A week passed.
Not abruptly, not dramatically, but in a steady rhythm that Louis quickly grew accustomed to. Mornings began with training in the vast halls of the palace grounds, his body sore in familiar places, his movements slowly becoming less clumsy with each passing day. Afternoons were spent alternating between basic instruction and quiet hours in the imperial library, where time seemed to stretch and fold in on itself beneath towering shelves and filtered sunlight. Evenings brought lectures—long, structured, and dense—where theory replaced motion and the world was explained piece by piece.
Nothing truly changed, and yet everything did.
By the fourth day, the routine no longer felt foreign. By the sixth, it almost felt natural. Louis finished the last of the books assigned to him sometime before the week's end, closing the cover with a faint sense of satisfaction. He had always been a slow reader, especially when the material interested him. He reread passages, lingered on ideas, compared what he learned to fragments of memory from another life. It took time—but he didn't mind that.
Sitting through the evening lecture now, Louis leaned back slightly in his seat, listening without strain. If he ignored the whispers that followed him through the corridors, the glances that lingered a moment too long, and the quiet speculation that seemed to cling to his name, he could admit it honestly—
He had enjoyed the week.
The lecture ended without ceremony.
Chairs scraped lightly against the stone floor as groups naturally formed again, conversations restarting as though they had only been paused rather than stopped. Louis lingered for a moment, gathering his notes, content to let the noise pass around him.
"Hey," John said suddenly, leaning closer with a grin that Louis had come to recognize far too well. "You've been getting pretty cozy with the assistant in glasses, huh?"
Louis froze for half a second.
"...Glasses?" He turned, genuinely surprised. "No."
John raised a brow. "Really? Because that's not what it looks like."
Louis shook his head immediately. "You're reading too much into things."
He could feel the attention shifting, a few curious glances already drifting their way. As usual, he cut it off before it could grow.
"If you're done speculating," Louis said calmly, "you might want to ask the professor more about your class modifiers. You looked confused during the last explanation."
That did it.
John clicked his tongue, muttering something under his breath as the conversation derailed and drifted elsewhere. Louis took the opportunity to excuse himself, slipping away before anyone could redirect the focus back onto him.
He made his way toward the front of the hall, spotting the instructor just as he finished organizing his notes.
"Excuse me," Louis said.
The man glanced up, eyes narrowing slightly as he searched his memory. "Ah… Hero Louis, correct? What can I help you with?"
Louis nodded. "I've finished reading all the introductory material on Nature Magic and Druid practices. I wanted to ask for advice on how to proceed."
That earned a visible pause.
The instructor studied him more closely now, surprised—not displeased, but clearly not expecting that answer. After a moment, he shook his head lightly.
"There's someone better suited to guide you," he said. "Someone who has gone much deeper into that field than I ever have."
Louis followed the subtle tilt of his gaze.
A short distance away, the assistant was occupied with rearranging materials, her attention fully elsewhere.
Louis looked back, startled. "Her?"
The instructor nodded. "She specializes in druidic studies." And a dedicated researcher. Far more knowledgeable than I am when it comes to the class."
Louis hesitated, questions already forming.
Sensing that, the instructor gestured for him to follow. "Walk with me."
They moved through the corridors of the palace, their footsteps echoing softly. After a moment, Louis spoke.
"She avoids me," he said. "Like the plague."
That stopped the instructor mid-step.
He turned, frowning slightly. "That's… unusual."
Louis blinked. "It is?"
"If she merely disliked you," the instructor continued, "she would still correct you. Guide you. Argue with you, even. Total silence—with only the bare minimum of assistance—means she truly disapproves of something."
Louis didn't understand. "Of what?"
The instructor studied him for a long moment before asking, "Why do you participate in sword training?"
Louis paused.
Then the instructor added, more sharply than before, "Are you ashamed of your class?"
The question carried weight. Not accusation—but disappointment.
"No," Louis replied immediately. "I don't have a problem with my class."
He took a breath, then continued. "I have a unique skill. Resilience. It's not offensive, not flashy. It needs training to be useful. If I don't push my limits, it'll never develop."
The instructor's expression shifted.
Recognition dawned slowly, followed by a quiet realization.
"…I forgot," he admitted. "I didn't give it enough thought."
Louis noted that.
Not just the admission—but how easily his unique skill had been dismissed. How naturally the people of this world treated it as something unremarkable.
As if survivability alone wasn't worth paying attention to.
He said nothing—but the observation settled firmly in his mind.