widened.

His jaw clicked.

His brain screamed.

But nothing came out except—

"!!!"

Sheer insanity.

It was as if he’d been electrocuted.

Jolted.

Because even if that boy was sealed behind reinforced shielding in the testing area, there was no amount of shielding in the universe that could hide that.

That... spectacle.

How does one even describe it?

Master Allan stared, slack-jawed. He’d seen people flaring their spiritual energies like an orchestrated lightning show choreographed by some bird using it for a mating call.

But this?

This was deliberate.

Precise.

Controlled.

And somehow excessive.

Yes, yes, mechanics were a special breed. They trained their spiritual energy to shape, stabilize, and assemble. That was normal. Advanced, even.

But this wasn’t spiritual shaping.

This was spiritual micromanagement.

This kid—this child—was using his spiritual energy like a dozen highly-trained hands, all simultaneously moving scaffolding, sorting components, and arranging tools by type, color, and usage sequence.

Master Allan’s brain sputtered.

Because he was a master mechanic.

And even he—in all his years, in all his painstaking efforts—could not claim that his spiritual energy could do what his fingers could. At least not like this.

And yet here was this sprout, treating spiritual threads like extra hands, very long and durable extra hands.

He watched as Luca calmly did all that and heaven-knows-what else, all while turning to barely glance at the crowd absentmindedly like he hadn’t just casually committed high-level spiritual multitasking in public.

Allan’s mouth moved wordlessly.

Was this kid showing off?!

Was he planning to burn through his entire spiritual pool just to hold a damn wrench?!

Where was the proctor?! The instructor?! Any reasonable adult?! Shouldn’t someone stop him?!

But no. No one called out. No one sounded the alarm. They were just letting him do this.

Master Allan’s entire soul itched.

This—this might have been the most magnificent use of spiritual energy he’d seen in decades.

Possibly in his entire life.

And he hated it.

He hated how much he respected it.

He shook his head. No. No, he could not be allowed to fall stupid with awe. He had to stay sharp. Stay professional. Someone needed to tell that reckless gremlin to stop trying to evolve into a forklift.

And there could only be one culprit behind this irresponsible madness.

Quinn.

That godforsaken, sandal-wearing fossil.

Of course.

Of course, he could be the only one to encourage this.

Allan turned, jaw already primed to deliver a legendary lecture about spiritual endurance limits and cranial overconfidence.

Only...

Only Quinn didn’t look surprised.

Not even a little.

Okay, okay, someone must still have sense left.

Ah. There. Marshal Julian.

Okay. Okay. Sanity had not fully left the building.

Right there, visible for all to see, was a material he had not laid eyes on in a very, very long time.

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