"Classes, huh," I muttered. "Haven't attended one in a long time."
The window was open, and the cold and clean wind slipped through, brushing past my face. I stared outside for a bit, the sky looked calm today. Then there's the crime scene behind me, empty plates, scattered clothes, and the faint smell of something horrendous like someone had died.
Yeah. I was supposed to clean that up. But I fell asleep, woke up hungry, ate, and after that... sleepy again.
"Classes..." I said again, mostly to the wind.
I leaned against the window frame, staring at the leaf caught in the bench, while my mind drifted.
Right now, I had the urge to skip and simply wander around, and find out what kind of sick joke this world's playing at.
Something brushed my eyes. When I focused, it was a pitch-black strand of hair. It wasn't supposed to be black. It was supposed to be silver. The Belmont's or Claude's family were known for that. The only bloodline with hair as fine as silver dust. One of their shiny little trademarks. The other? Golden eyes. Except those had vanished four generations ago, reduced into a dust and myth.
That's when last night came back in pieces. I thought having long hair would look cool. Elegant, mysterious, whatever the hell those cool characters were supposed to look like.
It's cool, but...
It's torture. When I slept, it's always snagging against my back when I lean forward, clung to my neck, strangling me, and every time I turned, it found something new to get tangle itself in something else like the pillow or the bed frame.
Should I go bald again? It would've saved me the identity crisis too. It will be no different from before.
I brushed the strand away.
I looked back at the mess and closed my eyes. Enough procrastinating. I cleaned up, half-heartedly, but it counted. Plates stacked. Clothes were shoved wherever they fit. By the time I was done, it finally almost looked like a human lived here. Almost. The keyword here.
I was standing in front of the classroom door, slightly out of breath. Took me fifteen minutes longer than it should've. The place was massive. Corridors looping like they were designed by a sadist. Every hallway looked the same, like it was just a copy-paste layout from every direction.
Who the fuck designed this shit?
By the time I found the right door, I'd already circled the same fountain three times. It felt like every statue and portrait was judging me for it. Even the original probably has a troubling time remembering the route, considering how massive this place was.
I pushed the door open.
And was met with new faces. For me... But not really new... Claude probably knew half of them...
Rows of uniforms. Polished shoes. Perfect posture. A crowd of silent statues. What an atmosphere.
I scanned the room, face to face. No one stood out. Not that they were bland, lifeless, or grey. Just… unfamiliar. But yeah, too normal. No one I recognized.
No one from... I was expecting a future villain or somewhat other people in disguise, like "Oh, it's that guy!" feeling.
I glanced at the clock. Still early. Great. More time to sleep...?
The room reminded me of those movie amphitheaters, rows climbing higher the farther back you went. Everything was polished to a shine, desks lined like soldiers. At the bottom, there's a single podium and six blackboards lined the front wall, big enough to fit three people on each board.
I headed for the back row. Always the back row. At the top. Perfect view. Minimal participation. Maximum distance from everyone. The back row was quite high, too. Like a little hill above the rest of the room. Perfect for staying invisible while seeing everything. I would say, if I was some sort of edgy person. But no. The reason was simple. It was cool. And really, who wouldn't be excited in a place like this? What a room! If I had this back then, I wouldn't miss a single day.
I did catch a few glances on the way.
Don't know why.
Maybe it was the way I walked. Maybe it was the face. Or maybe I smelled.
I took a quick sniff, subtle enough for them not to notice.
I smell good... So, what's the problem?
I swear, I took a long shower. Looked pristine, crisp enough, didn't iron it, though. I have no idea how that thing works. Still, it looked good. Clean. Presentable. Lucky thing Claude had a spare because the one buried under last night's mess was unsalvageable. Looked like it had gone through a war.
Was it such a trivial matter that they couldn't help themselves?
Come on, now.
Once I took a seat, I realized four people were sitting along the same row as me. I didn't know a single one of them. It's true because Claude didn't either. Nevertheless, this spot was insane. From up here, the entire room was visible. There was a faint thrill in being this high up like the time I was riding a roller coaster.
Then the door opened.
The professor waddled in.
Not human. Not even close. Small, round, and shaped quite funny. Looked like a turnip that grew fur and decided to be some sort of sophisticated mascot. The robe was too big for him, hung a little too loose on his stubby frame. It dragged behind him when he walked with his short, stubby legs. Its tiny hands carried a stack of papers that looked heavier and bigger than him.
Is there no one going to help that little fella?
Thin spectacles sat on its button nose, behind them were its manifying owl-like eyes.
"Class will start in a minute," It said.
When it spoke, the voice was exactly how I imagined it was supposed to be. Squeaky hinge sound, trying to sound authoritative. High-pitched but firm. Like a rubber duck doing a TED talk.
Oh... Professor Thimblecroft. That was his name.
A faint glow trailed behind him. There's a floating light that hovered near his head, pulsing every few seconds.
He climbed onto the desk, more like a struggle. He had his little fur hands gripping the edge, and kicked his legs, until he hauled himself up with a grunt. The robe got snagged for a second, but he was able to yank it free. Then smoothed it out like nothing happened.
That's adorable. I remarked inside my head.
The glowing orb followed, bobbing beside him.
From up there, at the podium, he showcased a sort of authority. Sort of.
He adjusted his glasses, peered down at us like we were bugs under a magnifying glass. "Attendance will begin shortly."
Then he reached into his sleeve. It was too deep for how short his arms were, and he pulled out a stack of papers that just kept coming.
What. Huh. There's more?
The class went quiet. No one dared to breathe too loud.
He flipped the first page with his little paw, scanning the names, muttering them under his breath.
That was when it hit me. This is a teacher. Not some cute mascot. And I had no idea how to take that seriously.
He cleared his throat. Tried to. But it came out like a squeak trapped in a tin can.
"Claude."
My name.
Every head turned for a second too long. That silent, collective pause that judges me.
Isn't this guy supposed to be the loner that nobody bats an eye at? I thought.
I raised a hand halfway. "Here."
The professor blinked. "Okay." He marked something down with his tiny feather quill that looked ridiculously big in his paw. Paw? Hand? What even is that?
Also, how is he holding that?
Then he squinted at me over his spectacles. "You finally showed up. Don't cause any more ruckus."
"Ruckus?" I muttered.
He moved on like nothing happened, but the word stuck.
Ruckus?
Was that the reason they'd been looking at me?
What ruckus?
Next name. Then another. Each one rolled off in that same squeaky authority voice of his. The orb beside him pulsed with every word, syncing to his voice. By the tenth name, I stopped listening. When he called the last name, he looked up. "Good. You're all here. Or close enough."
He clasped his paws together. "Now, as for today's topic. Introduction to Applied Mana Theory."
Applied Mana Theory. My brain stalled for a second.
What the hell was that?
And that's the only beginning.
"Applied Mana Theory," He said again.
The glowing orb hovered beside him, throwing up diagrams in the air like rings, runes, and scribbles that looked like a toddler's first attempt at geometry.
"Mana," The furball began, "is not simply energy. It is will. Intention made tangible. Chaos given shape."
He lifted a paw, as blue light coiled around it. "Raw mana," He said, "Is pure, unfiltered potential. But like raw meat. It must be cooked, refined. Otherwise…" He gave a dramatic pause, eyes sweeping the room. "It can be used against ourselves and everyone else. A detriment."
A few students nodded. One even took notes with their life depending on it.
"Mana feeds the body, mind, and soul. Think of it as nourishment. Refined mana sustains. Wild mana consumes."
I glanced around. Then it hit me because if mana was food, I was the guy with an empty plate.
The professor snapped his stubby fingers, and the blue light evaporated into smoke. "Remember," He said, and his tone turned sharp, "Control is survival. Magic without restraint is suicide."
He turned to the board and started scrawling runes like his tiny arm was on autopilot. I tuned out halfway through the topic. The professor kept talking. Something about "Limit Convergence Principle" and "The Limit Law", but really, it all just blurred into white noise.
I tried to follow. I really did. Something about the physical limit of the physical entity. But my brain tapped out halfway through "Core instability." Everything's so fast. One topic to another, all happening within the small span. So I drifted. Started counting the fur strands on his head. Lost track at ten. Tried again. Gave up.
Now I was thinking about ramen.
"Simply put," Professor Thimblecroft said while tapping the board, "The rate of the magical entropy increases exponentially. No mana core can truly reach perfect equilibrium. The more power you feed it, the faster its stability decays. That's the Limit Law. And like any bounded, monotonic system"
He turned, eyes glinting behind his lenses. "It converges."
Snap. The chalk snapped in his hand. Half the class flinched. He didn't even notice, and just kept going.
I nodded like I understood. I didn't. Still thinking about ramen.
This is so boring.
Then my eyes found the window instead. The wind outside looked free, smelled free too.
1 out of 15.
Shin Morino.
But before that. Yeah, I need to find something to work with. Anything. Because right now, I'm about as useful as rain in the ocean.
Money? None.
Power? Zilch.
Influence? Don't make me laugh.
Strength? Maybe if lifting a spoon and fork counted.
Intellect? Hard to tell.
Here's the issue. Let's say, hypothetically, the story plays out the same way as the game. Same fate. Same ending. That means we're all screwed.
So what now? Help the protagonist get all the heroines so the world doesn't implode? Sure. Easy to say when you have no control.
Right now, he's his own person. Sentient. Independent. Makes his own choices, thinks his own thoughts, and lives by his own morals. I can't control that. I'm just a bystander who happened to wake up in someone else's body.
If that's the case, then I've got two roads ahead:
One: I do it myself. The classic "lone idiot takes on fate" route. Problem: I'm currently in the "nothing" class of existence.
Two: I help Shin Morino get stronger. Play support. Wingman my way through the plot and hope he doesn't screw it up.
Yeah. Easier said than done.
Because free will's a bitch.
There's also the last option.
The simplest. The dumbest. Maybe the most honest.
Enjoy what's left.
Sit back. Watch it all unfold.
Eat, sleep, pretend it's fine.
Wait for the end to come, like it always does.
Because maybe fighting fate isn't brave... It's just delaying the inevitable.
And maybe… just maybe, it's easier to go out full and fed, rather than die hungry trying to change the script.
Then something white zipped past my face. Fast. Absurdly fast. It hit the wall behind me and detonated into a snowstorm of chalk dust.
Silence...
Professor Thimblecroft stood there, paw frozen mid-throw, robe fluttering.
The furball threw his damn chalk.
Guy was six apples tall and somehow packed enough rage to launch projectiles at supersonic speed.
I gulped. Nervously. Loud enough to echo.
Thimblecroft's ears twitched. His eyes locked on me. He pointed his tiny paw at me with the chalk dust still on the fur.
"Listen."
That single word hit harder than the chalk did.
"Yes, sir."