Two years slip by the way sediment settles at the bottom of a glass—slow, quiet, inevitable. No grand catastrophe. No chosen-one bells tolling in the distance. Just seasons stacking neatly on top of each other until, one day, someone decides that warrants applause. Twice each end of the year…

  …Graduation ceremony.

  “…And so, give yourselves a round of applause for completing another academic year!”

  The hall detonates. Claps crash together. Cheers rebound off vaulted stone. Caps sail upward like startled birds. Fewer than four hundred students occupy the space, yet the noise rivals a concert hall pushed past safety regulations. Acoustically speaking, this place is a nightmare—stone walls, high ceilings, no sound dampening. My temples throb in protest.

  I survive by focusing on the important things. Tables bending under the weight of food. Pitchers of jewel-bright drinks catching the light. Civilization’s true pillars.

  I scan the crowd. The other three are easy to spot—clusters naturally forming around them, gravity doing what gravity does. Boasts are exchanged. Laughter rings. Someone retells a Practical Arts sparring match with aggressive hand gestures. Ray is grinning too wide. Mark looks cool in that effortless way of his. Joshua is doing the polite nod that somehow makes people like him more.

  I lift a hand and give a single nod from a safe distance. A satellite acknowledging the three big planets.

  Two years at the academy, and my list of visible accomplishments remains… conservative. The other three join the student council late in first year and proceed to turn Practical Arts into a traveling spectacle. Fire blooms like a carnivorous flower. Electricity snaps through muscle and tendon, turning motion into blur. Stone obeys hands and rises into dragon-headed effigies for applause. Meanwhile, I’m over here quietly shrinking objects—consistently—reliably—underwhelmingly.

  Before I know it, the label sticks: the Weakest Hero. The one with the “borderline obsolete” Skill. The afterthought. Which is fair. I engineer that outcome myself.

  I insist on restraint. I decline demonstrations. I keep the real applications of my ability buried in theory, margin notes, and tightly controlled experiments squeezed into rare stretches of unscheduled time. The practical implications of my Skill already make me difficult to deal with. Advertising it early would be like publishing a zero-day exploit with your full legal name attached.

  So I don’t chase applause. I collect data. That counts, even if it never makes it into ceremonial speeches.

  On the other side, exams, at least, are predictable. We all pass comfortably—except Ray, who barely passed. Written tests are still my natural habitat. No review sessions. No cramming. I just… read the questions and answer them. Pattern recognition, retention, inference. Honestly, if reincarnation hands out Skills based on prior habits, mine might as well be Wing It (SS+-Rank).

  The curriculum is super familiar. Mathematics behaves like mathematics. Science follows rules I recognize, just with magic energy (they apparently measure Magic Energy intensity output using the watt unit—I know, weird) awkwardly stapled on. Contemporary English—this world’s version, anyway—maps cleanly onto nineteenth-century syntax and vocabulary. Flowery, formal, structurally rigid. Once you learn the rhythm, it’s practically a solved system.

  For an absurd scenario that begins with divine summoning circles and heroic proclamations, the follow-through is insultingly normal. Two years of lectures. Drills. Homework. No cursed labyrinths. No prophecy-triggered emergencies. No life-threatening danger—setting aside the abduction incident (which I’d rather not exhume, considering it was entirely my decision to gamble my life).

  I don’t mind the quiet. I like it actually. It almost feels like attending a wizard school from one of those famous children’s novels. Not that I’ve actually read it. Still, case in point.

  And yet—a story that refuses to develop is a story winding its arm back. Chaos doesn’t vanish; it queues. The longer things stay calm, the more theatrical the interruption tends to be. The sensation prickles at the back of my mind. It’s like the universe is edging me or something—

  A silver blur slides into my peripheral vision.

  “Alone as ever.”

  I don’t turn. “You really enjoy jabbing at me, don’t you?”

  Genovefa steps into view, all composure and faintly amused eyes. “Need prompts my presence now? Or has solitude grown sacred?”

  I narrow my eyes. “What do you want?”

  “Oh? Am I now unwelcome?” A smirk curves her lips. “Since I took leave of our shared quarters to take a new one, you have seemed… pricklier. Did my absence wound you so?”

  I look away. “Not having you in the room was the best thing that happened to me.”

  “Your tactless trashiness didn’t dull, I see.”

  “T—that’s really mean…”

  She raises both hands. Two glasses of fermented basilisk toxin glow an indecent, vibrant green—radioactive jade, the kind of color evolution never intended for consumption. My mouth waters instantly. She tilts one glass toward me. I take it without ceremony and down the whole thing in a single pull.

  The taste slams in hard—iron and rust up front, then a clean citrus bloom that lingers at the back of the tongue like a polite lie. It’s been almost two years since I last had this in the palace. Damn it. Still perfect.

  I glance sideways. She sips hers slowly, eyes drifting over the crowd.

  “Didn’t expect you to be into stuff like that.”

  “Truly?” She studies the glass. “Perchance I present myself as one who favors sweeter fa?ades.”

  “Well, yeah, I guess—?”

  My voice stutters to a stop when she turns and just… looks at me. No words. No smile. Just a quiet, measuring stare that carries implications my overstimulated brain refuses to parse. The hall is already loud enough to feel like a pressure chamber, so I clear my throat and scan the surroundings instead. Banners hang perfectly aligned. Polished armor gleams under the light. Flower arrangements are symmetrical to a disturbing degree. The whole place looks freakishly neat.

  I look back at her. “How’s Leyni?”

  “Being knighted at the palace at the moment.” A soft chuckle follows. “In your first year, you were ever on guard at the mere mention of her name. I did not expect you to inquire after her welfare.”

  “I’m not asking because I’m worried, okay? I just… don’t want to start a new bad topic.”

  That’s mostly true. Mostly.

  Leyni graduates the moment first year ends—fast-tracked, obviously. I always assume she’s buried in extra knight training, polishing herself into the kind of royal guard who can stand shoulder to shoulder with Genovefa without casting a shadow—

  Genovefa’s gaze drifts again, scanning the students. She looks… awkward. Quiet. Not mingling. Not holding court. Just standing here with me in a forgotten corner, drinking fermented toxins like it’s a shared bad habit.

  During first-year celebrations, she’s everywhere. Laughing. Teasing. Orbiting groups like gravity has personal beef with her.

  Now she’s here. With me. And for reasons I can’t quite quantify yet, that feeling alone could justify a full thesis paper.

  “What’s with you? You look like an anxious deer realizing it picked the wrong forest.”

  She swallows. That tiny motion confirms everything. She’s not here by coincidence—she’s hiding. Or rather, avoiding. Which explains why she’s chosen me. I’m excellent at finding dead zones in social spaces. Years of practice. A professional wall-adjacent organism. That thought earns a brief, self-pitying chuckle that dies immediately.

  Seeing her lose composure—even subtly—is unsettling. Genovefa doesn’t fray. She is cool. This is like watching a well-written theorem develop a typo.

  I scan the hall again. Among the students and faculty stand adults who don’t fit the parental mold. Too relaxed. Too familiar. Alumni, maybe—former academy elites drifting back in like sharks that smelled nostalgia. That’s new. They weren’t here last year.

  Then my eyes snag on Mark. He’s mid-conversation with a tall, silver-haired woman. He freezes. Eyes widen. Then—he turns and points directly at me.

  What.

  The.

  Fuck.

  Vro.

  The woman follows his gesture. Starts walking toward us. When I glance back at Genovefa, her shoulders stiffen by a fraction. That’s all it takes.

  Is she a relative?

  Why would the princess tense up like—

  She’s already in front of me.

  Up close, she’s striking. Alabaster skin without blemish. Silver hair braided into a crown so precise it looks lacquered—no loose strands, no rebellion. Sharp azure eyes sweep over me from head to toe, the way one inspects furniture before purchase.

  She wears a formal double-breasted blue-gray uniform, tailored sharp enough to cut paper. Looks like made of durable wool or tricot blend, structured for long wear. A lighter blouse beneath, black tie pinned with a sword insignia. Matching pleated skirt. Dark shoes. Immaculate white gloves.

  Why the hell am I cataloguing her outfit?

  Genovefa’s shift in demeanor likely has flipped my internal switch from observe to overanalyze aggressively. Fight-or-flight, but for people who hoard useless details under stress. You know, for weird people like me.

  The woman’s posture is rigid—back straight, shoulders squared—yet she moves with an effortless grace common to nobility. She carries a nearly full glass of wine, and not a single drop dares escape.

  “Elder sister…” Genovefa murmurs, barely audible. More to herself than anyone—

  Sister? That means… she is—

  The woman tilts her head, faintly puzzled, as though the word itself has disappointed her. “Do not be so distant. Call me by my name—no, it would suffice to hear you address me by the nickname you once address me in your childhood.”

  Genovefa stiffens, then forces out a laugh that lands a beat too late. “Very well… Belladonna.”

  Her sister’s eyes narrow, lips pressing together in something that tries—and fails—to be a pout. “Good heavens. As I said. The nickname. Shall. Suffice.”

  That… does not match the ironclad first impression at all. The aura of discipline fractures, revealing something overbearing beneath. Something clingy. Sister-complex territory, dangerously so—

  Nghk—?!

  She turns her gaze back to me.

  “I presume you are Sir Shin?” Her eyes rake over me once more, sharp and evaluating—then her gloved hand seizes my chin, lifting my face to meet hers.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  My brain bluescreens. This is worse than Genovefa changing clothes behind me. That, at least, occurred within the sealed vacuum of our shared quarters—private, survivable. This is public. Open. Floodlit. I suddenly feel like I’m standing here without clothes.

  Genovefa moves fast, stepping forward and severing whatever catastrophic causal chain is about to unfold. “B—Bella…!”

  Belladonna pauses. She studies her sister’s expression—tight, almost pleading—then looks back at me, a subtle smirk curving her lips. Amused. Enlightened.

  “I see,” she says softly, releasing my chin. “So that is how it is.”

  Air finally rushes back into my lungs. Too fast. Too sharp. I inhale like I’ve just surfaced from deep water, heart hammering, ears ringing. Whatever this woman is, one thing becomes obvious fast: she’s dangerous in the way a bored cat is dangerous to a glass shelf. Not lethal—just disruptive. I can absolutely see why Genovefa would want to avoid her. Belladonna feels like the sort who stirs the pot simply to watch the ripples argue with each other.

  The same gloved hand that grabbed my chin now settles against her own, thoughtful. “Shin,” she muses. “A clever boy who conceals his true capacity beneath a veneer of mediocrity so naturally it becomes a second skin.”

  …Huh?

  I take a cautious step back. There’s no overt threat, but I do it anyway. This woman is weird as fuuuuuuuck.

  “And where did that conclusion come from?”

  “I have heard that you are rather close with my dear Genovefa. I wished merely to know what manner of man you are—so that I may determine whether you ought be removed from her vicinity.” She pauses, smiling. “—or merely frightened away.”

  That correction arrives far too late! And the revised version is not an improvement!

  “D—don’t worry,” I manage, retreating another half-step. “You’ve probably noticed by now, but I’m not the kind of person who enjoys being in anyone’s crosshairs. I generally avoid doing things that invite… hostility.”

  She laughs. It’s low and rich and deeply unsettling in ways that makes me feel weird things. “I suspected as much. Of the four Heroes, I believe you and I are alike in certain respects.”

  I shoot Genovefa a desperate look, silently screaming for intervention. She exhales and shakes her head, a subtle you’re on your own written all over her face.

  Then it clicks. She isn’t hiding from Belladonna, she’s hovering near me to make sure I don’t get in this exact situation! Well, now it did anyway and it looks like I’m in the lion’s den with nothing but myself.

  “Bella,” Genovefa interjects quickly, stepping in, “I truly do not believe he is remarkable enough to warrant your attention. He is not especially handsome, his academics are… average at best, unlike the other Heroes he has remained fixed at level nineteen, and his Magic Skill borders upon useless. He does not even attempt to conceal this lack of worth—”

  Yeowch. I know she’s trying to help, but that still lands like a chair to the ribs. She did not hold back with that one.

  “He has acquired seventy-five marks on every written examination for the past two years…”

  Belladonna’s voice cuts cleanly through the noise. The three of us go still. Around us, the celebration continues—laughter, music, clinking glasses—utterly oblivious.

  She steps closer, her height casting a quiet pressure over me. “…The precise passing score. Every subject. No more. No less. Twice in succession. One might call that coincidence. I would accept such an explanation—had it occurred but once. Twice, however, is… peculiar. Would you not agree?”

  I force a smile. “Coincidences happen. Are we condemning people based on probability now?”

  “S—Shin…!” Genovefa hisses. “She—”

  Belladonna lifts a hand. Genovefa falls silent at once. That same hand circles back, tapping just beneath Belladonna’s eye as she finishes what Genovefa clearly intends to say. “One of my Magic Skills permits me to perceive a person’s stats—and the Magic Skills they carry.” Her smile deepens. Sharpens. “Level nineteen, hmm?”

  The temperature inside my veins drops several degrees.

  Does she know? No—wait—if this keeps going, I might actually be exposed as—!

  Then she claps her hands, brightness snapping back into place like a mask. “In any case! It allows me to read people by what they choose to conceal. I may err, of course, but I place great faith in my own intellect and my sharp perception thanks to being an officer.”

  I’m still reeling, and she’s already moved on. For two years, I’ve kept my real stats buried. The other Heroes hover around level twenty-two now—right where progression grinds down into diminishing returns. I should be behind them. That’s the image I curated. In reality, after the practical combat against bandits and obsessive consistency, I’m level twenty-four.

  So I lie.

  Nineteen is believable. Low enough to excuse mediocrity. High enough not to raise alarms. No other people can verify it anyway—status-reading Magic Skills are rare.

  Well, that assumption is wrecked now.

  “Be at ease,” Belladonna murmurs, her hand settling on my shoulder as she leans in, lips grazing dangerously close to my ear. “I gain nothing from revealing truths that serve me not. And I did say I lack precision, did I not? A soul cannot be fully discerned by arbitrary stats.”

  She eases back, her face still far too close. “To expose another upon so fragile a foundation would be unbecoming of one of royal blood, would it not?”

  Genovefa moves instantly, looping an arm through mine and pulling me away. “Bella…”

  “Aha~” Belladonna laughs, suddenly light, playful, infuriatingly normal. “Forgive me~ I did not intend to give the impression that I was stealing your toy.”

  “Sister—!”

  As they bicker, my thoughts snag and loop back to what actually matters. Her Magic Skill. The way she said it so casually. And, worse, the echo of her earlier odd words resurfacing…

  Of the four Heroes, I believe you and I are alike in certain respects.

  Why say that? Beyond the obvious eccentricity, there’s intent in the way she addresses me—a different register. She speaks to me the way one might address a puzzle, not a person. I’ve just met her, so taking any of her words at face value would be reckless. For now, the safest move is compliance—keep her entertained, keep her curious, keep her quiet.

  “Um…” Their attention snaps to me. I exhale, reconstructing my usual calm. “Miss Belladonna, I assume you didn’t come all this way just to meet every Hero individually, right?”

  She blinks—then brightens. “Ah! Indeed. I had quite forgotten myself.” She sets her wine upon a nearby table, then pauses. Turns back. Adjusts the goblet—nudging it until its rim aligns perfectly with the table’s edge.

  That… compulsion draws my eye.

  “Hm,” I murmur without thinking. “It’s fine. I get carried away too when I talk to my sister. Especially after a long separation…”

  Genovefa’s grip tightens around my arm. “Do not prolong this,” she whispers.

  Ah, right. Why she’s here.

  “About—”

  “After the knighting ceremony,” Belladonna cuts in, raising a finger, “Father will arrive here. And he is bringing that.”

  She never names it. She doesn’t need to. Genovefa’s brows lift by a fraction—recognition sharp and immediate. I stay quiet, listening to the negative space between words.

  “Already…?” Genovefa breathes.

  “Yes. Father believes the four Heroes have lingered in comfort long enough. He wishes it opened—now.”

  “But it has never been opened since the previous Heroes perished. Can it even be—”

  “Who can say? He merely hopes that what lies within may grant one of them greater power. He is intent on honoring Hero Giasone’s instructions.”

  That seals it. Whatever that is, it’s buried under layers of royal secrecy. I will have to wait later to find out more.

  “Well then,” Belladonna says, lifting her glass once more, eyes finding mine, “you have until noon to enjoy the party. Do not disappoint me, Shin.”

  She disappears into the crowd. Students part instinctively. When she’s gone, the noise rushes back in full force. I look down to Genovefa’s arm that’s still wrapped tightly around mine.

  “You good?”

  “Oh—yes.” She releases me immediately, clears her throat a little too hard. “Apologies… about my sister. Um…”

  “What?”

  She hesitates, then looks at me straight on. “About you examination scores. Is it true? Seventy-five in every subject. For two full years?”

  Ah… This is bad.

  I never expect Belladonna—her eldest sister—of all people—to dig that deep. Achse Academy works much like schools back on Earth: only top scorers get publicly displayed but not the grades themselves. Everything else is buried behind faculty systems. Private. Ignored. And honestly? Most instructors wouldn’t notice a pattern like that even if it bit them. Scores don’t translate cleanly into symmetrical final grades anyway.

  Yet somehow, she notices. That means she looked.

  I shake my head. “Coincidence. Probably. I don’t know.” I shrug. “If I were actually hiding something, scoring seventy-fives across the board would be a pretty stupid way to do it.”

  The irony tastes exactly like the first hit of fermented basilisk toxin.

  Genovefa studies me for a moment longer, then exhales. “Well… you are stupid.”

  “…Okay. Damn. That’s harsh.”

  She doesn’t smile. Which means she may—or may not—believe me. And that uncertainty hangs between us.

  Whatever. From here on out, things are clearly in development.

  “About time… something else happens.”

  “Talking to yourself again?”

  “You know me well,” I say as I empty my glass.

  The room has no windows.

  That is deliberate.

  Torchlight crawls along stone walls, casting long, warped shadows that refuse to stay still. The air smells of oil, metal, and sweat—familiar, comforting things. A dart thuds into wood, dead center.

  “The reeves have tightened their grip on the streets,” Mair growls. His voice carries easily in the enclosed space, rebounds off stone, refuses to escape. “Ever since one of our units failed two years ago, we’ve been forced underground.”

  Another dart flies. Another bullseye.

  “Are we truly going to let this rot into stalemate?”

  Steel scrapes softly as blades are sharpened. A rifle bolt clicks, oiled and tested. Faces turn toward me—not demanding, not defiant. Expectant. Mair isn’t alone in his frustration. He’s merely brave enough to voice it.

  “It’s a blessing those men didn’t betray us,” someone mutters, exhaustion edging their tone. “They were devoted to the cause. Still… it could have ended badly.”

  Another nods. “If we squander this chance, our conviction will hollow out. We’ll start doubting ourselves.”

  My thoughts drag like flesh across nails. The failed unit—conveniently branded as mercenary bandits by the public—bought us time. A miracle, wrapped in blood and misdirection. But miracles rot when overused. Eventually, someone would notice the pattern. That we are not desperate ex-adventurers scraping by. That we are organized—ideological—patient—dangerous.

  We fight for something. And I refuse to let us become a farce—neither in the eyes of the Kingdom nor in our own.

  So—

  I nod.

  “We have stalled long enough,” I say. “The four Heroes remain buried in their studies. This is the ideal moment to strike again—if only to remind the nobility and royalty that their comfort is fragile.”

  Mair turns toward me at once. He crosses the room, boots heavy against stone, and plants a hand on my desk, leaning forward with a grin that carries more relief than menace. “Old man, I’m glad you echo what we feel. So,” he says before straightening, “you have a plan, I assume? The reeves have tightened their patrols. Achse’s guards doubly so, what with the nobles and royals studying there. We lack the numbers to breach such defenses outright.”

  Before I can answer—

  Knock. Knock.

  The sound lands wrong.

  Every man in the chamber stills. Hands drift to hilts. Eyes harden. I rise slowly, letting my gaze sweep the room. Three full units—dozens accounted for. The knock is not ours.

  This base lies deep within a remote forest, veiled by a Magic Circle that perpetually cloaks the area and traps magical residue within. One cannot stumble upon it. Nor may it be found by sensing Magical Energy traces. Whoever stands at that door has either blundered into the impossible… or never needed to search.

  I tilt my chin toward the door. The nearest man swallows and obeys.

  The hinges creak open.

  A man steps inside.

  Long ash-gray hair falls neatly against modest robes. His features are almost too refined, as though beauty itself had made a clerical error in his birth—though his frame is unmistakably masculine. His eyes are closed—

  Then they open.

  Gray sclera. Red irises.

  The man at the door draws his dagger and lunges on instinct—and stops. Blood hardens midair. It erupts from the intruder’s arms, congealing into sharp, glistening tendrils that halt my man inches from dismemberment. Not spilled blood. Commanded blood.

  The ash-haired man smiles faintly. “It would be wasteful to slay even so lowly a grunt,” he says mildly. “Step aside, turd.”

  Weapons are drawn in an instant.

  Men tremble—not from fear alone, but from pressure. We enhanced our senses already—instinctively—enough to feel and see the Magical Energy leaking from him in the form of a visual aura.

  The magical energy pouring from him is… obscene.

  An average adventurer carries enough to form a faint white aura, perhaps inches thick, barely visible unless exerted. Intensity of the color rises only when one channels power deliberately—when Magic Skill is invoked—a Skill that demands a a lot of Magical Energy.

  This man shows neither the normal qualities.

  His aura floods the room, raw and crushing, swallowing nearly half the chamber. The force of it presses against my spine, my knees threatening betrayal. Not hostile—worse. Casual. As though this much power costs him nothing at all.

  And it’s precisely that casualness—paired with his refusal to kill, or even maim, the man who lunged at him—that allows me to steady my breath. To exhale.

  “Men, lower your weapons.”

  “But boss—!”

  “Follow your leader’s orders, you lowly grunt,” the ashen-haired man adds pleasantly as the blood tendrils crumbled to dust.

  Teeth grind. Pride screams. But discipline holds. Blades lower. Rifles ease down.

  My fists clench. There is no humiliation quite like submitting to power you cannot contest. Yet I have no choice. Whatever stands before us is wrong—fundamentally so—but it is not aimless. His restraint speaks of intent: he didn’t come to slaughter us, he came for something.

  “What do you want, stranger?”

  The ash-haired man laughs, strolling deeper into the room as though the space already belongs to him. “I come bearing a proposition!” He spins, then stops before my desk, arms spread wide in theatrical flourish. “I am Nkríza. Nkríza Echthrótita! And from now one, I am stranger to you no longer.”

  The name lands badly. It feels familiar in the way half-remembered nightmares do—never heard, yet somehow known. Echoes of other names. Older ones. The unease coils tighter in my gut.

  I swallow, ignoring the pressure of his leaking Magical Energy. “What… proposition?”

  He tilts his head, gaze sharpening, pinning me in place as though drilling straight through bone and thought alike. “A proposition,” he says softly—wrongly—almost misplaced, “for development.”