John and Michael navigated the bustling cafeteria, the clatter of trays and low hum of gossip following them like a shadow. Michael's eyes immediately landed on the table where Luke and Anna were sitting. He began to steer them that way, but John felt the weight of the morning's social drain kicking in.
He stopped, nodding toward the crowd. "Go ahead. I don't have the energy for a group interrogation right now."
Michael paused, glancing at his friend. "You're just going to brood in a corner?"
"I'm going to eat a steak in peace," John replied. "Meet you in class later."
Before Michael could argue, John turned and headed toward the furthest corner of the hall, tucked away from the sunlight and the prying eyes of the Top 10. He sat down, focused entirely on the medium-rare steak on his plate, enjoying the rare moment of quiet.
A shadow fell over his table.
"Can I sit with you?"
The voice was soft, almost fragile. John looked up to see Wanda Blackwood standing there. She looked better than she had the night before, but there was still a lingering exhaustion in her eyes.
John kicked out the chair opposite him. "Yeah, sure. Anything for the famous Blackwood Witch."
Wanda flinched slightly at the title, her fingers tightening on her tray. She let out a soft, weary sigh as she sat down. "Infamous is probably the word you're looking for."
John cut into his steak, a ghost of a smirk on his face. "In this place, it's the same thing. So, how are you holding up? What's your rank?"
Wanda took a slow bite of her meal, her movements careful. "Seventeen," she answered quietly. Then, she looked up, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "I saw the list. I heard you didn't even make the top ten."
John's fork paused. He gave her a flat, unamused look. "Let's keep the conversation to things that actually matter. Ranking is just a number the Headmistress uses to keep people's egos in check."
Wanda chuckled, a surprisingly light sound that didn't match her dark reputation. "You haven't changed much. You know, back in school, you were a lot different from how the rumors describe you now."
John blinked, genuinely confused. "Wait. We went to the same school?"
Wanda's smirk deepened. "What, you don't remember the girl who sat directly behind you for an entire year?"
She shook her head, though she didn't seem offended. "To be fair, you didn't care about anything happening in the classroom. You spent the whole day drawing blueprints for machines—complex things I couldn't even name. It was actually fun to watch you nonchalantly ignore the teachers while they shouted at you to pay attention."
John leaned back, a faint memory of a red-haired girl in the periphery of his sketches finally clicking into place. He felt a rare pang of guilt.
"I was... a bit preoccupied back then," John admitted with a dry sigh. He looked at her properly this time, acknowledging the person rather than the 'Witch' everyone else saw. "Sorry about that. Don't worry, I'll make sure to remember you this time."
Wanda offered a small, crooked smile. "You better. Or this witch might cast a few spells you won't find in the textbooks."
John let out a genuine laugh, the tension from the morning finally beginning to lift—until a sharp, mocking voice cut through the air from behind him.
"Look at this pair. The murderous freak and the legendary failure. It's like a support group for the unwanted."
John didn't even turn around. He knew the voice. Caspian and Veren Lockwell, followed by a small posse of sycophants, were standing just a few feet away. John took a slow, deliberate bite of his steak, ignoring them as if they were nothing more than background noise.
Wanda lowered her gaze, her knuckles whitening as she gripped her fork, whispering something unintelligible under her breath.
"You still think you're high and mighty, Wintlock?" Caspian snapped, stepping closer until he was looming over the table. "Even after that ranking? You're sitting at thirteen. The 'Scary Wintlock' is just a bedtime story for kids."
John chewed slowly, swallowed, and finally turned his head. His gaze was cold and empty. "Tell me, Caspian. Have you ever actually seen me lose? Or are you basing your sudden courage entirely on a digital list pulled out of the Headmistress's desk?"
The twins faltered for a heartbeat. The memory of John's reputation in school—the incidents that were always hushed up—seemed to flicker in their eyes.
Veren stepped forward, trying to regain his bravado. "What are you talking about? You haven't done a notable thing in years. You've got nothing but a surname that's losing its luster." He leaned in, his voice dropping so the nearby tables could hear. "Rumor has it your father giving Dawnlight to Rowan was the final sign. The hero's true blood is in the Lightwood boy, not the bastard son of a Wintlock."
The cafeteria went dead silent. At a table across the room, Michael and Arthur both stood up instinctively, their eyes locked on John, ready to stop him if snapped.
Caspian laughed, emboldened. "The signs are all there. Rowan has the Shadow and Light elements—just like your father. Everyone loves him. He's the hero the world wants. What are you? Just a mistake your father couldn't quite hide?"
John stood up. He didn't move fast; he moved with a fluid, predatory grace. He turned fully to face them, and to everyone's surprise, he smiled. It was the kind of smile a man wears when he's looking at something he's already decided to destroy.
"You know," John said, his voice terrifyingly soft. "I think about that more often than you think. Maybe the rumors are true."
He took a step toward them, and the twins instinctively backed up.
"What if he is the bastard son of my dad?" John continued, a low, unsettling chuckle vibrating in his chest. "What does that change? I'd still love nothing more than to kill that whore of a mother he has for seducing my father. I'd love to watch the Lightwood line burn for the anguish she caused my mother."
The air in the room grew heavy, charged with a sudden, violent static.
"Shut your mouth!"
A streak of brilliant, blinding light hissed through the air from behind John. It was a spear of pure mana, launched with lethal intent.
John didn't even fully turn. In a blur of motion too fast for the human eye to follow, he reached into the space beside him. There was a metallic shing as he drew his pitch-black katana.
The blade collided with the light spear, shattering it into harmless sparks that rained down like dying stars. John stood there, his black blade resting casually on his shoulder, a dark, mocking smile on his face as he looked at the newcomer.
Rowan Lightwood stood ten feet away, his hand still glowing with residual gold mana, his face contorted in a rare, murderous rage.
"Finally," John whispered, his eyes narrowing. "I was wondering when the 'Golden Boy' would stop hiding behind his fan club."