The freshman registration area of the Royal Military Academy was as silent as a tomb that had just been sucked dry of air.
The moment I stepped inside, all conversation evaporated. Dozens of eyes, like cold scalpels, pinned themselves onto me, scrutinizing a mud-covered beast that had barged into a sterile operating room.
I ignored them.
My boots left a trail of dusty footprints across the mirror-polished floor, a desecration of this hallowed ground. I headed straight for the end of the line. The space around me instantly felt as if it were under a repulsion field; the noble scions in their crisp white uniforms scattered in panic, giving me a wide berth. One scrawny boy even lost his footing and landed hard on his ass with a dull thud.
Good. I like having a bit of space.
I just wanted to get these damn formalities over with. That anonymous tip about the library's restricted area was like a piece of unextracted shrapnel embedded deep in my mind, a dull, throbbing ache.
Finally, it was my turn.
An instructor sat behind the counter—a middle-aged man with deep creases around his mouth that looked sharp enough to crush a fly. He didn't even bother to look up, asking in a voice as cold and metallic as a machine: "Name."
"Vex."
His stylus screeched across the data pad. He paused and finally looked up, his face a mask of impatience. The loathing in his eyes was as thick as congealed engine oil, completely undisguised.
"Oh, it's you," he drawled, his lips curling into a malicious smirk. "The... 'special admit.'"
He spat out the words "special admit" loudly, as if they were something filthy. A wave of irrepressible snickering rippled through the hall.
"Hand. On the scanner." He pointed at the device, his tone commanding and dismissive, as if my very presence were an intolerable pollutant.
I reached out. Dried blood and black grease were caked under my fingernails, and a fresh scratch ran across the back of my hand.
"Wait!" he barked, his voice as sharp as a siren. He yanked a drawer open, pulled out a sealed disinfectant wipe, and tossed it onto the counter like he was discarding trash. "Clean them first!" he roared. "Don't you dare touch academy equipment with those filthy hands!"
Those words were like a signal.
The snickering in the hall erupted into blatant, unrestrained mockery. They watched me as if they were at a circus, waiting to see how this monkey from the junkyard would be humiliated by its tamer.
I looked down at the white wipe, then up at his face—twisted by petty power and dripping with superiority.Fury churned in my gut like ignited gasoline, searing my insides.
Fuck it.
I didn't touch the wipe.
I reached out with my filthy hand, lightning-fast, and seized his wrist.
His wrist was clean, his skin as delicate as a woman's, and I could even smell a hint of cheap cologne—the kind used to mask something else.
"Agh!" he let out a girly shriek, like a cat that had its tail stepped on.
I tightened my grip and squeezed. I could clearly hear his wrist bones creaking under the pressure in my palm. The dark-red stains of blood and oil on my hand instantly left a filthy, permanent mark on his snow-white cuff.
"You... let go of me! You filthy slum trash..." His face contorted in pain, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead.
"Now," I leaned in, my voice low and grating like metal on metal, so only the two of us could hear. "Do you still want me to wipe my hands?"
The laughter in the hall died instantly. Dead silence. Everyone stared at me in shock, as if seeing a victim turn on their butcher for the first time.
Just then—*vwoom!*
A low hum resonated through the room. The massive holographic screen covering the central wall flickered to life.
"Breaking Imperial News!" A voice, impersonally solemn, echoed through the hall as the golden Imperial crest rotated and expanded in the center of the screen.
Everyone's attention was instantly diverted, including the instructor, who was still trembling in pain with his wrist in my grasp.
The image shifted, and a man appeared on the screen.
He was more mature than Leon, and far more dangerous.
If Leon was a blustering lion cub baring its milk teeth, then this man was a prehistoric crocodile lurking at the pinnacle of power, coldly surveying his domain. He wore a charcoal-black ceremonial military uniform, the tassels on his epaulettes reflecting a cold light. His face was stern, his features sharp and chiseled, and his eyes were as calm as a frozen, bottomless sea.
He was the First Prince of the Empire, Kaelan Valerius—the first in line to the throne.
"...The success of the Royal Interstellar League once again demonstrates the might of the Empire." Kaelan's voice was deep and commanding; every word felt like a precision-calculated bullet, driving itself into your very bones.
He delivered a few lines of bureaucratic fluff before his tone shifted.
"Of particular note is a highly talented rising star who emerged during this year's league."
My heart sank, as if seized by an invisible hand.
"Miss Vex," Kaelan's gaze seemed to pierce through the screen, locking onto a specific person in this hall with unerring precision. "A diamond in the rough from among the people, who has shown us the infinite possibilities of talent in her own unique way."*Whoosh!*
Every eye in the hall converged on me once more, like searchlights. But this time, they weren't filled with simple mockery; they held a volatile mix of shock, envy, and an incomprehensible dread.
I released the instructor's wrist. He recoiled as if avoiding a plague, his face turning deathly pale as he stared at me, as if I were the devil on the screen pronouncing his death sentence.
The corner of Kaelan's mouth curled upward—not in a smile, but in the predatory signal of a hunter staking a claim on its prey.
"The Empire never lets talent go to waste. To better cultivate this unpolished gem, and allow her to serve the Empire sooner..."
*Fuck.*
My breath hitched. A cold premonition tightened its grip around my throat.
"I have decided," Kaelan's voice was cruelly clear, like a bolt of freezing lightning striking everyone's mind, leaving ears ringing. "That starting today, for the duration of her time at the Royal Military Academy, I will personally serve as Miss Vex's—"
He paused, savoring the absolute silence.
"**Special Instructor.**"
The entire hall went tomb-silent.
The air froze. Everyone stood petrified, looks of sheer disbelief on their faces, their mouths hanging open wide enough to fit an egg.
A piercing chill surged up my spine to the crown of my head. My limbs went numb with cold, and my very blood seemed to congeal.
Special Instructor?
Personally instructing me? A scavenger from the junkyard? Under the personal tutelage of the future Emperor?
This was more surreal than finding a pristine military-grade power core in the middle of a scrap heap!
On the screen, Kaelan's face was magnified to its limit. His gaze, sharp as a blade, pierced through thousands of kilometers and the cold holographic display, pinning me—a speck in the crowd—where I stood.
There was no admiration in that look, no approval, not a single shred of kindness.
There was only scrutiny, warning, and a chilling coldness... the look of someone appraising a newly acquired, amusing piece of private property.
In an instant, I understood everything.
This wasn't some bullshit "instruction"!
This was surveillance! This was control! It was a collar forged from imperial authority, cinched around my neck!
That idiot Leon—when he lost the match, he could only whine like a child who'd had his candy stolen, resorting to petty academy pranks for revenge.
But his brother, Kaelan—he had gone straight for my throat with a single move.
He was announcing to the world: **This woman is mine. Don't any of you dare touch her.**
And he was announcing to me: **You cannot escape. Your every move is under my watch.**
That communication log belonging to Leon, the one I'd accidentally downloaded, suddenly detonated in my mind, every word crystal clear.Leon's furious roar before the match: "...I'm sick of living in his shadow! This is my match, not his!"
And that phrase... "pressure from his brother."
So that was it.
Turns out, Leon joining that ridiculous tournament was nothing more than a political show staged by his "dear" brother. And I—an accident that wasn't supposed to happen, a variable from the junkyard—had completely trashed his script.
Now, the director himself had stepped onto the stage.
He wasn't here to clean up the mess.
He was here to take over the show.
And I was the most critical, yet most unstable, prop in his script.
I stared at Kaelan's inscrutable face on the screen and slowly clenched my fists. My nails dug deep into the tender flesh of my palms; the sharp sting kept me incredibly clear-headed, sparking a trace of a sick thrill.
Good.
Very good.
I had only intended to sniff out some clues and break a few expensive toys in this gilded cage.
Now, it seemed I had inadvertently reached out and wrapped my hand around the throat of the cage's master.
Perfect.
I love games like this.
Bring it on, Your Highness.
Let's see if your cage is harder, or my teeth are sharper.