The academy was alive with movement.
Every corridor, every hall, every shared space was filled with students talking over one another—laughter overlapping, footsteps quickening, excitement humming in the air. And without exception, everyone was focused on one thing:
The Freshmen Ball.
As the name suggested, this wasn't an ordinary event. It was a major occasion at Arkalion Academy—a carefully orchestrated night of elegance, formality, and calculated social maneuvering. A night meant to serve as the first non-combat test for first-year students—one not measured by strength or mana, but by posture, words, and belonging.
For most students… it was familiar territory.
The vast majority came from noble backgrounds. They had grown up in grand halls, attended endless banquets, and learned etiquette as naturally as breathing. Compliments, smiles, word choice—even silence—were all tools they had mastered since childhood.
For them, this night wasn't special.
It was just another evening.
As for me?
It was completely unfamiliar ground.
Even in my previous life, I had never attended a ball. I had never worn formal attire for social reasons, never stood beneath bright lights exchanging words that carried no real meaning.
This—technically—was the first ball I had ever attended.
The idea itself felt strange. An entire event with no connection to survival, power, or combat. Just presence… and observation.
Even so, I wasn't particularly interested.
As far as I remembered, this ball held no real significance. A night that passed without incident—no trouble, no turning points, no deviations from the plot. Just a fleeting social checkpoint.
I was lost in those thoughts as I walked down the corridor toward the classroom.
The noise around me was louder than usual. Groups of students chatted excitedly—some discussing outfits, others speculating about which noble families would attend, who would be noticed, and who would be ignored. An entire world of concerns that had nothing to do with me.
When I reached the classroom and stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted slightly.
It wasn't silence. Conversations didn't stop outright.
But they softened.
Some classmates avoided looking at me. Others glanced my way briefly, then looked away just as quickly. The space around my seat felt wider than it had in previous days, as if an invisible gap had formed without anyone consciously deciding to create it.
It wasn't hostility.
It was caution.
I took my seat without comment. I wasn't looking for interaction, and I wasn't bothered by the lack of it. This was expected. What had happened in the cafeteria hadn't been forgotten—and wouldn't be anytime soon.
Across the room, Ethan waved at me, his bright smile exactly where it always was, as if nothing had changed. I gave him a small nod, then turned my gaze forward again.
I waited.
A few minutes later, Carmilla entered. Her steps were steady, her presence—as always—calm yet commanding. She stopped at the front of the room, scanned the class briefly, and began the lesson without unnecessary introductions.
It wasn't a deep lecture.
She spoke about low-ranked magical beasts—their behavior patterns, the difference between creatures that attack out of hunger and those driven by territorial dominance. She explained how understanding behavior could sometimes matter more than raw power, and how overlooking small details could cost a life.
There was nothing new for me.
But I listened.
Not because I needed the information—but because listening was easier than thinking.
The lesson ended quietly. Students began gathering their belongings, side conversations slowly resurfacing. Carmilla paused briefly before leaving, as if waiting for something, then said in a clear voice:
"There will be an announcement regarding the Freshmen Ball later today. Details will be shared through the official channels. That is all."
Then she left.
I exited the classroom with the others, unhurried. The corridors were more crowded now. Talk of the ball had intensified—excitement rising, along with a hint of nervousness.
I wasn't in the mood to stay amid all that.
Instead of returning to my room, I changed direction.
I needed to clear my head. And the best way I knew how… was training.
---
I entered the training hall.
The air inside was different—cooler, heavier, saturated with the scent of expended mana. The space was mostly empty, save for a few students training in silence or observing simulation screens.
I headed straight for one of the platforms.
I selected virtual opponents of Rank C.
The moment the simulation began, artificial bodies rushed toward me. Their attacks were precise, coordinated—but predictable.
My sword moved before the thought fully formed.
Strike. Dodge. Side cut.
One by one, they fell.
I didn't need to exert myself. I didn't raise my mana output much. My body moved automatically, as if it already knew the path.
"As expected…"
I muttered after the round ended.
There was no sense of achievement. Just confirmation. I had already surpassed this stage.
I continued training.
Another round. Then another.
Time passed without my noticing. I wasn't drenched in sweat, but my focus remained steady. After about an hour of continuous training, I finally stopped the simulation.
And at that moment…
I felt a presence behind me.
Footsteps.
Calm. Steady.
I turned slowly.
It was Leander.
He stood a few meters away, his expression calm as usual, but his eyes more serious than I had ever seen. He wasn't holding a weapon, nor was he in a combat stance—but his presence alone felt different.
He took a step closer.
"Hello, Nyx."
He said it with a simple, relaxed smile.
"Hello,"
I replied, watching him closely.
"What is it?"
He didn't hesitate.
"I want to fight you."
He said it plainly—no buildup, no wordplay.
I raised an eyebrow slightly. I was about to refuse, but he continued.
"I know you're probably stronger than me."
His tone was sincere—no jealousy, no hollow challenge.
"But I want to know… how much stronger."
He paused, then added:
"Please. I have no other intentions. No conflict, no display. Just a match."
I looked at him for several seconds.
Leander. The protagonist. The one who was supposed to always stay a step ahead of everyone else.
And now… He was asking for a fight.
I exhaled slowly.
This wasn't part of my plan. But refusing might raise more questions than it answered.
"…Fine,"
I said at last.
"One match."
A small smile appeared on his face—not triumph, but relief.
He stepped onto the platform.
_____
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