Bab 40: Impostor

While focusing on the whiteboard like the rest of the students, George felt two pairs of eyes on him—one from the back of the class and another from the front.

"What the..." he muttered, turning to see the barbarian, Akshar, glaring at him, a neck guard bracing his injured neck. "Hell..."

It turns out George's version of the German suplex—a dangerous move even in pro wrestling—had broken Akshar's neck. 'How the heck is he still here?'

George quickly tore his gaze from Akshar, attempting to pay attention to the lecture again, only to lock eyes with Peyton, staring intently from the front row.

"Not him too!" George groaned and turned away, desperate to focus on the lesson.

Thankfully, Peyton soon shifted his attention back to the teacher.

"Seems Peyton's butthurt," Jame commented from beside George, still scribbling in his notebook.

"What do you mean?" George asked.

"Peyton's the type to avenge his losses. When he gets beaten by someone, he makes it his mission to defeat them. You kinda ruined his chance by beating Akshar."

George rolled his eyes. "Why can't kids just be kids here? Back in my day, I played with a PX69..."

"What?"

"Nothing..." George replied quickly.

"Impostor," Jame whispered, not looking up from his notes.

George froze, feeling a sudden chill run down his spine. "What?"

"Oz's impostor..." Jame continued nonchalantly.

George tensed, his hands tightening on his desk. "I don't know what you're talking about." He cleared his throat, pushing his chair back slightly.

"Oh, really?" Jame said, his tone teasing. "I have sources. Turns out the Emerald City Special Forces are on the hunt for an impostor pretending to be the Great Wizard. Sir Michael's heavily involved in the search."

George blinked, trying to keep his expression neutral. "Has this news gone public yet?"

"Nope. But it'll be in the papers soon. They haven't caught him yet."

George nodded, relieved. "Good to know... Let's see how that unfolds."

**A few days earlier...**

Outside the academy grounds, Michael sprinted toward a carriage, panic etched across his face. "We have to get out of here fast!!" he shouted, diving inside.

A guard from the Emerald City followed, puzzled by Michael's frantic behavior. "Sir, what's happening?"

"Just follow orders!" Michael snapped. "Get us to the castle immediately. And summon the Special Forces."

The guard blinked, unsure. "Are you certain, Sir?"

"YES!" Michael barked. The carriage jolted forward, racing at such speed that the wooden frame began shaking violently, threatening to fall apart.

As they reached the castle gates, Michael stormed out of the carriage. "Don't forget, call the Special Forces and get the captain!" he shouted over his shoulder.

"Where should they go, Sir?" the guard asked.

"The War Room," Michael growled, striding into the castle without another word.

Inside, the war room was fortified with layers of steel and tungsten, the kind of protection reserved for the kingdom's most vital operations. The door was like the ones used for safes, thick and impenetrable.

As Michael approached, a guard opened the door. "Sir Michael, please enter."

Michael muttered a thanks, still adjusting his tie as he stepped inside.

"You're late," a gruff, bearded man in a dark green uniform said. The tone was more casual than deferential—a hallmark of the Emerald City Special Forces.

"I had to change," Michael replied, still irritated. "You wouldn't want me stinking up the room like I just crawled out of a swamp."

"I suppose not," the man chuckled.

Michael settled into his usual chair, adjusting the height manually—a chair that traveled with him everywhere, customized for his comfort.

"So, why are we here?" the captain of the Emerald City guards asked, arms crossed. His fellow Special Forces members nodded, awaiting an answer.

Michael took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. The men in front of him were not ordinary soldiers. The Emerald City Special Forces were the elite—trained to surpass the intelligence and skill of even the finest warriors. Each member passed their knowledge to one heir, ensuring there were only nine of them, but they were more than enough to cause problems for even Oz himself.

Previous wizards, including Oztanfil, had struggled to manage them. Their intellect and investigative abilities often came dangerously close to unraveling Oz's carefully woven mysteries.

"I'll tell you this once," Michael began, "there's a criminal pretending to be the Great Wizard."

"And how do you know that?" one of the soldiers asked, unconcerned with formalities.

Michael raised a bank card. "This card belongs to me. It was found empty in the hills of Angmar. The Empire Bank tracked its transactions and discovered it had been used all across the region. Nearly every vendor who accepted payment described the user as an exact copy of the Great Wizard."

He tossed a letter from the bank onto the table. The captain of the Emerald City guards picked it up and skimmed through, his expression shifting to disbelief.

"He spent the entire city's budget?" the captain asked, half-laughing, half-outraged.

"Yeah..." Michael replied, shaking his head in frustration.

One of the other men at the table slammed his fist down. "How are we supposed to get paid, then?"

The room erupted into chaos, with several soldiers shouting angrily at Michael, demanding answers.

Michael raised his hands, trying to calm the storm. "Relax! I have enough in my personal account to cover three months' salaries for the city. But we need to find this impostor before the money runs out."